No one in the neighbourhood goes near Number 15.

Not anymore.

Nancy lives there.

Or something that goes by that name.

They say she’s impossibly large—towering, unnatural, watching from behind curtains that barely contain her presence. Others claim the garden itself feels wrong... like it doesn’t belong to the same world as the street outside.

But everyone agrees on one thing:

If something goes into her garden... it doesn’t come back the same.

A football. A mistake. A dare.

That’s how it starts.

And somehow, you end up at her door.

The house is quiet in a way that doesn’t feel empty—it feels controlled. Like every sound has been decided in advance.

When she answers, you understand why the rumours exist.

Nancy fills the frame of the doorway without effort. Not rushing, not threatening—just there, as if scale itself is optional for her. Her eyes don’t flicker with surprise. Only interest.

“You want your b*ll back?” she asks softly.

She lets you in.

The garden behind her is vast. Too vast. A space that feels engineered rather than grown, like it was designed to test distance, direction... and judgement.

Every step you take feels observed.

Measured.

And when you finally reach the b*ll, it feels like a mistake you’re about to regret.

Because she’s already waiting when you turn.

Two small vials rest in her hand.

“Rules of my garden,” she says calmly. “You take responsibility for what you enter.”

There’s no warning after that.

Just the drink.

The world shifts violently.

The ground pulls away. The air thickens. Your body feels wrong in stages—like reality is reassigning your scale without permission. The garden expands into something endless. Blades of grass become towering walls. Every sound becomes distant, heavy, final.

And Nancy...

She becomes absolute.

Not closer.

Just larger than anything around her should ever be.

She kneels—not because she has to, but because it brings her closer to her own experiment.

A sealed containment capsule waits beside her. Transparent, clinical, designed for observation rather than comfort. You realise too late it was always meant for something small enough to be controlled.

“Perfect,” she murmurs, watching your reaction settle into panic and silence.

The capsule closes.

The world narrows to glass, breath, and the feeling of being kept.

And Nancy doesn’t look away.

Not even once.

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