When Scottyâs older brother brings home a ventriloquist dummy named Tombob and sets it on their dresser, the seven-year-old tries his best not to be afraid. After all, big boys arenât scared of dolls. But no matter how hard he tries, Scotty canât shake the unease creeping up his spine.
Thereâs something about that wooden faceâthe glossy, staring eyes and the frozen, painted grinâthat feels wrong. Unnatural. Watching.
He tells himself itâs just his imagination. If he pulls the blanket over his head and squeezes his eyes shut, maybe the feeling will pass. Maybe heâll drift off to sleep.
Then, across the room, a thin, tinny voice slices through the darkness. Slow. Sweet. Unmistakably real.
