When Scotty’s 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 aren’t scared of dolls. But no matter how hard he tries, Scotty can’t shake the unease creeping up his spine.
There’s something about that wooden face—the glossy, staring eyes and the frozen, painted grin—that feels wrong. Unnatural. Watching.
He tells himself it’s just his imagination. If he pulls the blanket over his head and squeezes his eyes shut, maybe the feeling will pass. Maybe he’ll drift off to sleep.
Then, across the room, a thin, tinny voice slices through the darkness. Slow. Sweet. Unmistakably real.
