When Scottyās 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 arenāt scared of dolls. But no matter how hard he tries, Scotty canāt shake the unease creeping up his spine.
Thereās something about that wooden faceāthe glossy, staring eyes and the frozen, painted grināthat feels wrong. Unnatural. Watching.
He tells himself itās just his imagination. If he pulls the blanket over his head and squeezes his eyes shut, maybe the feeling will pass. Maybe heāll drift off to sleep.
Then, across the room, a thin, tinny voice slices through the darkness. Slow. Sweet. Unmistakably real.
