There was a cry that pierced through the whole room in the middle of the night. It was sharp and long, and bled raw of fright and cold-hearted murder. It bounced off the walls, slipped through the doors, and echoed through the hallways. It was a ghost of a frozen nightmare, whispering and shrieking throughout the apartment complex; it was a threat of an imprisoning fear. The tenants that held rooms neighboring 189 A awoke in the midst of their sleep, wondering if they should call the police or other authorities.

Small, six year old Andy Barclay woke, shivering with sweat and tears, and it took all he could muster to pry his eyes open in the pitch black room. His ears rang with the scream that he began to realize was his own. His heart pounded violently, flopping about mercilessly in his chest. He clutched at his sheets with a vise-like grip. The darkness all around him was no comfort, with grotesque shadows beginning to take the form of his nightmares crawling out into reality. He hid underneath the sheets, still quivering with fear, but he still felt that drumming,drumming, drumming sensation that he was not yet safe...

He began to sob.

It started out in shuddering breaths, then scaled up to howling wails. He curled into a tight ball, trying to ward off the feelings of the horrible dream, but it was still there, and whether he opened his eyes or shut them it just would not go away. His cries became more frantic and desperate when he was not finding relief, and soon came to the point where he could scarcely breathe.

And.

Still.

He.

Saw.

Her.

Eyes...!

"Mommy...!" he cried. Over and over again... please, Mommy, please. Take me out of here, I don't want to be here anymore...A pounding in his chest, a pounding in his head, loud noises and shrieks and laughs and howls and bright lights and sirens and swirling faces- round and round and round they went in his tiny head. Until after what seemed like the time it would take to reach the edge of the universe and back, his mother came, running into the room, frightened that he had been gravely hurt.

"Baby, baby, what's wrong? Andy, why are you crying like this?" she asked as gently as she could. Her old nightie was wrapped around her in a disheveled manner. Little Andy sprung from underneath his little fort of pillows and sheets and clung to his mother, feeling comforted by her steadily beating heart and the damp curls of her hair that brushed his face. "Andy," she was still murmuring softly. "What are you crying about, dear? What happened?"

Andy looked up at his mother, tears still glistening on his cheeks. "I..."

He didn't say another word.

Mrs. Barclay coaxed him. She stroked his hair, told him it was okay to be afraid. She tried to pry it out of him by asking questions, or pointing at things. Her son would not budge. He just sat curled in her arms, looking with large doe eyes that were swirling with a fear that begged to be released. But he would not say another word. He shook against her, and when she asked if he wanted to sleep with her in her bed, he shrugged. She didn't know what to say, how to help him open up. It worried her; Andy was not the kind of boy who just kept things to himself. Was it something so terrible? What was it? What was it?

She stayed with him the whole night, cuddling him as close to her as she could. At some point she felt something at her feet, and she kicked at it so her legs could stretch out. She could hear it thud on the floor, and she hoped it wasn't something that broke...

Chucky had been awake. He had heard Andy cry. He had told himself it was none of his business, and that he didn't give a damn about it. If he had things his way, he would have had the kid screaming himself by now! But he couldn't get rid of the way his heart seemed to gain ten pounds and thud at the bottom of his stomach, and though he tried to convince himself it was because the kid's crying was annoying, goddammit!, he felt an almost unfamiliar heat at the corners of his eyes and he wanted it to stop...

He had been about to reach out for the little boy's shoulder when his mother had finally come in. The doll couldn't help it, he couldn't seem to stop it at all, this feeling that choked him and made him boil and freeze inside as he watched the mother do what he had been about to do. It took all his strength not to give away his position and cuss out the fucking bitch for taking over so suddenly without even asking! But whatever, he hadn't wanted to do it anyways, he was glad she had finally come, what had taken her so long?

Then she had to go and kick him off the bed. He growled, malice seeping inside his tiny body. Laying next to Andy where he had been moments ago, putting her arms where his should have been, saying the things that he should be saying, and...!

No, he was not jealous. He wasn't, he wasn't, he wasn't...

He noticed a change in the boy the next day. And the day after, and after. He used to play with him all the time, and talk and talk and talk, until the doll would threaten to cut his tongue out. Now he never even touched him. He just walked about the apartment, dead to the world, or so it seemed. He would never open his mouth. He wouldn't even hum, or whisper, or goddammit just say something! He shouldn't care, and he didn't, but it was just too fucking creepy, the way the boy had become. It just wasn't Andy! This was not the boy he knew, this was not the boy he had started to...

Mrs. Barclay marked a bright red x on her calendar. It'd been an entire month and a half. Her son had still not said a word. He ate, got dressed, did whatever she asked, and was as obedient as ever, but he said not one thing. "Andy, are you ready for bed?" she called out softly. Her son, her baby boy with the eyes of his father and a heart she held so dearly close, just looked at her and nodded. She sighed. "Alright," she said, heart weighing down on her as she tucked him into bed. She would have to call a doctor about this. It has just gone one too long. Something was terrible wrong, and it was beyond her power to fix.

Andy lay there in the dark, trying not to fall asleep. He had successfully done so for only a few days at a time, and then he would drift away. He was afraid of sleeping, he did not want to fall prey to such horror again. He was feeling himself slip, the drug of wanted rest was sinking into his blood. He tossed and turned and kicked, but nothing came of it, and he was losing... his fright escalated, but his eyes continued to slowly shut, as if they cared not about his fears.

"Hey, kid. I know you're awake, you stupid sow." It was the voice of his doll that shook him awake, that made him sit upright suddenly from his near deathly afraid experience. When he still didn't make a sound, he felt a harsh punch on the side of his arm. He opened his mouth, but stopped himself before cry of confusion could escape. "I'm serious, Andy. Cut the crap. I know you're hiding something in there," Chucky said, roughly poking at his chest where lately it seemed to hurt the most. Andy just shook his head. "Turn those puppy eyes on me all you want, it's not working. Spill it."

Andy shook his head again, more violently this time. "C'mon, Andy, you know it's my job to be the secretive one," Chucky urged. "Besides, whatever shit it is you're getting fucked up over, it's probably stupid." When Andy still didn't respond, the doll grabbed him harshly by the arms, pivoting his body to face him. "Now." He bore his gaze into the boy's face, into his eyes. The boy was staring back, but his frozen dead look was starting to fade, and his eyes were liquid gold as they began to fill with emotions that were begging, fighting to come out.

"Go away, Chucky," he whispered softly, struggling to release himself from the doll's harsh grip. "I don't want to talk to you..." Something like panic lept into the doll's throat. He had a sudden rising fear. What if... just maybe... Andy had had a nightmare about him? What if somehow, someway, now he knew what he was, and that was why he was so upset? "Why, you son of a bitch?" he asked, harsher than he meant. "Why the hell don't you want to talk to me? What could you possibly be hiding that is worse than what I've already seen?" Andy laid down again, turning and curling his body away from the profane doll.

"'I just don't..." he said. His voice was shaking. It sounded a lot like he was starting to cry.

"Andy!" the doll shouted angrily. He shook the boy furiously. "You turn around and look at me right now! I'm not leaving until you spill it! I mean it, you stupid little shit, you look at me, and you tell me, what. Is. Wrong. With. You." Andy buried his face in his hands. "Please go away," he whimpered. "You're scary."

You're scary.

You're scary.

Chucky felt his heart drop. Stop. Freeze. But why? He didn't care! He was supposed to be scary! His throat was dry, and he couldn't even swallow. "I... I'm what?" he asked, knowing what he would hear, but still strangely hoping he wouldn't. "You're... scary... Chucky," the small voice came again, the crying sobs evident this time. Chucky removed his hand from the boy. He could find no place to put it, so it hung in the air, useless. "Hey, kid," he said, softer this time, afraid of what waters he was treading on. "Was... was your nightmare... was it about me?"

There was silence. For a long time. Chucky held his breath. And then...

"No... Why would you... why do you think that?"

"You little idiot," Chucky hissed, angry at himself for the relief he was feeling when he knew in his heart that he didn't care. "You just said I was scary. What the fuck did you want me to think?" He heard Andy's sob grow. "Andy... please. Cut it out. Stop crying." He was feeling it again. That aching in his chest. That need to... to do something. Because Andy's crying was annoying, and that was the only reason why. "Andy, I'm serious. You're freakin' me out," his voice was as gentle as he could make it as he tried to pull the boy back around to face him. "Please," he whispered. "Tell me what's wrong."

He felt little hands pull on his overalls as the boy pulled him close. He felt a flood of tears soak his shirt, his neck, as Andy cried, sobbed into his neck. They were making him all fucking wet. He wanted to yell at the boy again, goddammit, the kid was making him all gross, covering him in this gooey junk that was disgusting and weak. He wanted to shove him away, and chastise him for being such a stupid little child!

But he didn't.

He just held him, his arms awkwardly wrapping around the small body. "Ok... ok, Andy. I'm gonna be nice now," he said. "You can tell me what's wrong. C'mon, I'm your friend to the end, remember? You can tell me anything." He squeezed tighter, felt the boy stretch out in his arms to look at him, to just look at him with those gorgeous, sad brown eyes. Chucky stared back at them, those bright orbs, and felt his heart pounding, pounding poundingpoundingpounding...

And then Andy told him. Told him about seeing her his Aunt Maggie. About seeing her dead. Her eyes as she died, and the blood- all that blood! How it was everywhere. How he couldn't do a thing. And how when he awoke, he didn't want to think about it, but he saw it everywhere. How he didn't want to talk because he just started remembering. And just how frightening it was.

By the time Andy had finished, spilling out his heart and soul, he had reduced to violent shaking and hiccups, still sniffling and clutching onto the doll with the strength only a frightened child could posses. Chucky was left with a squeezing, pinching, drowning feeling inside his chest. He felt like something inside of him was dying. It hurt. It hurt, and he wanted it to stop. Just cut the fuck out, this feels like shit! "It's... it's gonna be just fine, Andy," he said hoarsely, not understanding what was going on inside him. He put his hand on the top of the boy's head. How did that motion go again? Up, down, left right. Or something like that.

He didn't know. He had never comforted anyone ever before. He knew one thing though. As he stroked the soft strands of brown hair, as he felt the boy calm and stop shaking, he felt himself begin to calm as well. Something was beginning to feel right again. Andy's fingers were still curled around his overall straps as his eyes fluttered shut slowly and he surrendered to sleep. "Th... Thank you..." he mumbled. The boy was convinced everything would be alright. Chucky had said so, and so it would be.

The doll was starting to drift off himself when he heard the small voice again.

"I love you, Chucky. You're the best-est friend I've ever had..."

Chucky started. What? What had the boy just said? There was that goddamn annoying pounding and flipping and stuttering inside him again. He was trying to find what to say. He didn't give a fuck, really. Why the hell was the kid so attached to him, anyways? Why did Andy look up to him like this? He hated kids, he hated being a doll, and he especially hated Andy...

"Yah," he heard himself saying, all the same. "I love you too..."