For those of you asking for another horror story, here it is. There is no romance, sex, lust, love, shipping, dry humping, or incest, just Chucky, the Loud family, and good old fashion scares.
Luan Loud was in trouble: Her dummy, Mr. Coconuts, was DOA and she needed a doll; she was going to record and upload a skit to her website, and she needed a wingman. So, on a blustery October afternoon, she walked into town, a wool scarf wound tightly around her neck, and went shopping. Royal Woods is not a big town, but if there's one thing it had a lot of, it was antique shops. She didn't know why, and she really didn't care; she was sure to find a dummy in one of them.
She struck out at the first two she tried. The closest was a chewed up Raggedy Andy priced to sit-on-the-shelf at twenty dollars. The third had some old porclin dolls, but those were creepy; they reminded her of dead children, their eyes open and staring sightlessly into the void.
At the third, she found a puppet in a tux, but he was fifty bucks. Wow. She was just about to leave when she noticed another doll sitting on a shelf near the door to the storeroom. She walked over, reached up, and took it down. It was dressed in overalls and red high tops; its hair was red; its eyes were blue. It had a pull-string. She yanked it, and it spoke...
"Hi, I'm Chucky, wanna play?"
Hm. He was kind of cute, and the price tag stuck to the bottom of his foot said he was only ten bucks. Now that she could do.
"Do you know any good jokes, Chucky?" she asked.
She pulled the string.
"I only cost a couple of dollars."
Luan blinked. While it was a good pun, it was a little strange that the doll should comment on how much it cost. Then again, the manufacturers probably slipped that in as a joke. When this bad boy was new (eighties? He looked like he was from the eighties), he probably cost a lot more than a couple of dollars.
Then again, maybe he was alive.
She laughed nervously. She did need a doll though. "Alright, Chucky, you can come with me. But no funny business until we go on air, got it?"
She pulled the cord again. "I like puppies and cookies and playing with my toys."
"Hey, me too."
Tucking him under her arm, she went to the counter and waited to be served. She was just about to call out when an old man in glasses shuffled to the counter. "Hi there, miss. Can I help you?"
"I want to buy this doll with these dollars," she said, taking out a wad of ones.
The old man chuckled. "You're pretty funny." She sat Chucky on the counter, and the old man's eyes widened. "Oh. You're buying this one?"
"Yup," she said. "I'm going to use him for my act."
"Ah," the man said. He took her money and stuck it into the register. Luan did not notice that his eyes never left the doll, or that he moved slowly, cautiously, the way one would around a snake or venomous spider.
"Thank you," she chirped. She scooped Chucky up and left. "I hope you like puns," the old man heard her say, "because I crack at least pun a day."
When she was gone, the old man craned his neck, and saw her disappear around a corner.
He shouldn't have sold her that damn doll.
Fred Meyers was a practical man. He served in Vietnam and never believed in anything he couldn't touch. God, ghosts, and spirits were things he could not touch, had never seen, and had absolutely no reason to believe in. But that doll...there was something wrong with it.
It had been in the shop for six months. An old woman brought it in and said she found it in her granddaughter's room: The mother and granddaughter had been killed in a home invasion, she explained, and the police never caught the guy who did it. Chucky came with other toys, and Fred had no reason to take special notice of him. Then, things started to happen. He would set the doll down, only to come back and find it somewhere else. Sometimes, when he was in late, he would hear the tiny patter of footprints, and go to investigate, only the find the place empty and the doll sitting in the middle of the floor, watching him with those pale blue eyes. Stuff started going missing. He'd be nodding behind the counter, and hear a door opening and closing. Once, just once, he swore he saw it move from the corner of his eye.
He wanted to get rid of it, but he was terrified that if he tried, he'd wake with it sitting on his chest, a knife in its hand. "I'm Chucky, and I want to kill."
Presently, he shivered. God, he shouldn't have sold that damn thing. He considered going out into the street and finding the girl, but what stopped him was the knowledge that she'd think he was a lunatic. The time for playing hero was passed. He could have told her it wasn't for sale, could have told her it belonged to a fictious grandkid who accidentally left it behind...or he could have told her the truth and scared her away. But he didn't...because a part of him wanted the damn thing gone. It wanted it to be someone else's problem, because if it was someone else's problem, it wasn't his. He wouldn't have to watch the damn thing like you'd watch a coiled cobra, he wouldn't have to worry that it would come for him in the night, he wouldn't have to look at its face and wonder if it was watching him, silently hating him. So what if it was a little girl? Better her than him.
Only that wasn't right. It was terrible.
Breaking, he left the store and went around the corner, the bitter October cold nipping at his bare arms. There were people walking along the sidewalks, but none of them were the girl.
What have I done? He asked himself sadly. What have I done?