There is a little girl with bright red hair.

(They say it's dyed with blood.)

There is a little girl with a playroom. Oh, look—she's having a tea party! Won't you join her?

(Don't go, don't go, don't—)

"Hello," she says. Her hair is tied back into a small ponytail, and a cute smile spreads against her lips. Next to her is a giraffe, and the chair to her right is empty.

"Let's play!" She giggles, and leans over the table, grabbing your hand. You land into the small chair with a thud, and look at the giraffe across from you. If stuffed animals had emotions, his would be sad, you reason.

On the table in front of you is a saucer for each of the guests and the hostess, along with teacups and a teapot, all of them cream colored with a flowery, pink design. In the middle of the miniature desk is a red velvet cake. The girl laughs again, and pours you some tea.

"Here, its peach! Mommy made it!"

You look around the room's pink walls, at the plush carpet and toys littered around the floor. A bay window is behind the girl, to your left, and behind the curtains is white, no outside. Your eyes swivel to the door, left ajar. The hallway seems endless. You forget how you got here.

"Won't you drink it?"

You focus your attention back on the girl. Her head is cocked and her lips are pulled down in a frown. It's cute, until you look into her eyes.

You nod, and look back down at your teacup, inspecting the tea closely. It's a light brown, somewhat clear. You gulp and shakily smile at the girl, who's staring at you intently. You pick up the cup with both of your quivering hands. Your eyes flicker over the edge of your cup, slightly tipped, and he looks scared, depressed, and also as if he's warning you—but he's just a toy. Toys don't know anything.

You slowly drink the tea, and it surprisingly tastes good. You drink some more and some more, and seconds later the cup shatters against the table. You fall onto the floor, muscles spazzing as your heartbeat accelerates with every passing second. The girl smiles, stands up and walks over. A knife is in her hand and no one hears your screams.

She drops the knife, turning on her heel, ponytail swinging—freshly dyed. She swipes some icing off of the cake with her finger, cocking her head, turning to the giraffe.

"Wasn't that fun?" She asks. The giraffe stays silent, stolid, and the girl throws it against the wall. "Don't you love me?

This giraffe needs to learn how to love.

A/N: I have no idea what I just wrote. Its one-eighteen am and I wanted to write something creepy. I'm making another one sometime, but instead it's Robbie, and it's called the Puppeteer. I don't know if I'll do any other characters, though.