The brisk night air crept through the open window, the beige curtains danced playfully amongst the breeze. The moon was full tonight, its glistening aura peeked through the curtains as they fluttered, shining into the dark and lonely study of the mysterious R.L. Stine. The young author, still in his prime, focused heavily on constructing his newest tale. His thick, dark chestnut hair fell messily onto his wide forehead. He pushed his black-framed glasses further up his nose. His deep brown eyes moved steadily with the type hammer of his Smith-Corona typewriter as his fingers nimbly moved across each key.

Tck tck tck

With every click of the typewriter, the closer he was to finishing his latest work. He was excited to get this manuscript finished. It was only his seventh book, but to him, it was his greatest so far.

R.L. Stine's typewriter was no ordinary typewriter. It was special, both to him and in its own ways. It was an outlet for Stine to create his own friends, to spill out what he was feeling into terrifying ghouls and monsters to terrify children and those who tormented him. He used the monster blood to make his bully's dog grow to the size of a house, the mummy to lurk inside his neighbor's basement and horrify them, and the citizens of Dark Falls to wreak havoc on the citizens of his town. But sadly they became too much to handle, so he had no choice but to create locks and imprison his monsters until he would need them again and reassured them that they will be free again, very, very soon.

However, the monster he was writing at this very moment was much more than a monster. He was someone that Stine could relish in the torment of those who anguished him with. A friend that was a personification of his inner hatred and lust for revenge.

It had been years since Stine connected with real people, and it was finally his chance to connect with someone again.

Stine held his breath as the story reached its twist, his favorite part of any story.

"'Hey, slave—is that other guy gone?' the dummy asked in a throaty growl. 'I thought he'd never leave!'"

The last key clicked as the ink smacked the page. Stine smiled, his brown eyes glistening softly in the light of his desk lamp. He carefully removed the final page of his story and placed it at the bottom of his stack of papers. He reached for the empty manuscript book and grabbed a black pen.

"Night of the Living Dummy," he read aloud to himself as he scrawled the title on the spine of the book and the front. He smirked as he scrambled together the loose leaf pages of his story and gently attached them to the inside of the cover. Once the pages were securely fastened, he closed the book and inhaled sharply. He knew that he had this amazing gift to create real monsters, but he wasn't sure if it would work every time. He apprehensively gripped the cover of the book, prepared to unleash his newest, most personal creation.

"Let's get you out of there, my friend," Stine whispered to himself as he slowly pried open Night of the Living Dummy. He wasn't sure who would emerge from the book, since it was revealed to have two living dummies, both personifications of himself. He supposed it would be a surprise. He didn't want both of them out at once. That would prove to be too much for the poor author.

The lock that Stine secured on every blank manuscript snapped open with a click. A blue light emanated from the book, filling the entire room with its glow. He felt a rush of cold air burst from it, causing his skin to erupt in goosebumps. The room flashed wildly, like lightning cracking its way from the clouds and onto the earth. Stine watched as the ink began to crawl off of the pages, beginning to form a shape on the floor. The light was too blinding to see the shape's details, but Stine knew who it was. Once the ink completely bled off of the page, the light began to fade and the gust of wind ceased. The monster was out.

When Stine's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he studied the Ventriloquist's dummy. He had dark, chestnut hair with a widow's peak, just like Stine's. His eyes were a dim brown that shimmered with highlights of green in the moonlight. His smile was wide, with tiny child-like teeth that made his smile even creepier. His face, in some places, was slightly chipped and worn down. He sported a black suit with a bright red flower that accentuated his deep red bowtie. This wasn't the red-headed Mr. Wood. Not at all. This was Slappy. However, there was something rather off about the Slappy that leapt off of the pages. He looked more like Stine than the way he was written, his features complementing his creator's.

Stine looked down at Slappy. There he was. Creation and creator, face to face. But for some reason, Stine wasn't scared like he was with his past few monsters. He was relieved to see a familiar face.