While Amy was downstairs, Mrs. Kramer was speaking frantically with Mr. Kramer, her voice feverish and muffled from behind the thick, oak door of the den. Sighing tiredly, she pulled out some of her sewing supplies and turned to walk away.

Sara was slouched at the counter, red-eyed and scowling, her hair sticking to her wet face. "It's your fault," she hissed and then continued to bawl like a baby into her arms.

Amy rolled her eyes and backtracked to the stairs. Down the long hallway that led to the garage, she could hear her parents arguing about what to do. The words "crazy" and "devil magic" were thrown around quite a lot.

She stomped upstairs childishly and the voices lowered to a murmur. "They think I'm crazy? Try that bitch, always going on and on about her stupid masterpieces," she muttered angrily, yanking open the door to her bedroom.

"Talking to yourself is a sign of insanity," Slappy chimed from his spot on her pillow, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. "I see you've noticed the dream catchers."

She'd gotten them on a trip three years after the Slappy incident that chased her into high nightmares stopped once she hung them up.

"Observant as ever," she said dryly.

"I see you're still as whiny as you were six years ago," he said.

Amy scowled and slammed down the fabric onto her desk. "I see you're as rude as you were," she snapped.

"And I see you're as flat-chested as before," he answered, sitting up calmly. Hadn't he told her she'd grown before she headed downstairs, though?

She flushed bright red and ducked her head down. "Asshole," she muttered, turning her head away from him to pick up the scissors.

"Ouch. I'm wounded," he told her.

"Are you sure puppets have feelings? Or can be hurt?" she asked flatly.

His eyes narrowed. "As a matter of fact, they do, slave."

She opened the scissors, snapped them shut a few times menacingly in the direction of his groin, and watched him scrabble back a bit. "It's Amy, termite brain," she replied.

"Amy?" Mrs. Kramer knocked on the door three times before she opened the door, Sara trailing behind with a smug expression. Mr. Kramer was nowhere to be found.

Amy froze, looking between a red-faced Slappy and her mother's frozen expression of horror. "Yeah," she managed to choke out, "what?"

Slappy swung his fists fiercely and Sara yelped loudly, backing up and tripping over her own feet. "See? She knows to be scared of me, slave." The ventriloquist grinned, teeth flashing in a dangerous manner.

Any and all the color washed out of Mrs. Kramer's face. Her eyes went wide, round like saucers, her dark irises clashing against the whites of her eyes. "Sweet Mary help us," she whispered.

"No Mary, just me," he laughed in her face.

Mrs. Kramer gripped the edge of the door with a white-knuckled grip and swayed sharply, wide-eyed.

"Slappy, stop it," Amy said, frowning down at him as she flopped down, twirling the scissors. When she slowly crossed her legs, her mother looked ready to faint into a heap.

"Amy," she gritted through her teeth, terrified and pale-faced. But still very, very much angry.

"Yes?"

"We've called the police," came Sara's far-away voice as her head peered around the edge of the door frame. She was still wide-eyed, cheeks flushed from crying.

Amy squinted. "What'll that do? What're you gonna tell them? 'Oh, hello, officers! My daughter picked up a possessed ventriloquist doll that ruined our lives six years ago!' Mom, they already think I'm crazy."

"Regardless, they'll be here soon," said her mother, her tone a warning.

"Just another thing for the neighbors to gossip about," Amy pointed out. "What're the cops gonna do? Give him Barbie-sized handcuffs?"

Slappy chose that moment to butt into her, the scissors slipping from her fingers and gouging into her palm.

"Hey!" she cried as she grabbed his wood forehead, smearing blood.

There was a loud noise like something ripped, and Amy shrieked as she was knocked back into the wall, head cracking hard enough to make her vision go fuzzy. The air reeked of sour, bitter smoke.

She could hear something crackling, making her head pound, as she blinked hard to see passed the plume of black smoke.

Her mother was lying on the floor, clutching her head as she stared in surprise.

Sara was crouched down behind the wall outside, white fingers trembling against the woodwork.

Amy pulled herself up and felt the back of her head for damage; thankfully her search turned up no bumps or scratches. Her eyes scanned the room as Mrs. Kramer began to shriek, "Oh my god! What happened?"

The softball player couldn't quite believe it herself.

Lying face-down on the floor, sprawled out with his arms and legs every which direction, was a boy about her age. He was lean, almost skinny, and gangly too with knobby knees and spidery fingers. His short, unkempt brown hair was slightly singed, sticking up everywhere and ended on his nape just above a small black mark, which looked a hell of a lot like the language she'd read from the card.

At first she thought he was dead. He wasn't breathing, not an inch of movement. And then he rolled onto his back, eyes shooting open; they were blue, like the Indiana sky before a storm rolled in.

He was handsome in an unsettling manner. His face was all sharp, frighteningly gaunt cheekbones and long, cinnamon eyelashes; his lips were thin and there was a notch in his top one. His eyes were deep-set, cast in shadow, and set below thick, dark brows. A scattering of freckles interrupted perfectly pale rose skin at the apples of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

"What?" he asked eventually and everyone jumped at the sound of his voice: rough, short with an accented lilt.

For a minute, Amy couldn't place those cold eyes or the voice to his face.

Sara screamed.

The angry look in his blue eyes clicked something into place in Amy's mind. Her stomach roiled as she spoke.

"Slappy?"

His lip curled. "Who else, slave?"