It's not like I really care. Because I don't. It wasn't meant to be personal. I'm going to find John. His house is past that stupid little black girl's place. I can hear her singing through the window. I don't know who the real singer is, but the words- unfortunately- I can hear.
Something like:

"How did I get here with you I'll never know.
I never meant to let it get so personal.
And after all I tried to do,
Staying away from loving you,
I'm broken hearted I can't let you know,
And I won't let it show,
You won't see me cry..."

She's good, I guess...But I hate this song...

***

John Simonsen was reclining on his old chair. For some reason, as he rocked back and forth, he was thinking of a time when he had rocked like this. It was a cold, winter night when he had heard the sound from his basement. He thought it had been a raccoon, or an opossum. He had gotten his gun from the utility closet and snuck to the door, just in case it was neither.

It had been neither, but it was not a threat at all. It was a young boy, frozen nearly stiff and eyes the color of the blue icicles that hung from the roof. John would have thought they were ice, except that there was so much emotion in them. Sadness and loss. "Come on in, son," he said gently, trying not to frighten him. "I ain't gonna hurt you." He had held out his hand for him, the poor child.

His name was Charles. That was all he would tell. He kept quiet most of the time, save when he asked what he could do. Sometimes he would ask if John would ever give him away, and the young black man would shake his head in amazement. "No, son. Why would I do that?" he'd ask, and Charles would shrug and reply, "Dunno."

That was only the beginning of his concerns for the boy with the striking blue eyes. John Simonsen had a little hobby of doing small magic tricks. He only did them to entertain the neighborhood children, but Charles took a major interest in it. He would be found reading book after book of spells and enchantments, and even worse, voodoo. John warned him against it. "You don't wanna be getting into that kinda trouble, son," he would say. But it didn't matter. Charles had found an obsession, and healthy or not, he wasn't letting it go.

One day, John came home from work to find the house empty. Charles was gone, but on the news that night, there was a mysterious report about an unidentified murderer who had struck in the town nearby. John tried to refuse to believe it, but in his mind, he had a sickening idea of who it was.

***

It's been a while since I've been here. I was so young then. But I wasn't so stupid anymore. I was beginning to find my own way.

Shit, I'm coughing again. This wasn't supposed to happen. John will know why I am like this. John will have the answers, and he will have to give them to me. My magic is much, much stronger than his now.

No card tricks here. Just dolls and lots of pain…

I***

It was like the past coming back again. John had to blink and look long and hard at the boy in front of him before he would believe his eyes. "Charles?" he asked incredulously. The same blue eyes, only now, they were so cold and empty. Dead. "Yes, it's me," he sneered. The voice had changed too, no longer so meek or shy. John rubbed his eyes. "But how… why are you still so young?" It seemed the boy hadn't changed height at all; in fact, he looked a little smaller since he last saw him. "Don't you get it?" Charles asked. "I'm not in my body anymore. I've transferred my soul to this doll's body." He pulled at the overall strap. John shook his head with wide eyes. "Oh, no, Charles," he said slowly. "That's not good at all. I've told you that. I have." Charles shouted and stomped his foot. "That's not what I came here for, you dipshit. I need to know something. I put myself in a doll's body. I was made of plastic, and I couldn't sweat or bleed. I didn't have a heartbeat either. Now," he pulled up his pant leg so that John could see the blood, "look. I'm bleeding. And as I ran here, I've been sweating." He pointed at his cheeks. John didn't say anything. The glistening on the boy-doll's?- face gave clues to otherwise.

"What have you gotten into, Charles?" he asked gently. That wasn't sweat, he knew, and he was sure Charles knew it too. "What's happened to you since you left?" Charles scowled at him. "Don't make this about me," he snarled. "This is about you answering my question. Why am I starting to function like a human being?" John sighed. "Because you are becoming human. Nothing lasts forever, Charles. Stay in that form long enough, and you will become human. A real boy. Kind of like Pinocchio." Charles looked confused; had he never heard that story before? He had never stayed long enough to hear it, John supposed. He hadn't stayed long enough for much at all.

"So? Isn't there a way I can stop it?" he asked. "I don't want to be stuck in this." John looked at him and understood. Of course. Why would someone want to be constantly reminded of the past? Being in that doll form only reminded him of before, of long ago. But John knew he couldn't just tell Charles how to move around and manipulate others. It was wrong. "Tell me!" Charles yelled. He reached behind his back and pulled out a roughly made doll. "Or else." John gasped. "Is that?" he began. Charles nodded and smiled sadistically. "Oh yes. It is. So, I suggest you start talking." He grabbed a large pin from his front pocket and stuck it into the leg of the doll. "Or you'll be dying a slow, painful death."

John clutched his leg in pain. He fell to his knees as Charles stuck in another sharp pin in his other knee. "I will not tell you Charles. But it is for your own good." He looked at the boy with the blue eyes. He looked long and hard into his face with his calm brown ones. "I will not let you do this because I love you." Charles looked as if he had been hit in the chest by a freight train. He dropped the doll to the floor. "You," he growled. "You are going to die. I will find a way, even without your help." He stuck the last pin and ran out of the house, leaving John holding his hand to his bleeding chest.

***

I cannot believe this. It's as if he knew about Andy and I. As if he knew.

I couldn't kill him. He doesn't deserve to die by my hands. If he dies, it's of his own accord. I missed his heart when I pricked that doll one last time.

It's is as if he knew everything…

***

Maggie Peterson was left walking the town in shock. Karen was gone. Andy was gone. Mike was gone. They were all gone. Even the doll had disappeared without a trace. It was as if all this had been a dream; a long, realistic dream. She should have been gone with them. She told herself that she should be in the crazy bin along with Mike and Karen. She was so deep in these thoughts that a passing car nearly hit her as she carelessly crossed the road. She jumped back, startled and little woken up from her lucid state.

It was because of Mike she was still here. He told her to keep her mouth shut, stay out. He said he would take care of Karen for her. He said she needed to find Charles. "Don't let him get away. Think of what he's done to your friends." Maggie thought more of what that asshole did to Andy. Andy loved that doll. She had thought maybe the doll had loved him back. She supposed she was wrong. She kicked a rolling can and sighed. "What am I going to do when I find him?" she asked to no one in particular. Only the chilling autumn wind replied, blowing leaves everywhere. She didn't know what she was going to do when she found him.

She was still walking in deep thought when she heard a sound. She looked around her, startled because she was nowhere near her apartment. She was mildly alarmed, but the muffled groan caught her attention. It was coming from inside an old house. This was a poor area; it was the city's ghetto, she assumed. The groan came again; it sounded as if the person was struggling for his life. Something clicked in her mind. If someone was near death, perhaps someone had caused those injuries. Someone small with blue eyes and a lying doll face…

She snuck around the corner of the house to the door. It was an old broken screen door, still swaying with the wind. She took a small step in. The sound of pain continued. "Hello?" she called out softly. "Are you alright?" There was a dead silence for a moment. Then, "Hello? Who is that?" Maggie walked toward the sound, passing the small kitchen to her left. "Where are you?" she asked. "Here. In the living room. On your right," a weak voice croaked. Maggie stepped further into the house and walked through the opening into the living room, where there were several old reclining chairs and some side tables. She heard labored breathing from behind the couch, and as she walked around it, she finally saw him. A black man was curled on the floor, keeping a tight hold on a fatal wound near his heart. She reached in her purse quickly. "I'll dial 911." The man nodded and continued to press his hands against him.

"Mr.," she began. "Was it… who was it?" The man gave a grimace. "It's John Simonsen, Ma'am," he replied. "As for who did this, well…" He gave a glance away from him, and Maggie followed his eyes to see the doll with pins stuck in it. She gasped. "Let's just say, you wouldn't believe me." Maggie shook her head. "Oh, I would," she said softly. "Believe me, I would."

***

Dep. Roger Kellen felt horrible. He had a gnawing suspicion as he drove the quiet boy in the back of the police car that they had gotten the wrong man. But what could they do? He watched the boy in the rear view mirror. The boy was hugging his knees; he looked upset, but he wasn't letting up a big fuss. He was crying silent tears. He was holding some rag doll that had been back there for a long time, but Kellen watched as the boy's face became almost a little angry and he tossed the doll to the floor and turned his face to the window.

***

The Wal-Mart seemed cheery, and Maggie needed that. The ambulance had come and taken Mr. Simonsen away, and she was left, once again, on her lonesome. It was so strange that right now, people didn't know. She knew they would all know when it came out on the news tonight.

She barely noticed the bump against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Miss." She looked up to see an elderly man with a kind face. "You're fine," she said distractedly. She could feel him looking at her with concern. "You weren't part of that doll scandal, were you?" he asked slowly. Maggie felt tears burn her eyelids. She nodded; perhaps this wasn't something you talk to total stranger about, but right now, she needed someone to talk to. "It's so terrible," the man said with genuine sadness. "To think that a toy meant for such good would have an end like this." Maggie sniffed. "What do you mean?" she asked. The way he said it, it was as if he knew the doll. It made her curious. "Well, I designed those Good Guys dolls," he began. "I was inspired by a little boy and his mother to make a good toy for children."

Maggie felt an urge rising within her. "Really?" she asked, taking out a small notepad and pen she had been keeping in her purse for some time now. "Tell me more." As the man began to talk, Maggie began to write…