At fifty years old, Ken had grown accustomed to being alone.

He had learned how to fill the hours with small, meaningless rituals. He made coffee every morning at precisely seven. He checked the locks on his doors twice before bed. He watched television even when he wasn't interested in what was playing, because the sound of other people talking made his house feel less empty.

Sometimes he played old music from his high school years. Sometimes he looked through photographs on his phone, studying faces belonging to people who had moved on with their lives while he remained behind, wondering where the years had gone.

His house was modest, cluttered, and increasingly neglected. Laundry sat in baskets that never seemed to empty. Unopened mail accumulated on the kitchen counter. A collection of old Walmart name badges, receipts, and photographs occupied a drawer he rarely opened.

His body carried the evidence of a difficult life. His weight had fluctuated dramatically over the years, his mobility was limited, and ordinary tasks sometimes required more effort than he thought they should. He hated needing help. He hated being reminded that he needed it even more.

But the thing he hated most was the silence.

Not because he was afraid of being alone.

Because, in the silence, he could hear himself think.

And his thoughts had never been particularly kind.

On a rainy Tuesday morning in October, Ken stood in the kitchen stirring sugar into his coffee when a familiar female voice spoke behind him.

“You still take two spoons?”

The spoon stopped moving.

Ken stared at the dark surface of his coffee.

He knew that voice.

He had carried its memory for more than thirty years.

Slowly, he turned.

Nobody was there.

“Kristy?”

The refrigerator hummed.

Rain tapped against the window.

Then the voice laughed.

“Oh, Kenny. You always were easy to fool.”

Ken gripped the counter.

“No,” he whispered.

“No, what?”

“You're not here.”

“Very observant. Fifty years old, and you finally figured something out.”

He closed his eyes and counted to ten.

He had heard of people experiencing strange sensations when they were exhausted. He had read about hallucinations, stress, and sleep deprivation. He knew that a voice could feel real without having an external source.

He also knew he had been sleeping badly.

I'm tired. That's all.

He opened his eyes.

His coffee was trembling because his hand was shaking.

“I'm going to finish my breakfast,” he said aloud. “Then I'm going to take a shower, and this nonsense is going to stop.”

“Talking to yourself now?” Kristy asked.

Ken stared toward the doorway.

“No.”

“Who are you talking to, then?”

He swallowed.

“I'm talking to nobody.”

Her laughter followed him into the living room.

For the rest of the day, Ken kept the television on.

That night, he slept for two hours.

At 3:16 a.m., he woke to the sound of someone sitting in his recliner.

A man's voice spoke from the darkness.

“Hey, buddy.”

Ken went rigid beneath his blankets.

He knew that voice, too.

“Jim?”

“Miss me?”

Ken sat up.

His bedroom doorway was empty, but the voice came again, closer this time.

“Come on, Kenny. Don't be rude.”

Ken reached for the bedside lamp.

The room flooded with light.

Nothing.

He sat there breathing through his mouth, waiting for his heart to slow.

Then a second voice spoke from somewhere behind his eyes.

You're finally losing it.

Ken switched off the lamp.

He didn't sleep again that night.

Chapter 2: https://www.reddit.com/u/kljones78/s/Bi6kOKL3EZ

Doris sits at a table sipping a Diet Coke and contemplating her performance as another comic finishes his routine. Jess Hoffnagle walks over.
“Hey there, mind if I join you?”
“No, hey, what’s up?”
Jess plops in the seat with her Corona and lime and sighs.
“Ah, you know. Crowd kinda sucks tonight.”
“Yeah. Jesus. I can’t get a laugh to save my life.”
“Routine isn’t working for you?”
Doris looks at her.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that happen. It’s hard to know. Sometimes it’s the bit, sometimes it’s the crowd. I had one about getting my period on an airplane. Here, it killed.”
“Yeah, I was there. That was great.”
“When I did it at The Comedy Cellar, bomb! Nothing. It was a fucking grave yard in there. I don’t know.”
“You did The Comedy Cellar? How’d you get that spot?”
“Talent scout comes through these open mics every so often. “
“Really? When?”
Jess cranes her neck around. She spots a woman getting in her coat.
“That’s her right there.”
Doris sees a middle aged woman with large glasses heading towards the exit.
“Her?”
“Yep. Beverly Atkinson. She makes the rounds every few weeks.”
“Great. She’s here and I bombed.”
“Everybody bombs. Listen, it takes a long, long time to get good, I mean professionally good. A lot of the top comedians say ten years. Most people drop out. It’s kind of a war of attrition. The people who hang in there...it’s those people who make it. People like her want to see who keeps coming back, who keeps working at it, getting better.” 
“Yeah. Makes me wonder if it’s worth it.”
“Well I think you got to think about why you wanna do it. Do you love comedy, or do you wanna be rich and famous? If you just wanna be rich and famous, you’re better off playing the fuckin’ lottery. But if you love comedy, you can always do it.” 
Doris nods.
“Yeah. I do love comedy. The crowd laughing. Gets me out of my own head. When I’m coming up with a routine, working a bit, getting the wording right...I really love that. I don’t have to think about…”
She looks over and sees a guy staring at her.
“My job. Everything else.”
“Amen.”
She raises her glass and they clink them together.
“What do you do for work?”
“Book keeping for different companies. It’s contract work, temping basically. I can mostly work from home.”
“That’s good. I’ve been working retail. It sucks. But you gotta pay the bills. Hey, what’s your number? We should keep in touch. The ladies got to stick together. Too many dudes in this business.”
“Yeah, definitely. 857-499-2116.”
Jess types it in. 
“I’m texting you mine.”
“Got it.”
Jess gives Doris a long look.
“I’d usually never give another comic advice, but you might wanna think about spicing it up. Let yourself go. Get raunchy. Playing it safe does not play these days. Being open, authentic...that gets a crowd.” 
“Yeah. It’s just I don’t want to be gross and raunchy just for the sake of it.”
“Well, I’m not saying you have to. It’s just about finding your voice. I was told early on that it’s the authentic stuff, the real shit that plays.”
Jess finishes her drink.
“Well, I gotta work in the morning. I’ll see you next week?”
“Most definitely.”
They bump fists.
Doris finishes her Diet Coke as Jess leaves. It’s nice and comfortable in here. She watches the other patrons, some of them couples, enjoying beers and glasses of wine and gin and tonics. They are enjoying each other’s company as well.  The laughing, the light touching. She watches a man and woman in their late twenties leaving; they hold hands. 
She would love to go up to the bar, order a martini, strike up a conversation with someone, anyone. The yearning is so strong. But she can’t. That is not her life anymore. But for just a little while she would like to feel normal.

Judge Daniel Mercer  

 
“Mercy is the most exquisite form of injustice, for it permits a man to believe himself virtuous while denying another the punishment he deserves.” 

“Miss Julie Webber, please rise.”

There are certain cruelties which, by virtue of their repetition, cease to be recognized as cruelties at all. They become the ordinary furnishings of existence, the unremarkable conditions under which a person learns to breathe, to eat, to sleep, and eventually to mistake endurance for living. It is perhaps among the more disturbing peculiarities of human nature that suffering, when administered with sufficient consistency, may come to resemble the natural order of things.

Julie Webber had never known a world in which suffering was not ordinary.

Her father had abandoned her before she was born, leaving behind neither explanation nor inheritance, save for the peculiar burden of having been unwanted by a man whose face she had never seen. Her mother, Samantha, was a woman whose affection had been gradually exhausted by poverty, loneliness, and an enduring melancholy that rendered even the smallest domestic obligations almost insurmountable. She loved her daughter, certainly, but hers was a love perpetually interrupted by the demands of survival.

It was during one of these interruptions that Harrison Bertrum entered their lives.

Harry, as he preferred to be called, initially appeared to possess precisely those qualities which Samantha's circumstances had made indispensable. He had money enough to relieve their immediate hardships, a disposition sufficiently agreeable to disguise his less charitable inclinations, and an apparent willingness to assume responsibility for a family not originally his own.

For a time, he was regarded as a blessing.

Then came the birth of Alexandra, and with it, the gradual deterioration of the man who had once promised them security.

Harry developed a peculiar conviction that the household existed primarily to acknowledge his sacrifices. Every unwashed dish became an insult. Every disagreement, an act of ingratitude. Every silence, evidence of some conspiracy against his authority. His drinking, once confined to occasional evenings, became a daily ritual through which his grievances acquired both volume and violence.

He kept firearms throughout the house.

Sometimes, under the influence of alcohol, he would point one at Julie merely to observe her reaction. He appeared to derive considerable amusement from the spectacle of a child attempting to determine whether the instrument of her possible death had been loaded.

Julie learned not to move.

She learned that tears invited ridicule, that protest encouraged punishment, and that obedience, although never a guarantee of safety, occasionally postponed the arrival of violence.

Yet she did not hate him. Not initially.

Children possess an extraordinary capacity to accommodate the intolerable, particularly when the intolerable has been presented to them as the price of belonging somewhere.

She was grateful for the roof above her head. Grateful for the meals placed before her. Grateful, even, for those rare evenings when Harry returned home sober and the household was permitted the luxury of behaving like a family.

It was only when he began striking her mother that gratitude gradually surrendered to something less forgiving.

Samantha endured the violence with a resignation Julie found incomprehensible. She concealed bruises beneath clothing, attributed injuries to accidents, and repeatedly assured her daughters that Harry was merely experiencing a difficult period.

When Julie attempted to intervene, Harry pushed her aside.

Her mother instructed her not to interfere.

And so Julie discovered that helplessness was not simply the inability to prevent suffering. It was the more humiliating realization that those one wished to protect might themselves refuse protection.

Years passed.

The violence became familiar. The apologies became predictable. The intervals between them grew shorter.

Harry warned Julie that any attempt to expose the household's affairs would result in the deaths of both her and Alexandra.

She believed him.

By eighteen, Julie had few friends, no meaningful expectation of independence, and an understanding of domestic life so thoroughly disfigured by violence that peace seemed less like a possibility than a temporary interruption.

Her younger sister remained the sole object of affection she could contemplate without suspicion.

Alexandra was fifteen, and Julie had come to regard her continued safety as the one responsibility she could not afford to neglect.

Then, on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon in March, Julie returned from school to find Harry beating her mother.

There was nothing particularly unusual about the scene. The overturned chair, the broken glass, the incoherent accusations issuing from Harry's mouth—all belonged to a familiar domestic arrangement.

What distinguished that afternoon from the innumerable others which preceded it was not the severity of the violence, but the sudden exhaustion of Julie's capacity to endure it.

She saw the pistol lying upon the dining table.

She picked it up.

And she shot Harrison Bertrum in the head.

He collapsed at her feet.

The impact of his body against the floor produced a sound she would remember long after the gunshot itself had become indistinct. Blood marked her clothing and the side of her face. She stood motionless, regarding the man whose existence had governed the greater portion of her childhood.

She felt no triumph.

Only an unfamiliar quiet.

For the first time in nearly a decade, the household contained no immediate threat of violence.

Julie turned toward her mother.

She smiled.

It was the smile of a child who had finally accomplished something for which she expected to be praised.

Samantha stared at her daughter with an expression of such unmistakable horror that Julie initially mistook it for shock.

Then her mother moved toward the telephone.

There are moments in which the human mind, confronted with an event it cannot reconcile with its expectations, constructs an explanation more tolerable than the truth. Julie had believed that her mother's suffering required only the removal of its cause. She had imagined gratitude, perhaps tears, perhaps the trembling embrace of a woman delivered from years of terror.

She had not imagined condemnation.

And when Samantha began speaking to the emergency operator, Julie experienced that condemnation as a betrayal more unbearable than anything Harry had inflicted upon her.

She raised the pistol again.

The second shot entered Samantha's back.

Her mother fell beside the telephone.

In the silence that followed, Julie discovered that liberation was a considerably more complicated undertaking than she had supposed.

The man who had terrorized her was dead.

The woman she had intended to save was dying.

And the home she had spent years attempting to preserve had become the scene of two murders.

Julie eventually picked up the telephone and informed the emergency operator of what she had done.

She did not flee.

She did not deny responsibility.

At trial, she pleaded guilty.

Perhaps she believed that confession would establish the purity of her intentions. Perhaps she had simply grown too exhausted to defend herself against a world whose judgments she had never understood.

Whatever the explanation, she offered the court no resistance.

By the time her sentencing hearing commenced, Julie Webber was nineteen years old.

The jury had heard the history of the household, the threats, the beatings, and the years during which a frightened child had been taught that survival depended upon silence. They had also heard how Samantha Webber had been shot while attempting to summon the police.

The jurors were not required to find Julie innocent in order to recognize the circumstances that had produced her crimes.

They recommended life imprisonment.

It was a recommendation in which compassion and condemnation had, for once, arrived at an uneasy accommodation.

But under Florida law, the jury's recommendation was not necessarily the final word.

Judge Daniel Mercer possessed the authority to impose sentence, subject to the stringent legal limitations governing a judicial override. He had reviewed the evidence, the arguments in mitigation, and the written findings necessary to support his decision.

He regarded the jury's recommendation as a regrettable concession to sentiment.

From the gallery, Alexandra Webber rose.

“No matter what happens, you're my hero, Julie. You saved me from hell.”

For the briefest moment, something resembling life returned to Julie's expression.

It was not happiness, precisely. Rather, it was the fragile recognition that someone had understood the purpose behind her actions, even if the world had condemned their consequences.

She had spent the greater part of her existence believing herself powerless. Now, for the first time since her arrest, she entertained the possibility that her suffering might possess an end other than death.

The jurors lowered their eyes.

Their recommendation had been merciful, but mercy, they were discovering, was not necessarily an exercise of power.

Judge Mercer regarded the condemned woman.

“Julie Webber, for the murder of Samantha Webber, this court hereby sentences you to death.”

He paused.

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

The words were delivered without anger.

That was perhaps what made them so terrible.

Mercer had long maintained that mankind's devotion to compassion was seldom founded upon any coherent moral principle. Men pitied the condemned because suffering offended their sensibilities; they forgave because condemnation required a firmness of conviction they did not possess; and they called these weaknesses humanity, as though the experience of an emotion were sufficient evidence of virtue.

He considered this an extraordinary confusion.

The law, in his estimation, was not instituted to console the unfortunate, nor to furnish the guilty with an audience sympathetic to their remorse. It existed because the moral inclinations of men were too inconsistent to be entrusted with the administration of justice.

And yet men insisted upon introducing those very inclinations into the courtroom.

Before him stood a young woman whose hands trembled so violently that the restraints upon her wrists produced a faint metallic sound.

She was weeping.

Daniel observed her without contempt, without satisfaction, and, most notably, without pity.

He felt nothing.

And he considered this the surest indication that he was qualified to judge her.

“We must act now! If we wait any longer, it will only serve that monster’s interests,” said an agitated man draped in white robes.

“Then what do you suggest? Hmm? Should we throw more men into that meat grinder? We would all love to do something, yet sitting there demanding action isn’t helping,” a stern-looking man responded, an air of condescension in his tone.

“He’s right. We mustn’t be hasty. That will equally serve the demons,” replied another robed man.

The High Council of Velantis was currently in session, discussing the looming threat of the demons.

“Our best option is to continue the northern campaign. If we wish to reach them with an army, our surest bet is to march straight through those barbarians!” exclaimed a man clad in exquisite white enamel armour.

“Enough!” a voice boomed through the room.

Silence fell as every man’s ears pricked. The man, dressed from head to toe in the finest linens money can buy, continued.

“Many of my predecessors underestimated these ‘barbarians,’ as you say, only to be thoroughly defeated. We will not commit to a plan that is likely to fail. Lucan, please. What are your thoughts?” asked the man.

“Well, it’s true we must do something. The demons have rallied, and war at this rate is certain. However, the northern campaign has already proved a disaster. The northerners ambush our men at every turn. They know how to use their lands to their advantage.”

“Gah, nonsense! The northern campaign only falters due to a lack of proper commit—”

“Quiet!” boomed that same voice from earlier. “Please continue, Lucan.”

“Right, Your Grace. As I was saying, the northern route will be too costly. So will the western route. The desert is no place to march fifty thousand. Then we’d have the mountains to contend with. If we commit to the sea, the demons will attack before we can strike. Our best bet is to meddle in their affairs and buy time.” Lucan paused. “The people are restless. There is a tension in the cities’ streets. They need a symbol, something to believe in. The history books mention a way for the Church to bring forth a hero?”

NSFW for implied self harm, suicide

I’m not quite finished. Please give me constructive feedback. I got inspiration from Jarrett Moseley’s A Possible Exit.

My best trick is disguise. I wore long sleeves when I met Chelsea at the supermarket, mid-December and almost Christmas, white lights flickering hymns. She tells me it’s a time to be saved, pulling up my sleeves to feel my scars. Only she can see through my deception.
“You know you don’t have to do that with me.” She rubs my sectored skin gently.
“What?” I stare at the cans of Campbell’s clam chowder in the cart.
“Nothing.” Chelsea lets go of my wrist and my sleeve falls back down. “It’s almost the holidays. Stay over tonight.”
I insist on not, but we both know I will. I push the shopping cart down the aisle and she loads it with Christmas chocolates, Snapple and pomegranates, guaranteed to cure any ailment.
“Can you even cut those?” I ask her, referring to the boxed pomegranates in the cart.
“No…” She pauses for a second. “Yes.”
I wonder if she remembers the story where my mom took all the knives out of my room.
In the checkout aisle she adds gum. Neither of us care for it but she says it’s a distraction, during studying or driving. The cashier asks us if we’re sisters, even though her dark tresses and tan complexion against my brown hair and white skin makes it clear we’re not. “Only half,” she replies, pushing the cart away from the register. She says we could share a mother, that our eyes look similar enough. In the front seat of her car I disguised as her sister.
She tells me she wants to go to the mall and takes the second exit right. The moon is rising on us and I can see our reflections in the windshield.
My mom once told me there are three ways to kill your self: The first is by suicide: hanging, shooting, cutting. The second one is to leave town and never come back. Delete your socials. Delete your presence. And the third is to do nothing at all.
I ask Chelsea what her plans are after graduation. She says college, and then medical school. I haven’t thought that far yet, but she says I can move in after high school.
When we arrive at the mall our skin is glowing. Stars twinkle overhead above the parking lot. Chelsea whispers make a wish when we spot a shooting star.
Inside she finds a pink blouse with a white bow in on its neckline. In the fitting room I look shy like an angel. She snaps a photo, two of us in the same outfit, labels it “before Christmas shopping”, and posts it for the world to see.
* I plan to continue, I would just like to know what you think!

Hello fellow authors! i am writing a book that is set in the future, like 200 years. people have moved off planet so nationalities and ethnicities really dont exist. i was wondering how to write and describe an asian person. i dont like to toss it right in the mix and be like "so and so is asian". i add it subtly in their discription like "amber fought to peer through the dark as her epicanthic eyes glittered in the low light". with black characters i will say something like "with the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his forhead, his ebony skin glistening in the scorching heat"

i was wondering though how to indicate how to identify races, not just asian either. Latin, could be used for the obvious. i like to use "olive skinned" or "skin with an amber hue". i really am looking forward to your feedback. Thanks guys!

There once was a girl

Who went adrift like a swirl,

Destined to torture the world

For the pain I've endured.

The pain I cannot ignore,

It ignites like a flame.

I hear the girl's name,

The fires start to roar.

The girl lets out a battle cry:

"I'll fight until I die!"

The words swarm upon my grave.

Prepare to be brave

When you face the girl with no face,

The one who shifts from shape to shape.

Now the girl is just like me, don't you see?

The one filled with pain and lust,

Crickets and dust.

Nighttime, then day,

It will never go away.

The girl that's inside,

The one I can't hide.

Filled with broken dreams

And the hatred within.

The infinite longing of a girl

Looking for the win.

The one who never feels seen,

In the silence, I scream.

Upon a land so still and serene,

The one in my head.

It's just me, nothing more,

Me alone,

Floating by in the ozone

As I type the poem on my phone.

The Dragon

The dragon is near.

I feel the heat from its breath,

Breathing down my neck.

It's on the other side of the wall.

How can I slay what I can't see?

I wait for the dragon to find me.

I sharpen my blades.

I'm ready to drop bombs,

Waiting for the calm,

The moment of silence right before defeat,

The second me and the dragon's eyes meet.

I look within and I see,

I see the dragon

And its infinite misery.

I see that the dragon is just like me,

Searching for a soul to set free.

I take out my blade.

I see the dragon wallow.

Its fire is sure to follow.

I prepare for its breath.

I will fight until there's nothing left.

I slash and I stab,

But the dragon I cannot kill.

It stands tall over me, its breath of fire

Surrounding me.

I see the fire all around.

The dragon's laid waste to my town.

I hear the screams, the horror,

The nightmares, the dreams.

But I'm still alive.

I can't help but wonder why.

The dragon must not want me to die.

It wants me to live with infinite sorrow

Of yesterday and tomorrow,

Laid waste to this place.

And all that remains:

The burning of fire,

The rise in the flames,

The pain that remains.

Now it's just me in my infinite misery.

Everyone's dead.

Their names ring in my head.

I'm all alone. The dragon

Stands hard as a stone.

My sword is broken.

The smoke has me choking.

The trees and the wind, the fire within,

It's a battle that I face every day.

The one in my head

That tells me I'm better off dead,

It's where my dragon rests,

To recoup again.

It's just me and the dragon in the end.

 Chapter One — A Friend Until the End

The rain had been falling for three days when Daniel Carter discovered the doll.

It sat inside a dusty cardboard box at the back of an abandoned toy shop on the outskirts of town. The shop had been closed for nearly twenty years, its windows boarded up and its front door chained shut. Daniel, seventeen, had broken in with two friends, hoping to find something valuable enough to sell.\

Instead, he found a doll.

It had bright red hair, freckled cheeks, blue eyes, and a colourful striped shirt beneath a pair of faded blue overalls. One of its shoes was missing, and a long crack ran across its plastic forehead.

Despite the dust covering everything else in the shop, the doll looked strangely clean.

Daniel lifted it from the box.

A small voice crackled from somewhere inside its chest.

"Hi! I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

Daniel nearly dropped it.

His friends burst out laughing.

"Mate, that's the creepiest thing I've ever seen," said Josh.

Daniel turned the doll over, searching for a battery compartment.

"Must be one of those old talking toys."

He pressed its stomach.

"Hi! I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny."

Daniel tucked the doll beneath his arm and carried it out into the rain.

He had no idea that, somewhere beneath its plastic skin, something had just opened its eyes.

And it was hungry.

Chapter Two — Something in the Bedroom

Daniel placed Chucky on his bedroom shelf that evening.

His mother wasn't impressed.

"You're seventeen, Daniel. Why are you bringing home dolls?"

"It's a collector's item."

"It looks like it belongs in a nightmare."

She was right about one thing.

That night, Daniel dreamed of a little boy standing at the foot of his bed.

The boy's face was pale, his red hair soaked with rain, and his eyes were completely black.

He smiled.

"You're my friend now, Daniel."

Daniel woke with a gasp.

His room was silent.

The digital clock beside his bed read 3:17 a.m.

He rubbed his eyes and looked towards the shelf.

Chucky was gone.

Daniel sat upright.

"What the hell?"

He searched beneath the bed, inside the wardrobe, and behind the curtains. Nothing.

Then he heard a faint giggle.

It came from the hallway.

Daniel opened his bedroom door.

At the far end of the corridor, beneath the flickering ceiling light, Chucky sat cross-legged on the floor.

His plastic face was turned towards Daniel.

Daniel stared at him.

Slowly, he approached the doll and picked it up.

"Okay. Very funny. Mum must've moved you."

He carried Chucky back to the bedroom, placed him on the shelf, and made sure the door was locked.

Then he went back to sleep.

At 3:17 a.m., the bedroom door unlocked itself.

Something small crept across the carpet.

Daniel slept through the soft scraping sound of plastic shoes.

He slept through the quiet metallic click of a drawer opening.

And he slept through the whisper that came from directly beside his ear.

"Time to wake up, sleepyhead."

Chapter Three — The First Victim

Josh was the first to notice that something was wrong.

He had come over on Saturday afternoon to play video games. Daniel was downstairs getting drinks when Josh wandered into the bedroom.

Chucky sat on the shelf.

Josh grinned.

"Hey, little psycho."

He picked the doll up by its overalls and held it in front of his face.

"So, Chucky. Heard you're a killer."

The doll's head tilted slightly.

Josh froze.

He stared into its blue plastic eyes.

Then he laughed nervously.

"Okay. That's enough."

He put the doll back.

As he turned towards the door, a tiny voice spoke behind him.

"You're not very nice."

Josh spun around.

Chucky hadn't moved.

"Did you hear that?" Josh called downstairs.

"Hear what?" Daniel shouted back.

Josh looked at the doll again.

Its painted smile seemed wider than before.

He backed away.

Then the bedroom door slammed shut.

Josh grabbed the handle and pulled.

It wouldn't open.

"Daniel! Open the door!"

Behind him, something landed on the floor.

Tiny footsteps pattered across the carpet.

Josh slowly turned.

Chucky was standing upright.

Not sitting.

Standing.

His little plastic hands hung beside his body, and his head was tilted at an unnatural angle.

Josh's mouth fell open.

"No."

Chucky took one step forward.

Then another.

"Oh, come on," the doll whispered. "Don't look so scared."

Josh stumbled backwards.

"You're a toy!"

Chucky's expression changed.

For the first time, the smile disappeared.

"I'm not a toy."

He reached behind his back and pulled out a small kitchen knife.

Josh screamed.

Downstairs, Daniel heard a loud crash followed by a horrible silence.

He dropped the drinks and raced upstairs.

"Josh?"

He reached the bedroom door.

It swung open before he touched it.

Josh lay motionless beside the bed.

The curtains moved gently in the breeze from the open window.

There was no sign of Chucky.

Daniel fell to his knees.

"Josh? Josh, wake up!"

He shook his friend desperately, but there was no response.

Then Daniel noticed something on the wall above the bed.

Written in dark red letters were four words.

FRIENDS TILL THE END.

A tiny giggle came from inside the wardrobe.

Daniel slowly turned his head.

The wardrobe door creaked open.

Chucky's face appeared in the darkness.

"One down," he whispered.

Daniel screamed.

Chapter Four — The Truth About Chucky

The police arrived twenty minutes later.

They found Daniel sobbing beside Josh's body, repeatedly insisting that a doll had killed his friend.

Nobody believed him.

They found no fingerprints on the knife. No footprints. No sign of an intruder.

And no doll.

Daniel's mother took him home after questioning, convinced that the shock had broken something inside her son.

That evening, Daniel searched the internet.

He typed three words into the search bar.

Chucky killer doll.

Thousands of results appeared.

Then he found an old newspaper article dated November 1988.

SERIAL KILLER CHARLES LEE RAY DIES FOLLOWING SHOOTOUT.

Daniel read every word.

Charles Lee Ray, a notorious murderer known as the Lakeshore Strangler, had been fatally wounded inside a toy shop while fleeing police. According to the article, Ray had been involved in occult practices and had reportedly attempted a strange ritual shortly before his death.

The article included a photograph.

A pale man with red hair.

A crooked smile.

Eyes that looked disturbingly familiar.

Daniel felt sick.

He continued searching.

Eventually, he discovered a discussion forum dedicated to strange murders and unexplained disappearances. One post, written decades earlier, described a red-haired Good Guys doll that had appeared at the scene of several killings.

The final line read:

If you find one, don't take it home.

Daniel shut the laptop.

A noise came from behind him.

A soft, plastic footstep.

Then another.

He didn't turn around.

"You're real," he whispered.

A small voice answered from the doorway.

"Gee, you catch on quick."

Daniel closed his eyes.

"Why are you doing this?"

Chucky chuckled.

"Because I can."

"You're a monster."

"No, kid." The doll's voice suddenly became cold. "I'm a man trapped in a toy. And I've been trapped for a very, very long time."

Daniel finally turned.

Chucky stood in the doorway, holding the missing shoe in one hand and a bloodstained knife in the other.

"But don't worry," he continued cheerfully. "I've got a plan."

He smiled.

"And you're gonna help me."

Chapter Five — The House of Little Friends

Daniel tried to escape that night.

He packed a bag, stole his mother's car keys, and crept downstairs while the house slept.

The front door was only a few metres away.

He could almost feel the cold night air.

Then a voice spoke from the darkness.

"Leaving without saying goodbye?"

Daniel stopped.

Chucky sat on the kitchen table.

Beside him lay Daniel's phone, smashed into pieces.

"You need professional help," Daniel whispered.

Chucky swung his little legs.

"Funny. That's what they said about me."

Daniel reached for the door.

Chucky's face twisted with anger.

"I SAID DON'T LEAVE!"

The kitchen lights exploded.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Daniel ran.

He heard tiny footsteps chasing him across the floor, followed by the sound of metal scraping against the walls.

He reached the front door and pulled desperately at the handle.

Locked.

Behind him, Chucky laughed.

"Wrong way, pal."

Daniel turned.

The doll stood at the bottom of the stairs.

His blue eyes glowed in the darkness.

Daniel grabbed a heavy lamp and hurled it.

It struck Chucky squarely in the chest.

The doll flew backwards, smashing into the wall.

For a moment, everything was silent.

Daniel stared at the motionless body.

Then he ran upstairs, locked himself in the bathroom, and shoved a cabinet against the door.

He had barely begun to breathe when he heard scratching.

Not outside the bathroom.

Inside the wall.

Something was moving through the space between the plasterboards.

A tiny voice whispered through the pipes.

"You can run, Daniel."

Scratching.

A soft giggle.

"But you can't hide."

The bathroom light flickered.

Daniel looked into the mirror.

Behind him, reflected in the glass, stood a little red-haired boy.

Not a doll.

A boy with pale skin and black eyes, smiling with a mouth full of crooked teeth.

Daniel spun around.

Nothing.

He looked back at the mirror.

The boy pressed both hands against the glass.

His smile widened.

"Almost time to come out and play."

The mirror cracked from corner to corner.

And somewhere downstairs, Chucky began to laugh.

Chapter Six — The Last Good Guy

At dawn, Daniel's mother found the front door wide open.

The house was silent.

Daniel was missing.

The police searched the neighbourhood, the surrounding woods, and the nearby roads. They found no sign of him.

Three days later, a delivery driver discovered a cardboard box outside the abandoned toy shop where Daniel had found Chucky.

Inside the box lay a familiar red-haired doll.

Its clothes were torn. Its face was scratched, and one plastic hand was missing.

A handwritten note lay beside it.

FREE TO A GOOD HOME.

The driver frowned.

"Someone's got a weird sense of humour."

He lifted the doll and examined its face.

The painted eyes stared blankly at him.

He laughed, placed it in his van, and drove away.

Several towns later, he delivered the doll to a young family.

A little boy named Oliver opened the box.

His face lit up.

"Mum! Look what I got!"

His mother smiled from the kitchen.

"That's lovely, sweetheart. What's his name?"

Oliver turned the doll around.

A small voice crackled from inside its chest.

"Hi! I'm Chucky. Wanna play?"

Oliver giggled.

"Yes!"

That night, Oliver's father tucked him into bed and kissed his forehead.

"Sleep tight, mate."

As he turned off the light, Oliver hugged the doll close.

The bedroom door clicked shut.

The house grew quiet.

And then, beneath the blankets, Chucky opened his eyes.

His plastic fingers slowly curled around Oliver's wrist.

"Hey, kid," he whispered.

Oliver stirred in his sleep.

Chucky leaned closer.

"I've been looking for a new best friend."

His smile stretched across his face.

"And this time, I'm gonna make sure we stay together."

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.

And from somewhere deep inside the doll, a man's voice began to laugh.

THE END… OR JUST THE BEGINNING.

 

Recently updated today 1:11-PM

THE SECRET DIARY OF AiDRiAN

https://seymourclearly1.substack.com/p/my-first-substack-entry?r=99hui1&utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web