CHUCKY Chapter 3

 Chapter 3

Aiden kicked a pebble down the cracked sidewalk, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across his path. Spring had arrived, but the air still carried a bite that made him shove his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets. The neighborhood kids were out—some shooting hoops, others biking in lazy circles—but their laughter felt distant, like it belonged to another world.  

He slowed his steps as his house came into view. The peeling blue paint. The crooked screen door. The bedroom window on the second floor where his closet waited.  

Where Chucky waited.  

His stomach twisted.  

Three more steps.  

Then two.  

And then—nothing.  

Aiden's legs locked. Just like that. No warning. His knees trembled, the muscles in his thighs twitching like live wires. He willed himself forward, but his body refused. It was as if his bones had turned to lead, his sneakers glued to the sidewalk by some unseen force.  

Move, he begged himself. Just move.  

But dread pooled in his gut, thick and syrupy. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, fogging the air in front of him. The sun was still bright, the sky still blue, but the world had narrowed to the space between him and his front door—a distance that suddenly felt impossible.  

A car rolled past, bass thumping, but the sound barely registered. Aiden's pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The pain was real, at least. Grounding. But it wasn't enough to unstick him.  

Why can't I move?  

He knew why.  

Chucky.  

The doll had been waiting for him all day. Aiden could feel it, like a hook lodged in his ribs, tugging him toward that dark closet. It wanted him home. Wanted him close. And the thought of stepping inside, of hearing that voice—his voice—slither out from behind the closet door...  

Aiden's knees buckled. He caught himself on a nearby fence post, his grip so tight the rusted metal bit into his skin. His legs shook, weak as a newborn deer's. It wasn't just fear. It was something deeper, something heavier—like his body had already decided it wouldn't survive another encounter.  

Across the street, a group of kids laughed, their voices sharp and bright. One of them—a boy with a skateboard under his arm—glanced at Aiden, frowning.  

"You okay?" he called.  

Aiden opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat had closed up, too. He managed a jerky nod, but the kid kept staring, his brow furrowed.  

Aiden looked away.  

He couldn't explain this. Couldn't put into words the way his skin crawled at the thought of Chucky's glassy eyes tracking him from the shadows. The way his breath hitched when the doll laughed—a sound too human, too hungry, for something made of plastic and wires.  

The skateboard kid shrugged and turned back to his friends. The moment passed.  

Aiden was alone again.  

The sun dipped lower, stretching his shadow long and thin across the pavement. He had to move. Had to go home. His dad would be pissed if he stayed out too late again. His brothers would make it worse.  

But his legs still wouldn't obey.  

And then—  

A flicker of movement in his bedroom window.  

Aiden's breath stopped.  

Had the curtain just twitched?  

He stared, unblinking, at the glass. The reflection of the sky made it hard to see inside, but for a second—just a second—he thought he saw something red pressed against the pane.  

Watching.  

Waiting.  

Aiden's heart slammed against his ribs.  

And then, as if whatever had been holding him in place had finally snapped, he stumbled backward, his legs finally unlocking—but not toward home.  

Away.  

He didn't think. Didn't plan. He just ran, his backpack slamming against his spine, his breath ragged in his ears. He didn't know where he was going.  

He just knew he couldn't go home.  

Not yet.  

Not while it was waiting.  

Aiden skidded to a stop at the corner, his chest heaving. The streetlights flickered on, casting shadows across the pavement. His lungs burned, but the fear still clawed at his ribs, relentless.  

He turned his head.  

There it was—the old oak tree in Ms. Loomis’ backyard. Its gnarled branches twisted toward the darkening sky, leaves rustling like whispered secrets. Aiden’s breath hitched.  

What if—

His mind betrayed him before he could stop it.  

A flash of red among the leaves. A grin too wide, too sharp. Glassy eyes reflecting the streetlight’s glow.  

Chucky.

Aiden’s fingers dug into his own arms. The doll wasn’t there. It couldn’t be there. It was back home, in his closet, waiting—  

Unless it followed you.

The thought slithered into his brain, cold and slick.  

A gust of wind shook the branches. For a heartbeat, the leaves parted—  

And Aiden saw him.  

Perched on a low branch, one leg swinging lazily. Striped sweater. Wild red hair. That smile. Always smiling.

“Miss me?” Chucky’s voice hissed, though his lips didn’t move.  

Aiden stumbled back, his sneaker catching on the curb. He barely felt the impact as his knees hit concrete.  

The tree shuddered again.  

Empty.  

No doll. No grin. Just bark and shadow.  

Aiden squeezed his eyes shut. Not real. Not real.

A single leaf drifted down, landing at his feet.  

Aiden’s pulse roared in his ears as he gripped the top of Ms. Loomis’ fence. The wood was rough under his fingers, splinters biting into his palms, but he barely felt it. He had to know.  

He hauled himself up, muscles trembling, and dropped into the overgrown grass on the other side. The yard was quiet—just the whisper of leaves and the distant hum of a TV through the kitchen window.  

The oak loomed ahead, its branches like skeletal fingers against the twilight sky.  

Aiden crept forward, breath shallow.  

It wasn’t real.

A twig snapped behind him.  

He whirled around.  

Nothing. Just shadows.  

Then—a giggle.  

High-pitched. Mocking.  

From the tree.

Aiden’s throat tightened. He forced himself to look up.  

There, nestled in the crook of a branch—a flash of red.  

Aiden’s legs locked. No. No no no—

He stumbled back, but his heel caught on a root. He crashed onto his elbows, pain shooting up his arms.  

Above him, the branches creaked.  

Aiden scrambled backward, dirt staining his hoodie. His voice came out a strangled whisper: “You—you weren’t here—”  

A flicker of movement behind him—the kitchen curtain twitched.  

Ms. Loomis’ silhouette appeared in the window.  

Aiden opened his mouth to scream—  

The curtain fell back into place.  

The TV hummed on.  

Ms. Loomis’ back door creaked open, and she stepped onto the porch, clutching a wine glass in one hand and a phone in the other. Her bathrobe hung loosely over pajamas, her bare feet pale against the weathered wood.  

“Aiden?” Her voice wavered. “What the hell are you doing in my yard?”  

Aiden’s stomach dropped. Chucky was gone—vanished the second the door opened—but the weight of the doll’s threat still clung to the air. He scrambled to his feet, wiping dirt from his jeans.  

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I thought I saw something in your tree.”  

Ms. Loomis’ knuckles whitened around her glass. She glanced at the oak, then back at Aiden, her tired eyes narrowing. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were some—” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply. “Never mind.”  

Aiden swallowed hard. The porch light flickered, casting shadows under her eyes. She looked older than he remembered.  

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered.  

Ms. Loomis sighed, rubbing her temple. “Kid, it’s almost dark. Go home.”  

Aiden opened his mouth to explain—about Chucky, about the voice—but the words died in his throat. She wouldn’t believe him. No one ever did.  

“Okay,” he mumbled.  

He turned toward the fence, but Ms. Loomis suddenly called after him, softer now: “Aiden.”  

He froze.  

She hesitated, then said, “Your dad drinking again?”  

Aiden’s chest tightened. He didn’t answer.  

Ms. Loomis set her glass down on the railing. “If you need… I don’t know. A place to sit for a minute. You can knock.”  

Aiden nodded, throat burning.  

As he climbed back over the fence, he heard her lock the door behind him.  

And from the branches above, barely a whisper.  

Aiden sprinted down the sidewalk, his breath ragged, when suddenly—  

THUD.

He collided with something solid and stumbled back. Mr. and Mrs. Petrovski, their arms linked, stared at him with wide eyes. The elderly couple clutched grocery bags, their wrinkled faces etched with surprise.  

“Aiden!” Mrs. Petrovski gasped, steadying herself on her husband’s arm. “What’s got you running like the devil’s chasing you?”  

Aiden’s pulse pounded in his ears. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Chucky’s grinning face in the shadows. But the street was empty.  

“S-sorry,” he stammered, backing away. “I—I wasn’t looking.”  

Mr. Petrovski frowned, his bushy white eyebrows knitting together. “Boy, you’re shaking like a leaf. What’s wrong?”  

Aiden opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. How could he explain? They’d think he was crazy. Just like everyone else.  

Mrs. Petrovski reached out, her bony fingers brushing his arm. “You come inside, yes? Have some tea. You look—”  

A sharp giggle cut through the air—high-pitched, distorted, like a broken toy.  

Aiden flinched. The Petrovskis didn’t react.  

They didn’t hear it.

“No!” Aiden jerked away. “I—I gotta go!”  

Aiden’s sneakers pounded against the pavement as he reached his driveway, his lungs burning. The porch light flickered overhead, casting shadows across the warped wooden steps. And there, slumped in the rickety rocking chair with a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers, was his dad.  

Greg Mercer’s bloodshot eyes locked onto him.  

“The hell you been, kid?” His voice was thick, slurred—the way it always got when the bottle was nearly empty.  

Aiden froze at the bottom of the steps, his chest heaving. He could still hear Chucky’s laughter ringing in his ears, but now the house loomed behind his father, its dark windows like hollow eyes. The closet was in there. Waiting.  

“I—I was just—”  

“Get your ass inside,” Greg growled, cutting him off. He took a swig from the bottle, liquid sloshing over the rim. “Ain’t got time for your weird shit tonight.”  

Aiden’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. His legs refused to move.  

His dad’s face darkened. He leaned forward, the rocking chair creaking under his weight. “You deaf now, too? Or you just stupid?”  

A gust of wind rattled the screen door behind him.  

Then—  

Creak.

Aiden’s breath hitched.  

The sound hadn’t come from the door.  

It came from inside. 

From upstairs.  

From his room.

Greg didn’t seem to notice. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and jerked his chin toward the house. “Now.”  

Aiden’s pulse roared in his ears. He forced himself up the steps, each one heavier than the last. The wood groaned under his weight, like the house itself was protesting.  

As he passed his dad, the stench of alcohol and sweat made his stomach churn. Greg’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise.  

“And if I catch you sneakin’ out again,” he hissed, breath hot and rancid, “you’ll regret it.”  

Aiden yanked his arm free and stumbled inside, the door slamming shut behind him.  

The house was too quiet. Too still.  

And then—  

Aiden barely made it two steps inside before his brothers descended like wolves.  

"Look who finally decided to come home," sneered Derek, the oldest at fifteen, his knuckles already white around the neck of a stolen beer.  

Mason, thirteen and twice as mean, didn't bother with words. His fist connected with Aiden's ribs first—a sharp, practiced blow that knocked the air from his lungs. Aiden crumpled against the wall, gasping, as Mason grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked hard enough to bring tears to his eyes.  

"You think you can just disappear whenever you want?" Mason hissed, slamming Aiden's head against the doorframe. Stars burst behind his eyelids.  

Derek took his turn next—a brutal kick to Aiden's shin that sent him sprawling onto the filthy carpet. The blows came faster then: a stomp to his hip, a knee to his gut, the wet smack of a palm across his face. Aiden curled into himself, arms wrapped around his head, but it didn't stop the pain.  

Through the haze, he heard the creak of his stepmom's bedroom door.  

Lisa shuffled into the hallway, her bleary eyes barely registering the violence. She took a long swig from a bottle of cheap vodka, her ratty t-shirt riding up enough to reveal pale thighs, the shadow between them. She didn't pull it down.  

"Keep it down out here," she slurred, stepping over Aiden's trembling body like he was a pile of laundry. "Some of us are tryin' to relax."  

Derek grinned, wiping spit from his mouth. "We're just teaching the freak a lesson."  

Lisa didn't respond. The fridge door groaned open in the kitchen, followed by the clatter of ice cubes.  

Mason seized the opportunity to deliver one last kick—this time to Aiden's back, right between the shoulder blades. Aiden choked on a sob, his fingers clawing at the carpet.  

"Quit your crying," Mason sneered. "Or we'll give you something real to cry about."  

The kitchen faucet turned on. Lisa humming off-key.  

Derek leaned down, his beer-breath hot against Aiden's ear. "Next time you run off, don't come back."  

Then they were gone, their laughter fading down the hall as they disappeared into their shared room. The lock clicked behind them.  

Aiden lay there, shaking, tasting blood. His body throbbed, but worse was the hollow ache in his chest. He knew better than to expect comfort. Knew better than to hope.  

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision.  

Aiden squeezed his eyes shut.  

In the kitchen, Lisa dropped her bottle. It shattered against the linoleum.  

She didn't clean it up.  

Just stepped over the shards and walked away.

11:30pm. The living room flickered with the blue glow of the television, casting long, wavering shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Greg Mercer slumped in his recliner, the whiskey bottle now empty, dangling precariously from his fingers. His eyelids drooped, but the TV held his attention—some late-night infomercial blaring about miracle knives that could cut through steel.  

Across the room, Derek and Mason sprawled on the couch, their faces illuminated by their phones. The occasional snicker passed between them, but their eyes never left their screens. Lisa lay half-conscious on the loveseat, her vodka bottle propped against her thigh, her breath slow and uneven.  

Aiden sat on the bottom step of the staircase, his body aching from the beating. His ribs throbbed, his scalp stung where Mason had yanked his hair, but the exhaustion was worse. It settled into his bones like lead, weighing him down until his eyelids fluttered shut without his permission.  

For a moment—just a moment—he forgot.  

The house was quiet. The air was warm. His thoughts slowed, drifting like leaves on water.  

Then—  

“Bedtime.”  

His stepmom’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and sudden. Aiden startled, his eyes snapping open as Lisa nudged his shoulder with her bare foot. She loomed over him, her bathrobe hanging open, her gaze unfocused but insistent.  

“You’re not sleeping down here,” she slurred, nudging him again, harder. “Up.”  

Aiden swallowed. His throat was dry. His limbs felt heavy, disconnected, like they weren’t entirely his own. He gripped the banister and pulled himself up, his muscles protesting every movement.  

Behind him, Derek snorted. “Freak probably thinks something’s gonna get him up there.”  

Mason smirked. “Maybe it will.”  

Greg didn’t react. His chin had dropped to his chest, his breathing deep and ragged. The infomercial droned on.  

Lisa shoved Aiden toward the stairs. “Move.”  

Aiden stumbled forward, his socked feet slipping slightly on the worn wood. The steps creaked under his weight, each one a whisper of protest. He didn’t look back.  

The second floor was darker, the air thicker. The hallway stretched ahead, doors half-open, shadows pooling in the spaces between. His room was at the end.  

His closet was at the end.  

Aiden’s breath hitched.  

He forced himself forward. One step. Then another.  

His body still felt heavy, but now it wasn’t just exhaustion—it was dread, seeping back in, filling the spaces where numbness had been. His fingers twitched at his sides.  

He paused outside his door.  

The wood was chipped, the paint peeling. Aiden pressed his palm against it, feeling the grain beneath his skin. His heart thudded once, hard, against his ribs.  

*It’s just a closet.*  

But he knew better.  

He pushed the door open.  

The room was dark. The streetlight outside cast long, skeletal fingers of light across the floor, just barely illuminating the foot of his bed. The closet door was shut.  

Aiden stood there, frozen, his pulse loud in his ears.  

Then—  

A creak.  

Not from the closet.  

From behind him.  

Aiden whirled around.  

Lisa stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the dim hallway light. She swayed slightly, her fingers gripping the frame for balance.  

“You gonna stand there all night?” she muttered.  

Aiden didn’t answer.  

Lisa sighed, rubbing her temple. “Just go to bed, kid.”  

She turned away, shuffling back down the hall. Aiden listened to her footsteps fade, the groan of her bedroom door, the soft thud as it closed.  

Silence.  

Aiden exhaled, slow and shaky. His eyes burned with exhaustion. His body begged for sleep.  

He stepped into the room.  

The closet door was shut—Aiden had made sure of that. He always checked twice before turning off the lamp, his small fingers trembling as they flicked the switch. The room plunged into darkness, save for the thin blade of moonlight cutting through the blinds, painting prison bars across his bedsheets.  

Click.

Aiden froze.  

The sound had come from across the room—not the closet, no. Something else. Something worse. His breath hitched, a trapped whimper in his throat. His stuffed animals, lined up like silent guardians along the shelf, offered no comfort. Their glass eyes were blind to the terror creeping through the room.  

Another click, softer this time. The sound of plastic shifting.  

Aiden’s gaze snapped to the dresser. The second drawer—the one he never fully closed, the one that always stuck—was open just a crack. Wider than before.  

A voice slithered out from the dark.  

“It’s past your bed time."

Aiden’s blood turned to ice.  

Not in the closet. Not where he was supposed to be.  

The drawer creaked, inching open further. 

"You think locking me away does anything?" The doll’s voice was a razor dragged over bone. "I’ve been in tighter spots than some fucking closet, kid." 

Aiden wanted to scream. He wanted to run. But his body was stone, his limbs leaden with dread.  

Chucky’s head tilted, the plastic clicking like a rattlesnake’s warning. "Come play with me. You never play with me anymore."* 

A whimper escaped Aiden’s lips.  

The doll laughed—a sound like nails in a garbage disposal. "Oh, don’t cry yet. We’re just getting started." 

The drawer slid open another inch. A tiny hand emerged, fingers curling around the edge. 

Aiden’s heart hammered against his ribs.  

The floorboards groaned under his weight. The air smelled faintly of dust and old fabric, the lingering scent of Derek’s cheap cologne from when he used to share the space. Aiden’s bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from this morning’s frantic escape.  

He didn’t bother fixing them. Just collapsed onto the mattress, his body sinking into the worn springs. His eyelids fluttered shut.  

For a second—just a second—he let himself believe it was over.  

Then—  

A whisper.  

Soft. Guttural.  

Right against his ear.  

“Miss me?” 

Aiden’s eyes flew open.  

The room was empty.  

The closet door was still closed.  

His heart hammered against his ribs, so hard he could feel it in his throat. He sat up slowly, his fingers digging into the sheets.  

Silence.  

Aiden exhaled.  

His head throbbed. His vision blurred at the edges.  

He was imagining things. He had to be.  

He lay back down, turning his face into the pillow. His muscles relaxed, one by one, against his will.  

Sleep pulled him under.  

And in the darkness, something smiled.

Aiden squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shallow and controlled. The pillow beneath his cheek was damp with sweat, his fingers twisted so tightly in the sheets his knuckles ached.  

I’m asleep. I’m asleep. I’m asleep.  

The lie thrummed through him like a second heartbeat.  

From the dresser, the drawer creaked—slow, deliberate. The sound of plastic shifting against wood.  

“Oh, come on,” Chucky’s voice hissed, a razor-blade whisper in the dark. “You think I don’t know when you’re fakin’?”  

Aiden didn’t move.  

A giggle slithered through the room, high-pitched and wet. “Fine. Play it that way.”  

The drawer slid open another inch. Fabric rustled. Then—  

Thump.  

Something small hit the floor.  

Aiden’s stomach lurched. His muscles locked, every instinct screaming at him to look, to run, but he forced himself to stay still. The air in the room thickened, pressing against his skin like a sweaty palm.  

Chucky’s voice came from the floor now, closer. “You know what’s funny? I like your dad.” A pause. The sound of tiny footsteps—barely there, just the whisper of denim dragging across hardwood. “He’s got that spark, y’know? That anger.”  

Aiden held his breath, muscles locked. The tiny footsteps pattered away—down the hall, toward the stairs. Chucky's voice floated back, sing-song and cruel:  

"Daddy's gonna looove this..."  

Aiden's fingers dug into the mattress. It's a trick. It has to be.  

Silence stretched. Then—  

A floorboard creaked downstairs.  

Aiden's pulse pounded in his ears. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three—  

CRASH.  

Glass shattered. His father's chair screeched against wood.  

"WHAT THE F—" Greg's voice cut off with a wet, choking gasp.  

Aiden was moving before he could think, his body acting on pure terror. He hit the hallway just as the first scream tore through the house—a sound that didn't seem human. It was too high, too raw, like an animal caught in a bear trap.  

The living room lights flickered wildly. Aiden skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. Below, the TV screen had gone staticky, casting jagged shadows. His father thrashed in the recliner, his face a rictus of agony.  

Greg Mercer’s scream ripped through the house like a siren. His body arched violently, hands clawing at the arms of the recliner, tendons standing out in his neck. The whiskey bottle slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor, adding to the chaos.  

Aiden stood frozen at the top of the stairs, his stomach twisting.  

His father wasn’t just sitting anymore—he was stuck.

The flickering TV light revealed the horror in jagged flashes. The recliner’s fabric was dark with something wet. Blood. Too much blood. And beneath Greg’s writhing body, glinting like jagged teeth—shards of broken glass.  

Someone had placed them there.  

Someone had hidden them.  

Greg let out another guttural cry, his face contorted in agony as he tried to push himself up, but every movement only drove the glass deeper. His jeans were already soaked through, the denim splitting where the shards had torn into flesh.  

Derek and Mason bolted upright on the couch, their phones clattering to the floor. Lisa stumbled into the room, her vodka bottle slipping from her grip, her eyes wide and unfocused.  

“What the hell—?” Derek started, but his voice died as he saw.  

Greg’s fingers dug into the chair, his knuckles white. “GET ME OUT!” he roared, his voice cracking.  

Mason lurched forward first, grabbing his father’s arm, but Greg’s scream turned shrill as the movement shifted his weight. The glass ground deeper. A wet, sickening sound.  

Lisa swayed, her hands fluttering uselessly in the air. “Oh God—oh God—”  

Aiden couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.  

Because he knew.

This wasn’t an accident.  

Greg’s face had gone ashen, sweat pouring down his temples. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps as he tried to lift himself again, but his legs shook violently. The blood wasn’t just on the chair now—it was dripping onto the floor, pooling around the legs.  

“DON’T JUST STAND THERE!” Greg bellowed, his voice raw.  

Derek and Mason scrambled, grabbing at their father’s arms, his shirt, anything to haul him up without—  

CRUNCH.

Greg’s scream this time was inhuman. His back arched, his mouth stretched wide in silent agony before the sound tore loose again. The glass had shifted.

Lisa finally snapped into motion, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it under Greg’s torso, trying to lift him just enough—  

SQUELCH.

Greg’s body jerked. His eyes rolled back.  

And then Aiden saw it.  

The skin.  

Peeling.  

Ragged strips of it clung to the glass as they pulled him free, the flesh beneath raw and glistening. Blood ran in thick rivulets down his thighs, dripping onto the floor in fat, heavy drops. The smell hit Aiden like a fist—coppery, thick, mixed with the sour stench of alcohol and sweat.  

Greg’s breath came in short, sharp bursts, his face twisted in pain. His fingers dug into Derek’s arm hard enough to leave bruises.  

“Call—call an ambulance—” he choked out.  

But no one moved.  

Because in the flickering TV light, something else caught Aiden’s eye.  

A shadow. Small. Hunched.  

Perched on the back of the couch.  

Striped sweater. Wild red hair.  

Chucky’s grin stretched wide, his glassy eyes reflecting the static like tiny, malevolent stars.  

And then—  

Greg’s head snapped up. His bloodshot eyes locked onto Aiden.  

“YOU,” he snarled.  

Aiden’s blood turned to ice.  

Greg’s finger trembled as he pointed straight at him. “You did this!”  

Derek and Mason whirled, their faces twisting in fury.  

Lisa’s mouth fell open. “Aiden—?”  

Aiden stumbled back, his pulse roaring in his ears. “N-no—I didn’t—!”  

But the words died in his throat.  

Because Chucky was gone.  

And the broken bottle on the floor—the one that had shattered when Greg dropped it—wasn’t the same one that had been in his hand.  

It was green.  

The same green as the beer bottles Derek and Mason drank.  

The same green as the one Aiden had seen in the trash this morning.  

The one he hadn’t touched.  

Greg’s voice was a ragged whisper now, his strength fading. “You little… fucking… freak…”  

Aiden’s legs gave out.  

He collapsed onto the stairs, his vision swimming.  

And then—  

He screamed.

Aiden’s scream died in his throat as his gaze snapped upward.  

The bedroom door—wide open just moments ago—was now shut tight.  

His breath hitched.  

No. No, no, no—  

He hadn’t closed it.  

He hadn’t.

A whimper escaped him as he scrambled backward down the stairs, his palms slick with sweat. The wood groaned under his weight, but the sound was drowned out by Greg’s ragged breathing, Derek’s furious cursing, the distant wail of an approaching siren.  

None of it mattered.  

Because Chucky wasn’t downstairs anymore.  

He was up there.

Waiting.  

Aiden’s legs moved before his brain could catch up. He lunged for the front door, his fingers fumbling with the lock. Behind him, Greg roared something unintelligible, but Aiden didn’t turn back. The door swung open with a crash, and then he was sprinting into the night, the cool air slapping against his tear-streaked face.  

His bare feet slapped against the pavement, each step sending a jolt of pain up his shins. He didn’t stop at the curb. Didn’t look back. He just ran, his chest burning, his vision blurred with panic.  

"GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"  

Greg’s voice, closer than it should’ve been.  

Aiden risked a glance over his shoulder—  

His father was lurching after him, his gait uneven, his face twisted in pain and fury. Blood soaked through the back of his jeans, dark and glistening in the streetlight.  

Aiden’s breath came in ragged gasps. He stumbled, catching himself on a parked car’s hood. His knees shook. His lungs screamed.  

Greg was gaining.  

Aiden pushed off the car, but it was too late—  

A meaty hand clamped down on his shoulder, yanking him backward. Aiden cried out as he was spun around, his father’s grip like iron.  

Greg’s face was inches from his, his breath reeking of whiskey and rage. His free hand was already raised, fingers curled into a fist—  

Then, a flicker of movement across the street.  

A neighbor’s porch light flicked on. A curtain twitched.  

Greg hesitated. His jaw clenched.  

Aiden squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the blow—  

But it never came.  

Instead, Greg’s grip tightened painfully, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You’re dead, kid."  

Aiden’s knees buckled. Sobs wracked his body, his tears dripping onto the cracked pavement.  

Greg released him with a shove, his lip curling in disgust.  

Aiden's breath hitched. "I-I'm sorry," he choked out, tears streaming down his bruised face. His whole body trembled as he looked up at his father through wet lashes.  

Greg's expression softened for just a moment. The streetlight cast deep shadows across his weathered face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're my boy," he muttered, his voice gruff but quieter now. "Your mama... she'd be so disappointed seeing you like this."  

Aiden flinched at the mention of his mother.  

Greg reached out suddenly, his calloused hand surprisingly gentle as he cupped Aiden's swollen cheek. The touch was almost tender—the way he used to when Aiden was small and had scraped his knee. For a heartbeat, Aiden leaned into it, starved for any shred of kindness.  

Then Greg's fingers twitched. His grip tightened just enough to make Aiden whimper.  

"Don't make me hurt you again," Greg whispered, his breath sour with whiskey.  

He released Aiden with a shove that sent him stumbling back onto the curb. Without another word, Greg turned and limped back slowly, painfully toward the house, leaving Aiden alone on the dark street—his cheek still burning where his father's hand had been.  

The porch light flickered as Greg disappeared inside. The door slammed shut.  

Aiden sat there shaking, the cold pavement biting through his pajama pants. He touched his throbbing face, his fingers coming away wet—he couldn't tell if it was from tears or the split lip Mason had given him earlier.  

From the house, a window creaked open upstairs.  

Aiden didn't look up.  

Chucky was watching.  

—-

Dr. Jane Holloway's hands trembled as she unscrewed the cap of her silver flask. The sharp scent of bourbon filled her office, mingling with the sterile lavender air freshener. She took a long, desperate swallow, the alcohol burning a familiar path down her throat.  

A knock at her door nearly made her drop the flask.  

"Dr. Holloway?" The receptionist's voice was muffled through the wood. "Your 3:30 is here. Aiden Mercer."  

Jane wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shoving the flask into her desk drawer. "Send him in."  

She straightened her blazer, smoothed her hair, and pasted on her professional smile just as the door opened.  

The smile died on her lips.  

Aiden stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. His usually pale skin had taken on a sickly gray hue, dark purple smudges staining the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes. His lips were cracked, his fingernails bitten raw. The doll—Chucky—dangled limply from one hand, its glassy eyes reflecting the overhead lights.  

"Jesus," Jane breathed before she could stop herself.  

Aiden's sunken eyes flickered to her desk drawer—the one where she'd stashed the flask. A knowing look passed over his gaunt face before his expression went blank again.  

"You look tired," Jane said carefully, gesturing to the chair across from her.  

Aiden shuffled forward, his movements sluggish, like a sleepwalker. He collapsed into the chair, his bones seeming too heavy for his small frame. Chucky's plastic head lolled against his knee.  

"Didn't sleep," Aiden mumbled. His voice was hoarse, as if he'd been screaming.  

Jane's fingers itched for the flask again. "Nightmares?"  

Aiden's lips twitched—not quite a smile. Something darker. His fingers tightened around Chucky's arm. The doll's head tilted slightly, as if listening.  

"Not nightmares," Aiden whispered. "He doesn't let me sleep."  

Jane's breath caught. She followed Aiden's gaze to the closet behind her. The door was slightly ajar.  

A cold sweat broke out along her spine.  

Before she could respond, Aiden's head snapped up. His sunken eyes locked onto hers with sudden, terrifying clarity.  

"He asked about you again," Aiden said. His voice was flat. Dead. "He remembers you, Dr. Holloway."  

The flask in Jane's desk drawer seemed to burn through the wood.  

The closet door creaked.  

And in that moment, Jane Holloway—the therapist, the professional, the woman who had spent years convincing herself she was over what happened—knew with absolute certainty:  

Chucky remembered her too.

___AtilA___