Everyone knows puppets and dolls are creepy, and this tale shows us what happens when a vengeful ghost finds a new home in one. This story is a little longer than our usual fare, so this week we’ll feature Part 1 and next Friday we’ll release Part 2.
Narration by Carl Stewart.
Audio production by Tonia Ransom.
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Hi. I’m Tonia Ransom, creator and executive producer of NIGHTLIGHT, a horror podcast featuring creepy tales written and performed by Black creatives from all over the world.
This week we have a story originally published by Strange Horizons. Everyone knows puppets and dolls are creepy, and this tale shows us what happens when a vengeful ghost finds a new home in one. This story is a little longer than our usual fare, so this week we’ll feature Part 1 and next Friday we’ll release Part 2.
But before we get to malevolent dolls, just a reminder that all episodes are brought to you by the NIGHTLIGHT Legion. Thanks to our newest members Katrina, Susan, Nocturne, Ben, Joseph, Kerry, Jess & Evie, and Matthew. Thanks also to Kaylee who supported us with a one-time donation. You all have my eternal gratitude. Again, NIGHTLIGHT is 100% listener supported, so we need your help to keep bringing you new episodes. Just go to patreon.com/nightlightpod to join the NIGHTLIGHT Legion and get a shoutout on the podcast.
Now sit back, turn out the lights, and enjoy One Hand in the Coffin, by Justin C. Key, narrated by Carl Stewart.
Despite everything, Corey wished Michael back as his twin, Alisha, blew out their birthday candles. Part of this was Patrick’s fault. His best friend had only shuffled his feet and stared down in shame at the faded, wrinkled Spider-Man on his shirt while one of the older boys called Corey “retarded.” Now that boy was about to get a slice of his birthday cake. Michael would have done something.
By the time the thin smoke from the candles reached the apartment ceiling, Corey’s aching hand told him his wish had come true. He searched the smiling faces gathered around the orange cake, grimacing against the way the sound of their clapping scratched his skin. He avoided the itch of their dark and intruding eyes. Instead, he looked for Michael’s half-smiling, full lips, his braided hair with the escaping curls, his sparkling black earrings. Corey’s gaze landed on his therapy puppet, sitting in the corner of the cramped apartment. With its loose, white T-shirt, faded blue pants, and black, Brillo-pad hair, it looked nothing like Michael.
And yet …
“Michael’s here,” Alisha said.
Corey turned from the puppet. The sound of her voice had become a rare and missed treasure since their brother’s death. Only he heard it; the walls rang with what Mom called the black happy birthday song: Hah-pee birth-day to ya! Hah-pee birth-day to ya! Hah-PEE biiiirth-DAY!
“Kids in the living room, adults in the kitchen,” Mom said, as she stood on a cracked wicker chair to grab a knife hidden in the shelves above the stove. Her gaze flitted to Corey; he looked away, and Mom began to cut the cake. “Corey, why don’t you do a puppet show for your guests?”
Corey looked at Mom in that way she didn’t like. He hated the puppet, but Mom had worn a big smile when Dr. Adelman found one that was “brown like him.”
“Michael?” Corey whispered as he picked it up. Nothing. Just hollow wood and a dumb, wide smile. He took it to the couch and dangled it over his lap. It smelled a lot like his school’s arts and crafts markers with faded letters and missing caps. Only Mrs. Wright didn’t let Corey draw during arts and crafts any more, not since Michael died, not since the tub and the red water and his older brother’s dead eyes had made it onto the construction paper. Corey had so much more to draw, like football skins and mousetraps, but Mrs. Wright never gave him the chance and Mom never said anything, so when drawing time came around he just laid his cheek on the cold, wooden table. The puppet smelled a little like that, too.
Corey swept his gaze over the half-dozen kids Mom had invited to his and Alisha’s ninth birthday party, avoiding their eyes. They sat cross-legged, waiting for his show. The cartoon characters on their shirts wore encouraging, excited expressions. The boy who’d called him “retarded” sat right up front. Large and round, he stuffed his face with Corey’s cake. Michael would have stuffed his face with something else.
But Michael was dead.
Off to the side, Alisha and a boy from her special school—the school Corey was “too smart” to attend—lined up her dinosaur toys. The two weren’t playing together, not really. The other boy plucked one of the dinosaurs from the middle of the line to inspect it. Corey’s twin sister didn’t seem to notice.
Corey slipped his hand into the puppet’s back, like he had done many times with the doctor who made him talk about Michael and bathtubs and redness. His breath and stomach squeezed whenever he reached into dark, invisible places. He waited for pain to light his fingertips, like Michael’s favorite game: catch the mousetrap. Sometimes Corey won, and it hurt and it burned, but most times he lost and he only had the wait, the not knowing, the promise that metal teeth or cold, furry rat parts were still under the bed for him to find.
The world went fuzzy. Corey let out his breath and his worry. His fingers found the familiar soft pillows opposite each other. He brought them together; the puppet’s mouth closed. The fear of his wish seemed far away now.
“Hello, Ladies and Gentlerats,” Corey said. The room hushed.
“Hello, Laddies and Paddies,” the puppet said, but really Corey had pushed the words out the side of his mouth, like on television. It made for a voice low and not his own. “Hello, boys and girls. Toys and whirls.”
Patrick laughed louder than the others. He lived three floors below, close enough that Corey could reach him on walkie-talkie just about any time of day. Patrick had a good sense of humor. A Corey sense of humor.
“I just flew in from Vancouver and boy, am I tired! Want to hear a joke?”
“Sure,” Corey said.
“What do you call someone who lets his friend get bullied?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fat-trick.” The puppet’s head spun; Corey’s wrist cracked and sent a dull line of pain to his fingers. The sharp, sudden smell of grease stung Corey’s nose. “Isn’t that right, Fat-trick?”
The boy who liked to say retarded laughed so hard Corey smelled carrots.
“Don’t call him that,” Corey said to the puppet. “His name is Patrick. His mother gave him that name.”
“It’s either Fat-trick or Titty Monster. Pick one.”
Patrick’s head dipped low and a second later Corey’s walkie-talkie crackled. He kept it with him always, even at night. Patrick did the same.
“Falcon.” Crackle. “Come in, Falcon.” Crackle crackle. The vibrations tickled Corey’s hip. “Warthog is going down.”
The puppet turned to the audience. “Hey, Fat-trick, get off the phone. McDonald’s doesn’t deliver.” The crackling stopped. “Your friends are making you soft, Corey.”
“Michael,” Corey whispered. The puppet looked at him. “I’m telling Mom.”
“Tell her and I’ll shave Alisha’s hair off. And you’ll watch, you weak little shit.”
“Awww,” the carrotcake-stuffing, name-calling kid said. “He said a bad word! Ma! Corey said a bad word!”
The Carrotcake Kid ran around the corner towards the roaring grown-up laughter. His tattletale wails soon drifted up and over. Mom said something Corey couldn’t make out. Patrick was already to the front door. Corey swallowed. His tongue tickled the roof of his mouth. He rubbed his puppet-bound fingers together. His scalp itched. Someone’s watch kept ticking. In between breaths, Corey’s stomach thrummed with the beat of his heart. Onetwothreefourfive, onetwothreefourfive, onetwo …
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” he said, finally.
“To K-I-L-L me,” the puppet said.
“You’re supposed to say why?”
“Why? Why did you K-I-L-L me?”
“To get to the other side.”
Instead of laughter, Corey heard Mom call his name. She sounded angry.
“I didn’t kill you,” Corey said. He sniffed. “The knife did.”
The puppet began to shake. The wooden parts of its mouth rattled. A hot pain across Corey’s wrist caused him to pull, but the puppet’s insides had shrunk around his fingers. The whirr of a hairdryer made Corey turn. White lit his fingers with a crack that he felt more than heard. He cried out, yanked his hand free, and the puppet fell to the floor. Lying there, it was light, dead wood. The hair had lost its glisten. It didn’t look like Michael.
When Corey looked up, Alisha stood a foot or two away, staring at the puppet. She bent to pick it up; Corey pulled it back. This was his problem, not hers.
Corey crossed the living room in three steps and stuffed the puppet in a trash bag hanging from a doorknob. He pushed until carrot-smeared plates and paper towels buried it.
“I didn’t mean it,” Corey said to Alisha. She had returned to her line of dinosaurs. Alisha didn’t answer, of course. She hardly ever did any more, not even in the special way she had, not since Michael died. “It’s better with him gone. We’re better.”
“Corey Daniel Green!”
Whenever Mom said all three of his names, she was angry. He didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong. Wishing Michael back, the puppet show, scaring away all the other kids Mom hoped would become his friends. The way Michael died. All the things Corey wanted to take back.
“Corey, you can’t say stuff like that,” Mom said. Everyone had gone home. Lazy balloons with cursive celebrations drifted in the cigarette smoke. Large, fading pieces of artwork Mom sometimes called their ancestors watching over us from across the ocean hung luminous and condescending over the apartment’s disarray. Paper plates, soiled utensils, plastic cups with drinks the colors of the rainbow. Mess upset Mom in the mornings. Still, she likely wouldn’t get to it tonight; she wiped her eyes with the back of the hand holding a brown drink with loud ice.
“Why not?” he asked.
“You just can’t. That boy Patrick’s mom called and said you made him cry. Cry! It’s already hard for you to make friends as it is. This is why—” She stopped herself, shook her head, sipped her drink, and sat back. Corey heard the words all the same. This is why Dad left. This is why Mike left. I’m alone because of you.
“I killed him,” Corey said to an abandoned ash-smudged playing card on the carpet.
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”
Corey pulled away from her hug.
“You miss Mike,” Mom said. “We all miss Mike.”
“I wanted him dead,” Corey said. “It’s better now.”
Mom held up a hand, then put it to her face. She began to sob; her tears smelled like the glass she held.
“He was a good kid,” she said.
“You didn’t know. You’d take it back if you could. I know you would.”
Would he? He’d thought about it the hardest at the funeral, standing there just outside his brother’s coffin, so close he could smell the grease they’d used to soften his wild hair before braiding it in tight, thick rows. Corey hadn’t looked at his brother, even as he stuck a hand in the coffin to feel his stiffness, because that’s what he’d heard about the dead, how stiff they were, and he wanted to be sure. He’d looked over, though, expecting something of the same from Alisha, but she was staring right at Michael. In all his life—her life, too—Corey had only seen Alisha look one person in the eye, and that was their older brother. That moment more than any other, Corey would have taken it back.
“He loved you. He loved Alisha, too. He was just such a knucklehead, just like his father.” Her face stretched sideways. As Corey watched, tears pulled at his own eyes. Whatever anger or scorn had prompted his wish had vanished; now there was only fear. The fear of having Michael back. The fear that he wouldn’t be able to send him away again.
Mom hugged him. She understood him less than he did her, but he welcomed the hug. This close she smelled like Mom, not like brown drink.
Corey pulled away, wiped his eyes, and went to his room. Mom had already finished yelling when she found the puppet in the trash bag. She’d quietly taken it out and wiped off the orange streaks and stains. Alisha played with her toy dinosaurs while the puppet sat against the wall.
He took a step forward, paused, reached out to the puppet, pulled his hand back as if his fingers found an invisible flame. Black sparkled at both the puppet’s earlobes; they hadn’t been there before.
Mom? No, she kept Michael’s things perfectly in place. Then who? Corey looked back at his sister. When she did things even he couldn’t understand, the world grew and he shrank.
“You were supposed to help,” he said to the puppet. Michael. “You just hurt. You always hurt.”
Nothing. Why couldn’t Michael just leave them alone?
Corey was almost asleep when a dot of cold pricked his cheek and made a wet line to his ear. He looked up at Alisha’s bunk above him. A small orb swelled between the planks, catching a little bit of light from the hallway. Another drop of water was about to fall when Corey felt the eyes.
Mom’s sobs continued to drift from the living room. Michael had cried like that, back when Corey was five and Dad left for good. “Why he don’t want me, man?” Corey hadn’t known the answer, and Corey hadn’t cried. Maybe he should have; after that night, Michael turned mean.
Mom in the living room. Eyes on him. Alisha, who never looked at anybody now that Michael was gone. Another drop of water. Eyes on him.
Corey turned, wiping his cheek dry. Alisha was across the room, her back to him. She touched the head of a red, spindly dinosaur to the tail of a green, shaven one, adding to a long line stretching across the room. Beyond her, the puppet sat against the wall, its eyes sparkling more than its ears.
Corey shot up. Crackling white spun his world. Water ran down his face and pooled in his lap. He clutched his forehead as he edged over the bed.
“Did it move?” he said.
“Do you see these horns?” Alisha said, holding up the toy. “These horns make Triceratops the king.”
Corey’s stomach wrenched with Michael-fear. Michael was dead. Corey had seen the bathwater darken with his blood. This puppet was just wood and paint and chicken wire. That twist in his stomach, though, he only ever felt that …
Acorn eyes. They glistened, but did they shine? Maybe.
… when Michael had his hungry look, that you can’t protect her forever look.
“Did you know that Triceratops had three horns?”
“I don’t understand—” Corey began, when Alisha turned and looked at the puppet. His eyes—Michael’s eyes—stared straight back at her.
Corey put the puppet outside the room and closed the door.
“Warthog, this is Falcon. Come in, Warthog.”
Corey waited. Besides studio audience laughter leaking from Mom’s room, the apartment slept. “Warthog, we’re coming in hot,” he said into the walkie. “We need your guidance. Do you copy?”
Silence. The walkie always woke Patrick up. Always.
“Warthog, we’re sorry.”
Silence. Corey turned in bed, squirmed his shoulder until his skin was comfortable against the cotton, and then found the familiar paper cut-thin line of unbroken light under the door. How many nights had he stared at that line, well past when Mom went to bed, waiting for Michael to break it?
Mom’s body changed when Corey brought home bad grades. Usually History, English, Science—anything where words could break apart on the page and swim around each other. Sometimes Mom’s eyes would melt; sometimes she shrank a little; sometimes she just sighed and handed the report back to him.
Math was the only thing in school that made sense. No matter how far apart the numbers drifted, he could always link them back together. If he focused.
Today he couldn’t focus. His mind was on those acorn eyes, those black earrings, the memory that it moved, it moved clashing with the knowledge that wooden things don’t move, not by themselves. These thoughts left him vulnerable to the full sensations of the room. The scratch of erasers, the sniff of wet nostrils, the flat of the metal seat against his backside, the whispers of kids cheating, the click-clack of the novice substitute teacher’s broken heel against the floor as she sought, unsuccessfully, to weed them out.
When the math quiz was over, Corey rushed out into the hall.
“Falcon! Corey! Wait up!”
Patrick. He’d been just outside the door. Relief slowed Corey to a walk. He had to look up at Patrick, where a year ago they’d stood level. He was wider than Corey, too, but he’d always been that way. His friend wore a smile. Corey knew the name of the expression, but not all the meanings. A smile could mean joy, or fear, or—as Michael had taught him—menace. Was there one for hate? Corey didn’t know.
Maybe Patrick’s smile was a warning.
“We’re still friends?”
“Why wouldn’t we be? What I do?”
“You weren’t on the walkie last night.”
“I was asleep. Did I miss anything?”
“I said some pretty mean stuff.” Fat-trick. Titty Monster.
“It wasn’t you.”
“It wasn’t?” Corey said. It had felt like him. Once, Corey rode in Uncle Junior’s front seat on the highway, even though Mom had told Uncle Junior to put him in the back but Uncle Junior didn’t listen because Uncle Junior did whatever the fuck he wanted, and Corey had pumped his arms and bicycled his feet and it had felt like he was running, faster than anyone had ever run, and passing joggers—sweating, suffering joggers, going so slow—made him feel like the most powerful thing in the world. His words, coming out of the puppet, had power; they made Patrick change. Not a good change, but a change. That’s how Michael must have felt most of the time. Corey knew that now. It gave him a headache.
“The puppet said it. Wait, did you give it a name?”
“It’s for therapy. It doesn’t have a name.”
“Mr. Wiggles, then. It’s Mr. Wiggles’s fault.”
“That’s a dumb name.”
“Duh. Dumb ’cus he sounded like your brother. Your dead brother, I mean.”
“I only have a dead brother. And he wasn’t a puppet. You sure you’re not mad at me?”
Patrick patted him on the shoulder. “Mister. Wiggles.”
“Thanks,” Corey said.
“Yeah, yeah.” They stopped at a water fountain, but it didn’t work. “Are you going to get rid of it?”
“I want to. It’s supposed to make me feel better.”
Corey thought about that Michael feeling, even as his head continued to softly throb. “I don’t know.”
They stopped outside Corey’s homeroom. Patrick was in Mrs. Koenig’s third-grade class right across the hall.
“How was the quiz? What are the answers?” Patrick held a pen against his palm.
The numbers floated by in a beautiful matrix. “Thirty-five. Seven. Six hundred. Zero. Eighty-five.”
“Slow down, Speedy.” Patrick said. “Say it again.”
After a cereal breakfast, Corey leaned on the wall by the door. Last night’s sleep had played a grueling game of hide and seek, and when it finally tagged him, the thought of Michael’s voice coming out of the puppet took its place. The living room’s mosaic of potted ferns and painted landscapes hanging like windows into a luxuriously unobtainable past were heavy around him. Mom stuffed papers, cards, and scraps of money into her green, scaly purse. She reached into the pocket of her hanging raincoat, pulled out a balled up hair net, and stuffed that in, too.
“Don’t forget to do your therapy today.”
Insurance kept Corey from seeing Dr. Adelman every week, so home therapy consisted of Corey pretending the puppet was Michael. Therapy was the opposite of math. It made no sense; Michael was dead and the puppet had never been alive. Mom was supposed to help, but she was already clipping her hospital ID to her cafeteria uniform. She yawned, long and painful. Her eyes were red. Had sleep taunted her, too?
“With you?” Corey said, despite knowing the answer.
“You know I have to work, Corey. Give Alisha some time with it, too. She loves that puppet.”
“She hates it.”
“Let her decide. She might surprise you. Just spend some time, okay?” She paused to look up at and then past him. “Have you been watching Mike’s TV?”
“I don’t like it when you lie, Corey. No going into his room when I’m not here. You know better.” Mom looked at her phone, cursed, and opened the door. She turned back and held up a finger.
“Number one rule?” she said.
“Don’t open the door for anyone,” Corey said. “Even you.”
“Good. Number two?”
Mom kissed his forehead. The cold of her lipstick made Corey squirm inside because squirming outside would chase away Mom’s smile, and he liked her better when she kept it close. He pressed the tips of his fingers together as he waited for the door to close. When she was gone, he wiped his sleeve across his forehead. He wiped and wiped and wiped until a deep, building itch gave way to relief.
Then he went to find his sister.
Alisha was bouncing the velociraptor on Mr. Wiggles’s head, the puppet’s short, tight curls acting as foliage. Her velociraptors didn’t sound like the ones on television, but Corey had never heard a real velociraptor and Alisha knew things he couldn’t know. Mr. Wiggles stared straight ahead, seemingly fascinated with the toy chest against the opposite wall.
“Would you have stayed if Dad stayed?” Silence. “Mom hates me. Because of you.”
It didn’t feel like talking to Michael any more. Corey turned away as tears burned his eyes. What had he been expecting? An answer? Some truth?
The puppet fell forward to kiss the floor. Corey rose and stepped back. Alisha bent to continue bouncing the velociraptor on top of his head, then moved down his spine. The plastic dinosaur dipped under the puppet’s white shirt. Alisha’s arm began to disappear.
“Don’t do that,” Corey said. He thought of the catch-the-mousetrap game. Once, Corey had refused to play, so Alisha took his place. Although she’d won, she hadn’t cried. She walked around the apartment for the next week, hitting her fingers on the edges of things, over and over and over, until they were raw red. Michael’s laughter was short-lived. He wore rather the look of a worried child who has likely broken his favorite toy. Corey had slept with Dad’s switchblade after that.
Corey grabbed Mr. Wiggles by the sleeve, pulled, and almost tripped from the thing’s weight.
“It’s time for a puppet diet,” he said. Patrick would have liked the joke, but Patrick wasn’t there. He considered going to find his walkie-talkie but chose focus. He dragged the puppet out into the living room, moved a pile of magazines and unsorted mail out of the way, opened the closet of stored winter coats and toolboxes and bags of nails and Christmas lights, and stuffed Mr. Wiggles inside. Corey wiped his eyes. Had the wood been softer? Heavier?
Almost … warm?
He moved to close the door and paused. Mr. Wiggles’s sleeves had scrunched up; hair-thin cracks lined the puppet’s forearms. Corey had spied Michael carving lines into his own arm once and tried it himself, but he must have done it wrong because it hurt and the result made Mom scream. Michael kept carving and carving after that; Corey never got the courage to try again. Soon Michael could only wear long sleeves because short sleeves made Mom cry. Even worse, she thought Michael got the idea from Corey.
He looked over his shoulder, past these memories, and back to the window. They lived on the fifth floor. One two three four five. It was a long way down. If Corey pushed hard enough, Mr. Wiggles would land in the street. Corey could see it clear in his mind.
His heart raced. Why did you K-I-L-L me?
He’d panicked. If he got rid of his brother without water and rage and fear, then what?
Corey closed the door. Back in their room, Alisha was crying.
“It’s better without him,” Corey said. He sat across from his sister and picked up a pterodactyl. His fingertip brushed the dull plastic beak once, twice. The winged dinosaur dove to knock over the middle of Alisha’s line. Exactly three dinosaurs remained standing on each side. Corey smiled.
Alisha smiled, too, in that way she did without moving her lips. Of her spent tears, two remained, one slightly further down her face than the other. Corey imagined a dino-slide out of the invisible diagonal line connecting the two. He brought the pterodactyl up and flew it parallel to this line. Alisha laughed without looking. It was nice to hear her laugh again.
She reached into her dinosaur jar and produced a Tyrannosaurus rex. She looked at it sideways, then placed it down.
Corey pointed to the dinosaur. “Michael’s gone,” he said. Air pushed his tongue apart from his palate as he said different parts of both words. He silently repeated the movement a couple more times, the air tickling the back of his tongue.
Alisha roared. Corey had never heard a real life T-rex roar, either. He liked hers. He touched her arm; she was warm where he felt cold. The small hairs just below her wrist curled up and tickled the side of his pinky, making his own hairs stand.
“Michael’s gone,” Corey said again. “Sometimes, I think he shouldn’t be.” Sometimes.
Alisha slipped her hand from under his, pinched his wrist, and made his palm tap the Apatosaurus’s backside. She pushed his fingers closed and he picked it up.
She roared. And roared. And roared. Corey dropped the dinosaur—threw it. Alisha continued to roar until flecks of spit flew from her mouth.
Corey looked at the door. Someone had let the dark in. He wished he’d turned on the hallway light while the sun was still out. Now it belonged to the shadows. He imagined Mr. Wiggles or Michael—it didn’t really matter which—standing hidden there, his earrings reflecting black light, silently roaring like the Tyrannosaurus he was, or had been, or still wanted to be.
He wrapped his arms around Alisha’s waist. Her breath and heartbeat synced with his. This was normal. He expected it like he expected a sidewalk bordered by choked, yellow grass when he walked outside their apartment building, expected two uniting numbers to form the same new one every time. With Alisha, consistency was the rule.
They rocked until their breaths slowed, until their hearts beat to the rhythm of a slow song. He imagined they had been similar in Mom’s belly, where there was just sleep and heartbeats. Corey swallowed, tasting himself, and felt his heart slow as the aching in his hand faded.
Then he slept.
Thanks again to our patrons for supporting this podcast. Because of your support, listeners around the world get creepy tales in their ears every other week. If you want new episodes every week, the only way for that to happen is to join the NIGHTLIGHT Legion by going to patreon.com/nightlightpod and supporting this podcast. You can also make a one-time donation via PayPal at PayPal.me/NightlightPodcast. If you’re unable to support us financially, word of mouth is the next best way to help. Give us a shoutout online on Twitter or Instagram @nightlightpod, or Like us on Facebook @nightlightpod. Reviews are also a huge help, so be sure to leave a few kind words on your podcast platform of choice.
Don’t forget, it’s October, and that means giveaways! This week, we’re giving away a copy of SLAY: Stories of the Vampire Noire. We’ll be featuring 2 stories from SLAY for our final regular episodes of the season, but you can get your copy of this anthology celebrating vampires from the African diaspora on October 13! A link to purchase is in the show notes. To get a free copy of SLAY, all you have to do is get on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram and tell the world what you love about NIGHTLIGHT before October 16. Be sure to tag us so we get your entry.
And to thank you for listening until the very end, we have a creepy fact for you.
Pretty much everyone has heard of Chucky, but did you know that he was based on a real doll? Robert the Doll was given to a little boy named Gene for his birthday back in 1904, and shortly after strange things started to happen. Robert’s expressions would change and he would move around the house on his own. Robert was reported to even talk back when people had a conversation with him. Before long, Robert was blamed for malevolent deeds ranging from car accidents to financial ruin. Oh, and Robert is life-sized as though him talking and breaking people’s bones wasn’t creepy enough.
We’ll be back next week with part 2 of this story.