Jingle Hell

Why did they think burning him would do any good? Like swatting a wasp: they'd just made him angry. One side of his face was exactly the same, the expression unchanged. Still, she could tell he was angry. It emanated from him in poisonous waves. The other side of his face was burnt black. Cracks spiderwebbed out from where his cheekbone would've been. His forehead was dented. The corner of his mouth was pulled down in a ghastly sneer. Some of the white of his eye had survived whatever Karl had tried to do. A glint of brightness amongst the soot and charred plastic. If you squinted in the half light, the way Sandy did now, it made him look even more alive. Even more malicious. Rooted to the spot, Sandy felt, for a dizzying moment, like different versions of her splintered off. Like she was standing in a mirror, and it cracked.

One Sandy ran (such a coward). So brave, to turn her back. To take action! Another screamed, with a throat already raw from too much of it. The third darted forward, defiance flashing in her face, and grabbed the beastly thing. What could it do, anyway, with those weak, floppy little arms? This Sandy tore the creatures head off, threw it, and tore at what was left. Teeth bared, yanking at limbs and pulling out stuffing. The room swayed and spun, and Sandy didn't know which self was real. Laughter bounced off the walls, or maybe it echoed inside her skull. Was that it, laughing at her? Or was it her?

she must have cracked, surely, to think a doll had over-powered her husband and returned to take revenge, kidnapped her children... The ghost of reason evaporated like mist, try as she might to grasp at the wisps of it.

A voice overlapped with the sinister chuckling, and her vision blurred. I have control of them, and they'll come for you. You can rip me and burn me but it won't do any good.

Surely this Sandy was real, the stuffing felt real in her fingers, and the log burner felt hot...

not hot enough

...the flames nipping and stinging her fingers.

burn you evil little shit