A dim light flickered off the old box-style television playing softly in my second-story bedroom. Huddled under the covers, my eyes were glued to the screen, and my ears split between straining to hear the movie and listening for my parents' footsteps.

 

The show on the boob tube: Child's Play

A doll possessed by the soul of a manically deranged serial killer.

"I'm Chucky Wanna Play?"

 

Words that, to this day, send shivers down my spine.

 

The terror and torment started after I switched off the TV that night. Light, rhythmic scratches pulled me out of my peaceful slumber. The hair on my neck stood pulling at me in a panic. Scratches turned to tapping, and my body trembled. Curled up under my blanket, I prayed.

 

He was there. He found me. The dangerous, destructive, and wicked doll was climbing outside the townhouse. His little nubby hand was weaved into the screen, holding his weight as he tapped the window with the other, holding a blade between his teeth.

 

What was I going to do? I was no match for him? I wanted to run across the hall to the safety of my parent's bedroom, but I knew the consequences of explaining why I was so scared.

 

This doll wasn't like the Crypt Keeper. I could avoid that ghostly beast by closing my eyes and covering my ears. He usually spouted random information and then went about his business.

 

How was I going to avoid Chucky? Where could I hide that he couldn't find me?

 

I high-tailed it across the room into my closet. Nestled behind the bulk of mixed fabrics, I took slow, quiet breaths, beseeching any and all forces to protect me, to keep me from being Chucky's next victim. And there, behind those protective metal folding doors, is where my parents found me the following day.

 

That experience haunted me for a long time, and at times, it still does. Though I have it mostly under control, I still involuntarily scream when surprisingly confronted with various versions of that psychic killing wack-ass doll.