In the rafters above the dance-floor of the nightclub I
still do occasionally frequent, looking down upon the people as they gather to
dance, is Chucky.
That horrible little red-haired demon-doll, much beloved in
the Child’s Play series, is not the sort of thing you want, in the midst of a
night of revelry, three or four drinks in or, god forbid, enjoying some fun
club drugs, to see watching you from above, but there he is, called or
uncalled, surveying the scene.
The first time I noticed him I had a panic attack and had to
leave the building in order to calm myself down.
I’m not ashamed of this fact, frankly I think most of you in
my place would be a little frightened, even if you wouldn’t admit it.
And even today, when I notice him, still there, still
watching, I’m mildly unnerved. But only mildly, I don’t know how Chucky got up
there, but it’s a goth bar and it’s not completely out of character with the
rest of the décor. More than likely he was placed there for Halloween, or as an
inside joke, and forgotten, and as such has remained to this day.
That’s almost certainly it, that and nothing more.
Or perhaps…
Perhaps that’s what he wants us to believe. Perhaps it’s
what he wants us all to believe, what he’s been waiting for.
Perhaps he’s up there watching, waiting for us to forget
about him, and the day that we finally do he’ll spring to life, leap down into
the crowd and reign havoc upon the unsuspecting throng of people amassed for
what we thought would be nothing more than a fun evening out, dancing to The
Cure.
Perhaps.
But more likely it’s nothing.
I’m doing my best to put the matter out of my mind…
