A/N: I'm not going to give anything away this time.

Okay. When I decided to take a journalism class, I thought that I would be learning how to report... oh, I don't know... plausible stories. I was even excited when we got the assignment to report on a cold case in the Chicago Police Department. But, no. While some other kid gets the case about a Hannibal-esque guy, I'm stuck with a six-year-old who blames his doll for a bunch of murders and attempted murders. Idiots. Andy was an idiot. If his name on the files weren't blacked-out for his own privacy, I'd probably mail a few Good Guy dolls to him, just to set the record straight or something like that.

Well, I was to make the best of it. Maybe I'd take the insane kid angle. Maybe his mom abused him into blaming it on the doll.

I began to read the files on the case in my house's living room. I couldn't help noticing my own self fidgeting, attempting to get comfortable. I should be used to this house by now. I have lived in it for the past four years or so. And my foster dad's even considering adopting me. He had fallen through the cracks of the system himself- he knew what that did to people. Never really feeling safe, always looking over your shoulder; it's not a cool life to live.

Oh, shoot. Drew. Drew was my foster dad. Drew was scared of dolls. He was due home from his psychologist in about ten minutes. He wasn't quite past his fear yet. Maybe he had read about the doll stuff in the newspaper when it all happened. I mean, seriously. The Chicago Post sort of relies on the shock aspect for these kinds of stories. Right there, on the front page, a picture of Charles Lee Ray, shot to death- and then a rumor that he turns into a doll by way of voodoo. What six-year-old wouldn't be sort of weirded out?

Drew stood in front of the toy store, walking in circles. You heard what Dr. McGuire said. He scolded himself. Buy a doll for your foster daughter, and you can move on.

But he couldn't convince himself to walk inside. Every time he entered, and heard the cheery music, saw the excited kids, just as excited as he was once...

He wasted no time with that "take a deep breath" garbage. It was really just well-disguised stalling. Instead, he turned around, intending to go into his car, drive the half-hour to Dr. McGuire's office, and insist that he couldn't make himself get Cora a doll, and would he please buy it so that Drew could just give it to her?

That's when he saw it.

Lying on the ground, was a doll. It stood at about a foot and a half tall, had blonde hair with a hint of red in it, and wore a rainbowed shirt and doll-jeans. This was perfect. It barely looked touched at all, and was just lying there. Surely, no one would miss it. He grabbed it from its station, and hopped in his car.

I heard the car pull up, and attempted to gather the newspaper clippings and police files, which were all spread out on the table. By the time I heard the door open, they were all in my backpack. In walked Drew, holding a paper bag with something inside it. "Hi." I greeted, "How was the session?"

"Pretty good." Drew shrugged. That was code for, It sucked, but whatever. "He says I can move on if I give you this." He pulled a doll out from the bag. It wasn't the prettiest thing in the world, but if it helped Drew, it was the coolest thing ever. I put on a smile that I hoped was convincing.

"Thanks." I said gratefully.

"Now take it." Drew said, holding it by one arm. I nodded, and took the doll.

"Hi," It said, "I'm Taryn. And I'm your friend to the end."

I froze suspiciously. That's what the Good Guy dolls from the 80s said. Chucky was a Good Guy doll. Oh, c'mon. Seriously. I told myself. Dolls don't come to life. And besides, this is a girl. I looked up to see Drew staring at something.

It was a news article. Oh, shoot. It must have fallen on the floor.

"What's this?" He asked innocently.

"Nothing. Homework." I responded hastily, pulling the article from his hands. This was quite an awkward moment. "It's for journalism." I shrugged as if it didn't matter, and tried to make it funny. "You'd think that someone'd just destroy it into ashes, if it was really killing people, huh?"

"You wanna do this upstairs?" It wasn't a request.

"Yeah. Sure." I grabbed my things and went upstairs to my room.

I dropped Taryn on the floor as I entered my room. It was white, and had decorations that could fit either gender- yellow curtains, a beige bedspread. It could be described as boring, but Drew ultimately knew how to handle the system. He had told me a story once about how he had been removed from a home because the curtains in his room were pink- the Foster Care Cops or whatever they're called thought the foster parents were deliberately trying to confuse him.

I sat at a wooden desk and began to write down notes in the margins. This kid had some serious problems. Chucky had been shot about five to eight times and set on fire before he finally stopped moving. Andy, the doll-accuser, had been sent to therapy, which didn't work because he repeatedly talked about how Chucky wanted to take over his soul. Freaky stuff.

"How 'bout that, Taryn?" I asked softly, looking back at the spot where I had dropped her. The weird thing was that she wasn't there. There was no explanation for it; I was Drew's only foster kid, and I was sure he wouldn't come up here after what happened two minutes ago. I must have misjudged my aim. And besides, I must have been psycho to be talking to a doll.

It was on the other side of the room. I furrowed my eyebrows, confused. For a moment, I thought that maybe the doll had some sort of mechanism that allowed it to walk. Sure, and I ride the short bus. I finall decided. If I was going to allow a simple school assignment to get to me like this, I was unfit to be a journalist. Maybe I'd be better suited in photography class.

Either way, the doll being all the way over there sort of weirded me out, so I stood up and strode over to it. I picked up the thing and put it on my bed. Something I also noticed- its head was turned toward the window. It must have twisted after I dropped it. I shrugged it off as one of Newton's Laws and sat down at my desk again.

Thump.

Okay, now this was just ridiculous. I turned around irritatedly to find that Taryn was no longer on my bed. Jeez. I walked around the room, looking for the odd thing. I was about to give up when I heard something from under my bed. It sounded like a girl. The voice was oddly high, as if she was hysterical. I couldn't quite hear what she was saying, and I didn't care. I got on my knees and looked under my bed. My worst fears were confirmed.

Taryn was under my bed, saying something that sounded like, "He's coming" over and over again. I'd never seen a doll that did that. I took it out from under my bed, and found that her arm was bruised. Dolls didn't do that either. It continued to babble until I spoke.

"What in the world?" I wondered aloud. Taryn looked at me fearfully, and said,

"He's gonna find me."

Someone was being melodramatic. What could be the worst thing that would go hunting for a doll? Drew, in a murderous rage? "Who?" I asked.

"Chucky."