AN- Sequel to my previous Child's Play fic, "Daddy's Girl". Summary for those who can't be bothered to read it: Glenda, on breaking her amnesia and remembering who her father was, ran away from Jennifer and Glen. She was killed in a traffic accident and brought back to life by Chucky, in the body of a doll (no surprises there). She wanted to punish her mother for lying, and Chucky was only too happy to oblige. They, through a series of psychological tricks and murders, managed to torment the family, leaving Glen traumatised and injured, and exposing "Jennifer's" secret to her new boyfriend Neil. When the family recuperated in the hospital, they believed Chucky and Glenda to be dead, and so feel safe as they try to pick up the shattered remains of their lives. They are, of course, wrong.

The darkness swirled around him, enveloping him, shrouding him. He gripped his throat. He couldn't breathe. Shadows loomed over him, long, jagged tendrils smoking towards him, clawing across the floor to snatch at his feet. Glen staggered backwards, whimpering silently as he saw the shadows grasp at his feet.


It was a sharp, stabbing whisper that sliced through the silence like a steel blade. Glen whipped around, his already pale face nearing translucency, and cloaked with a thin layer of sweat. There was silence again.

He looked down at his hands. Except, they weren't his. They were plastic. The hands of a doll.

"Glen!" The voice whispered again, this time accompanied by a high-pitched, dancing giggle. It was a stabbing, twisted laugh that was laden with deceptive menace.

He wanted to call out, to say "who are you?" But he could only stammer.

The shadows clawed at his feet again, and he staggered backwards, falling down in shock as he saw his feet were no longer human, but small, stubby and plastic. He gasped and felt his skin, clutching at his hair, running his hands over his features. He wasn't him anymore. He was a doll.

"Why... why? No! No!" He managed to scream, but the laugh just got louder. "Why is this happening?"

"It's you, Glen!" The voice laughed, as huge silvery orbs formed in the black sky above him, gaining a blue-green hue. They turned into eyes. Large, menacing eyes that stared down at him, shining with glee as the laugh continued. "This is you. Don't deny it! Don't deny us."

"Glenda?" He mumbled, stumbling to his feet, staring up at the eyes, reaching out to them. "Glenda, we thought..."

"Come join us, Glen." The voice, Glenda's voice, giggled again. The darkness suddenly parted, and a simple brushed steel trunk was visible. He felt himself being pulled towards it, even though he didn't want to open it, he didn't want to be near it, but he couldn't pull away. Gingerly, with shaking hands, he reached out to open the trunk. Familiar pressure and warmth began to spread though his abdomen, making him withdraw slightly.

"Glen!" His sister screamed at him, as he felt a harsh force push against him, shocking him. "Open it."

Whimpering, crying, pleading, he felt his arm rise without his consent, the dim light glinting off of the scrubbed pink plastic. He sobbed quietly as, though he tried to resist it, he reached forward and opened the clasps on the trunk.

The lid sprang open.

He flinched.


All was silent.

Quietly, slowly, he looked inside. The trunk was stained with curious, questionable dark brown stains, but empty. Giving a small sigh of relief, he turned away from the trunk.

A screaming mass hit him square in the chest, knocking him backwards into the trunk. Above him, the mass was shrieking and roaring, cackling and crowing. The dim light shone on his father's ice blue eyes and razor sharp knife, as he grinned down at his son.

"That's my boy..." His father's laughter melted with Glenda's, forming one hideous mess of shrill noise as the lid of the trunk fell shut, encasing Glen in darkness.

"No! No, let me out!" He screamed. "Let me out! Help!"

He woke with a start, bolt upright, gasping for breath. The walls of his room were still, and veiled with a pre-dawn tinge of dusty grey. His sheets were cold, and wet. His face and throat stung. The curtains hung completely still, the windows were closed. The door creaked open.

"Honey?" A familiar face, worn with concern, appeared in the doorway, face framed with dark hair. "Are you ok?"

"I... bad... dream..." Glen whispered, before breaking down in tears. Jennifer rushed to him, hugging him tight and soothing him. She ran her hands through his curly red hair, kissing his forehead.

"Mommy's here, mommy's here. It's ok..."

They slowly rocked backwards and forwards on his bed, in the silent night, until Glen felt more at ease. It had been a little over a year since they had been dragged through hell and back by Chucky and Glenda. It had been a little over a year since Glen had seen his father and sister killed in front of him. He still had nightmares.

It broke Jennifer's heart to see him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, crying into her shoulder every other night. It broke her heart just as much to see Neil adapting to his new life, limited to a wheel chair, his legs paralysed. It broke her heart because she could only see these events as her fault. Chucky had returned to her to name and shame, to expose her secret. Glenda had wanted revenge; because she had felt lied to. Jennifer had not been born Jennifer Tilly. She had been born Tiffany Carlisle, and had married to become Tiffany Ray. She had lied, and kept secrets from her own family. She had killed and robbed. She had cheated and threatened. But now she was Jennifer, and now she had moved on with her life.

"Kirsten, get back!" One of the black-clad figures blurted out, as the supposed well-oiled team of the LAPD surrounded a firmly locked and possibly barricaded door. Her eyes narrowed, although this wasn't visible behind her visor.

"Officer Martel, you will refer to me as Lieutenant while we are on duty, and act with the correct decorum."

With that hissed warning, they resumed their appointed task.

The door splintered off of its hinges as they forced through the locking mechanism, and the several boxes and pieces of furniture were promptly rammed several feet back into the room. The smell, which had alerted the small apartment's neighbours intensified as they entered the room, causing several officers to recoil and gag. The Lieutenant wrinkled her nose, but gritted her teeth and signalled that they continue into the apartment.

The main room was dark, with the curtains tightly drawn. The furniture had been moved roughly, and food containers festered on the floor. The room reeked of old food, mildew, sweat... and blood.

"What in all..."

One of the officers ran from the apartment, retching and tugging desperately at his visor.

"Lieutenant..." The torchlight shone on the rotten, bloodied lump that had once been a cat. It lay splayed and scattered on the floor, its intestines caked in dry blood a few feet from the corpse itself. More hideous, however, was the trail of dried blood and bile that lead from the corpse, painting the dusty floorboards with odd symbols and pictures.

"Look!" One of the officers hissed, pointing their torches at another pile of animal intestines, next to corpses of dogs and birds, the buzzing of flies suddenly becoming prominent. The Lieutenant shone her torch across the floor, noting that there were yet more crude stick symbols painted over the floor, accompanied by burnt out candles and small piles of ash.

"Shit..." The Lieutenant sighed, glad that no one could see her flustered expression behind her visor. "Ok... do a full search, see if there's any sign of recent inhabitation... see if we can get forensics down here."

"What is it, Lieutenant?" The officers were hesitant. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

The Lieutenant sighed.

"It's voodoo... I have to get out of here; the smell is making me sick."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Search the whole apartment; I want a full report of all findings on my desk by tomorrow morning. I need to go."

"Yes, Ma'am."

The Lieutenant left the building, her eyes weary, the foul stench clinging to her hair and skin. That was one of the more sickening things she'd seen in recent years. And yet, she wasn't surprised. The officers could take care of the forensics team. Lieutenant Kirsten Barclay had a long day that had ended in something very much like a nightmare she didn't want to go back to. She wanted to go home.

"Are you sure you want to go to school today, sweetface?" Jennifer's face was fraught with worry. Glen smiled weakly, in an attempt to assuage her fears, but this only made him look feebler.

"I'm fine, Mummy."

"You do look a little sickly." Neil nodded, turning from the table. "Maybe a day off would do you some good..."

"No, really." Glen insisted, grabbing his lunch and stuffing it into his back pack. "I feel safe at school. I'm happy there."

"Neil..." Jennifer implored. Many people had said many things about her, over the years, but no one could question how much she cared about her son. Neil looked from mother to son, weighing the arguments, seated in a wheelchair throne and pinstriped suit, like some sort of executive Solomon. After a pause, in which both Tillys held their breath, he spoke.

"Let him go. If he stays here, you'll only be worrying each other all day anyway."

Glen beamed, hugging Neil with such force that he rolled backwards slightly. Jennifer rolled her eyes, but hugged and kissed her son goodbye. As the door closed, she found herself alone in the kitchen with Neil.

They had moved house, after that night. None of them could stand being in the old house; their old kitchen could now only ever be seen as a torture room, they would never quite forget the bloodstains on the living room floor, regardless of how much it was cleaned. And Glenda's room...

Jennifer shivered, feeling herself tense just at the memory of the savage glint in her daughter's eyes.

To have your own child stare at you with such unseeing, burning hatred...

She and Neil had barely been alone since that night. They were still together, by some miracle, although it was now more because he needed supervision. He was still getting used to being restricted to his wheelchair, and the bones and muscles in his hands were still healing. He needed help with even the most mundane of tasks, and Jennifer felt it her duty to help him. Not that her feeling duty bound helped to rebuild the relationship at all; if anything it caused more awkward silence than any argument they'd ever had.


Neil's voice dragged her out of her thoughts, and she started, guiltily.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh... nothing..." She smiled, aiming for "breezy" but hitting "over-compensating" instead.

"Jennifer, if you want to talk about what happened..."

"No." There was a sudden edge to her voice, and a spark in her eye. The pause that followed was tense, before she exhaled, her eyelids fluttering. "No... Sorry... I just... I'm not ready, yet."

Neil looked as though he wanted to continue the conversation, but seemed to think better of it. He looked up at the kitchen clock, and sighed.

"Could you help me get ready for my physical therapy?"

"Oh, sure, of course..." She stood aside, letting him leave the kitchen, before following him. She bit her lip, holding back unwanted thoughts; she had to stay positive, or nothing would get better.