It was so hard to not throw my new dummy in anger. I shook him off my hand and let him crumple to the bed when I felt angry. He was not a stuffed animal. He was not even an animal. He was fragile and an antique. The crack on his forehead said so. I could not let him break further. I had to be careful.

In the span of ten minutes - which seemed like forever - I was angry about fifteen times. I told ya that I have a short temper. I do not have the slightest idea how Dad and Mom never heard me. But I was glad that I did not damage the dummy once. I always set him aside before releasing my anger. I threw my stuffed animals around and pushed my things off my desk and sobbed into my pillow and punched it until it was flat like a pancake. I dropped on the bed with my arms and legs spread out. I was exhausted. Defeated.

"Why can I not master ventriloquism?" I asked myself, staring up at the ceiling. "Why must I keep moving my dang lips? Why can I not say one word without moving my mouth? Just a single word would make a difference and give me a glimmer of hope that I need." I rolled on my side. "I want to be nothing but a ventriloquist. Now that Dad bought me an actual dummy...I cannot throw in the towel. He and Mom will be disappointed - and a bit relieved." I sat up. "What...what will I do if I cannot be a ventriloquist?"

I was startled by a low - and creepy - voice.

"Maybe I can help."

I surveyed my room - and noticed that the dummy was resting against my footboard. I stared hard at him. His glassy eyes were locked on me. One flimsy leg was over the other. His wooden hands were in his lap. I thought that I was losing my mind and rubbed my eyes. He was supposed to be lying on the bed. After my last tantrum, I never touched him. I never moved him. I was sure.

I slowly shook my finger at him. "I...I did not do that. I did not lay you against my footboard. I did not put you in that position."

I lifted my head to the ceiling and tried theorizing how it was possible. How was he sitting against said board? And why did it feel as if he were staring into my soul? I forced myself off my bed, keeping my eyes on him, and gently slapped his wooden head. He fell on his side, his flimsy arms and legs twisted.

"That is how you are supposed to be," I said.

Somebody must have moved him. Maybe Dad snuck in and positioned him so while I was distracted. But why? Dad is not one to fool around. And he would have seen how upset I was. He would have comforted me. I faced my door. Closed. I did not hear it open. Dad must have not come. Nobody did. So how did the dummy move?

I looked back at my dummy - and gasped. He was back in the position. Against the board. Legs crossed. Hands in lap. But his head was turned. He was looking up - at me.

I clenched my teeth and took a step back. My legs were weak. I wanted to sit, but I was too shocked - too afraid - to move a muscle. How did he move? There had to be a logical explanation. How the heck did he move? How did I not see? Was he...alive?

I shook my head and scolded myself. "Come on. Do not even think of it, Clay. You know better. They may seem alive on television, but it is just because a human - who can talk without moving his or her lips - is bringing the puppets to life. Dummies are not living. They are made of wood. They have no souls. This is real fictional life. I am not in a bad horror movie."

Dad knocked on my door. "Clay?"

I turned back to the door. "Yes, Dad?"

"May I come in? I have exciting news!"

"More exciting news? What is it? Another dummy?"

"I will tell you when you let me in."

I walked to the door and pulled it open. "Dad. I need to ask you something. Be honest."

He walked past me and spun around. He was grinning. "Honest is my middle name!"

"Uh, did you come here recently and move my puppet? 'Cause I did not set him like that. I swear." I pointed to the dummy. Did his eyes move to look at Dad?

I did not want to be insane. But I also did not want Mr. BadDummy to be possessed or something. I finally get a dummy - and he is possessed.

Dad replied almost immediately. A sign that he did not do it. "I did not. This is my first time here today, Clay. I have not touched him since that you brought him here. Maybe your mom came in and moved him."

"Why would she do that?"

He shrugged. "You have to ask her."

I rubbed my arm. "Do you believe that dummies, dolls, and puppets...all that kind of stuff...can be possessed?"

I assumed that he would say nope and tell me to return to reality. Fictional reality. But his words stunned me.

He scratched his chin. "I would not be surprised if they were. Dolls and dummies are realistic. Too realistic. It is quite possible for them to talk and walk around with no help. We are in Forlot after all. Anything is possible under the purple sky." He crossed his arms and looked down at Mr. BadDummy. "I am waiting for your guy to stand and state that we are his slaves or something like that."

I gazed at Mr. BadDummy - and fell.

He was talking!