It was always the same. He was walking down a lane he didn't know, looking all around. There were no people, no signs, no sound save the occasional stone bouncing off his shoe. It was dark, but light enough to see the black granite below his boy-size, sneakered feet. He was eight years old again.

At the edge of the lane, houses and cars were on fire, burning in the background. He wasn't afraid yet. He had that spacey, dreamy view that came with sleep. The wind blew through his hair. Dark clouds gathered over bis head, heavy with thunder, and it made him look over his shoulder and thin of turning back. Wherever back was. Thunderstorms always made him nervous.

Cut that out, will you? I'm trying to sleep. Storms can't hurt you. I'm here, aren't I?

He stopped and shook his head, as if to dislodge the memory. That made it worse. Instead, the voice changed to the chant, reminding him of how it made him heavy while someone struggled behind his eyelids, taking control. He put his hands over his ears. He had to run, he had to-

"Go ahead," a familar voice taunted from nowhere. Andy jerked his head up, circling stiffly to find the shrill laughter surrounding him. "Go now. You'll come again."

Thunder cracked louder, making him jump. The lightning that followed was so white that he could finally see in front of him, and make out the lake at the end of the lane, lapping the shore as quietly as if it wasn't really there.

He'd never seen it before but he knew, as sure as he knew himself, that this was where all those people had been strangled.

"Run, then!" Chucky taunted again, as if he could hear his mounting heart.

He wasn't running. He wasn't sure why. The thunder made him dizzy, memories of Chucky taking over. He staggered with the weight of them, hands out blindly, and the lake was suddenly a lot closer than it had been a moment ago. It became harder to breathe.

This is stupid, he told himself. It's a dream, he's dead, he's dead, I'm not eight years old anymore, I'm not here and I'm-

"Mine," that voice growled, and it was suddenly too close to not be real any more. Andy gave a yell and fell back onto the stones. He wriggled away on his elbows, blind in the dark. "Face it, Andy. You're waiting for me. You look for me in every corner. That's why you won't *censored*ing settle. I'm coming for you and you know it. So why don't you do the world a favour next time and quit running?"

His voice was coming from the dark, the lake, Andy's head, all around him, getting closer.

"Why fight it? This is what you've always wanted really, isn't it?"

No! Still scrabbling backwards, away from him and closer to the burning.

"You'll never be on your own again."

"You're dead." It came out pleading.

"You're not," he snarled back. "Not yet. That's the point, sport."

Suddenly he was away from the lake and back in the streets, and that hand he was waiting to feel around his ankle never came.

"I'm coming for you, Andy," The voice warned again, considerably quieter. "And this time, I'm not letting you go."

"I can fight you," his own ordinary, adult voice surprised him with its strength. "I've done it before."

Chucky tittered. "And then what? I'll just come back here, and so will you. Give it up, Andy."

Then, eight years old again, or even six, he didn't knowl- he said out loud what he should have all along. "I'll kill you."

"You'll never kill me," Chucky laughed one last time, and just like that he was gone, and Andy was alone.