My son's toy is alive. I know it sounds crazy, but I can assure you, it's alive. I've seen it walk. I've seen it talk. I've seen it change.
And I'm frightened.
I'm frightened for my son. He seems to think this thing is an imaginary friend of some sorts. He's never shown any kind of fear towards the creature, but I have. I've seen the hunger in its eyes.
The dripping anticipation from its mouth as it's eyed my son's head. Intent on feeding, whatever it may take.
It takes a dormant form whenever I or his mother is around. He's safe in that case. But I'm not sure for how long. It's getting sneaky. Crafty.
I hear it tell my son about the monsters under his bed. How he's only safe in bed with IT.
I fear one day, I won't be able to stop it when it grows tired, and ultimately rips us all to shreds, devouring us in its horrible, monstrous form. And I know I won't be able to do anything.
I peek over my news paper as my son crosses the living room, bundled in his winter attire with a scarf around the creature's neck. I can see the hidden malice, the blood thirst, in his eyes.
He may do it today. He may go for the kill.
I grip my newspaper, and can only hear my son exclaim happily, as he walks out the door...
"Come on, Hobbes, let's go build a snowman!"
The toy looks at me, and I see the stitched mouth curl into a smile.