Alright, just a quick heads-up—
I'm probably going to have to alter the timelines of some movies in my story. There honestly aren't that many horror movies that are actually set in the early 2000s, so I'll be adjusting the timeline where needed to make it fit the flow of my universe.
I was considering add Ginger Snaps, but I've only seen it once and don't know it that well. Still, I might write about it if I rewatch it or dive deeper into the plot. Just wanted to let you guys know that I'll be tweaking some things as I go.
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[ One week later ]
[ Lockport, New York ]
Elsewhere, on a stormy night in Lockport, New York…
Rain pelted the windows of the Lockport Police Department, lightning occasionally illuminating the empty hallways with brief, flickering flashes. Deep within the station, in the Evidence Depository Room, sat shelves filled with remnants of past crimes—everything from minor infractions to relics tied to notorious, unsolved cases.
Outside the locked, gated entrance of the evidence room stood a man dressed in a police uniform. Without a word, he pressed a button, causing the electronic gate to buzz and slide open with a mechanical whine. He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a heavy clank.
The officer moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the shelves until he reached a row of old blue lockers. He stopped in front of one marked:
"No. 22408 – UNSOLVED."
Without hesitation, he pulled out a ring of keys, selected one, and unlocked the locker. Inside was a black evidence bag, thick with dust and sealed tight. Whatever was inside, it was exactly what he came for. He grabbed it, zipped it into his coat, and turned without a word.
Moments later, he exited the building and made his way through the rain to his patrol car, unaware of what he had just set in motion.
He started the car, the engine rumbling to life beneath the downpour. Rain hammered the windshield in sheets as the wipers struggled to keep pace. As he pulled out of the station parking lot and onto the wet, empty road, his eyes briefly flicked down to the black evidence bag sitting on the passenger seat.
Curious, he stared at it for a moment—something about it felt... wrong. But he quickly turned his attention back to the road, not wanting to crash in the storm. One hand still on the wheel, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flip phone. He flipped it open and dialed a number.
The line rang.
His eyes couldn't help but drift back to the bag again.
Finally, the ringing stopped, and a breathy, high-pitched, seductive female voice answered:
"Hellooo?"
"Yeah, I'm on my way," he said, voice low, focused. "And don't forget my money."
He reached toward the bag again, glancing at it while trying to keep his car steady.
"See you soon…" the woman replied, teasingly. "And Bailey, don't forget—"
HOOOOOONK!
A loud horn blared, snapping his gaze to the road just in time to see a car barreling toward him.
"Shit!" he shouted, swerving hard to the right.
Tires screeched against the slick pavement as he fought to control the wheel. The other car zoomed past, horn still blaring, but he managed to steady his vehicle just in time. His chest heaved as he wiped sweat from his brow with a shaky hand.
From the phone, he heard the woman laughing softly.
"Curiosity killed the cat…" she said in a playful, mocking tone.
He clenched his jaw, snapped the phone shut, and hurled it onto the seat beside him.
"Freak," he muttered, frustrated and annoyed.
This time, he kept his eyes locked on the road, no more distractions as he drove deeper into the storm towards his destination.
[ A few minutes later ]
He finally reached his destination—a run-down warehouse on the outskirts of Lockport. The massive garage door creaked open as he drove inside, headlights cutting through the shadows. The rain still poured outside, hammering against the corrugated roof above like a drum of warning.
He killed the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, breathing.
Reaching into the glove compartment, he pulled out a battered box of cigarettes and his old lighter. He tapped one out, placed it between his lips, then tucked the box away and lit it. The tip glowed orange in the dim light. He took a short drag, exhaling slowly as his gaze drifted around the empty warehouse—just old crates, steel beams, and silence.
Then his eyes landed on the black evidence bag resting on the passenger seat.
The bag.
The reason he was here.
The woman had paid good money for it. But curiosity—itched.
He flicked his cigarette away without a second thought and reached over. Grabbing the bag, he tore off the worn, faded tag and unzipped it. Inside, he could barely see anything in the dim light. He squinted, leaning closer, trying to make out the contents.
Suddenly—
A hand slammed onto his head, yanking it back violently.
Another hand, holding a sharp nail file, slid across his throat with a swift, practiced motion.
His eyes widened in shock as warm blood sprayed the inside of the car. He gasped and reached for his neck, trying to stop the bleeding, but the wound was too deep—his fingers slick with blood, slipping uselessly.
He tried to scream, but only choked.
His vision blurred. His body spasmed.
Then—stillness.
His hands fell limp. His head tilted forward.
The driver's door swung open, and his lifeless body collapsed onto the wet concrete with a splat, blood pooling rapidly beneath him. Rainwater trickled in from the open door, mixing with the crimson puddle.
Click… click… click…
The sound of high heels echoed through the warehouse.
A woman stepped into view, strutting with slow, deliberate grace. She walked around the car, the heels of her boots clicking with every step. She stopped beside the vehicle and leaned on it casually, smirking as she inspected her blood-stained nail file.
With a seductive hum, she sucked the blood from her middle finger, slowly, deliberately, as though savoring it. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
She was drop-dead gorgeous—short platinum-blonde hair, black lipstick, and a tight black leather jacket that hugged her chest. A matching black leather skirt clung to her curvy hips, exaggerating her figure with every sultry movement. Her black stilettos tapped a slow rhythm on the concrete.
Tiffany pushed herself off the car with a light bounce, her heels clicking as she circled around to the passenger side. The window was already rolled halfway down. With a feline grace, she leaned through the opening, letting her eyes roam over the blood-splattered interior.
Her gaze landed on something resting near the center console—a sleek, silver lighter, no doubt belonging to the now very-dead officer. She picked it up, flipped it open with a practiced flick, and ignited a small, steady flame.
"Cool," she said with a playful grin, admiring the way the fire danced in her eyes.
She snapped the lid shut with a click and tucked the lighter into the inner pocket of her leather jacket.
Now came the real prize.
She reached into the passenger seat and grabbed the black evidence bag, the one she'd paid for—killed for. With anticipation bubbling in her chest, she unzipped it fully and reached inside.
Her hand wrapped around something soft but disturbingly solid.
With a slow pull, she lifted it out—revealing the battered remains of a Good Guy doll.
Its plastic exterior was shattered around the skull, exposing a grotesque mess of flesh and tissue beneath the broken plastic—a gruesome hint of something no toy should ever contain. Blood-stained tufts of red hair clung to the scalp, and one glassy eye stared lifelessly upward.
Tiffany held the doll up to her face, inspecting it with both affection and menace.
"Well... hello, dolly," she purred, her voice laced with twisted love and nostalgia.
She stared at the broken doll for a few long seconds, her eyes glittering with a mix of desire, sadness, and wicked excitement—then she gently lowered it back into the bag, sealing it with care.
Cradling the bag like a precious trophy, she turned and walked off, her heels echoing through the warehouse as a mischievous smirk spread across her lips.
Tiffany Valentine had waited long enough.
Now it was time to bring her Chucky—Charles Lee Ray—back to life.
And this time, she had plans.
[ Trailer park in Lockport, Illinois ]
A few hours later…
A 1960s red Pontiac Bonneville pulled into the muddy grass beside a trailer, its headlights cutting through the lingering storm. The rain had eased, but the night remained wet and heavy, thunder still growling low in the distance.
The engine cut off with a rumble. Tiffany stepped out, slamming the driver's side door behind her. She clutched a crumpled plastic evidence bag in her arms—the makeshift body bag for the love of her life. She looked up at the dark sky and rolled her eyes.
"Of course it's still raining," she muttered and hurried to the door of her trailer.
She fumbled with her keys, unlocked it, and slipped inside, shutting and locking it behind her. The sound of the rain was muffled now.
Her trailer looked exactly like her.
The inside was cluttered but oddly charming—walls lined with porcelain dolls, stuffed animals, and cheap lace curtains. Photos of Charles Lee Ray—both old mugshots and newer newspaper clippings of murders tied to Chucky—were tacked to corkboards and crooked frames. Old voodoo books, worn VHS tapes, scented candles, and fashion magazines were scattered across the table and couch.
The air smelled faintly of cheap perfume, hairspray, and burnt wax.
She placed the bag down on the wobbly kitchen table with care, as if setting down a sleeping child. Then, excited and giddy, she dashed off to the back of the trailer.
A few minutes later, she emerged from her cluttered bedroom wearing a lacy black lingerie set—short, form-fitting, and dramatic. Her blonde hair was freshly fluffed, and her lips gleamed black under the dim yellow light.
"Let's get you cleaned up, baby," she cooed.
She sat down, opened the plastic evidence bag, and gently pulled out the mangled Good Guy doll. His body was broken—limbs torn, head smashed, fake plastic flesh torn open to reveal something disturbingly human underneath.
Tiffany grabbed a needle and black thread from her sewing kit and got to work. She stitched his face back together, reattached loose limbs, and even replaced missing doll parts with spares she kept from her collection.
Hours passed. When she finally stepped back, she stared at her work proudly, her eyes misting over.
"There you are, sweetface… better than new."
Now came the hard part.
She pulled open a cabinet and grabbed a glass jar filled with fine black sand, then gathered some of her 21 Spell Candles, She cleared a space on the floor, shoving aside a pile of fashion magazines.
With incredible focus, Tiffany poured the sand onto the floor, carefully tracing a perfect pentagram in the center of the room. She placed the 21 candles at each point and angle, lighting them one by one with the lighter she'd stolen from the cop.
The flames danced, casting strange shadows across the doll-filled trailer.
She knelt down, took a breath, and stood up walked over to the kitchen table. She lifted Chucky's restored body and carried him back to the center of the pentagram, placing him gently in the middle.
He looked almost peaceful.
Almost.
Tiffany turned, eyes scanning the trailer until they landed on the one book she brought.
"Voodoo for Dummies"
Her eyes lit up.
"There you are, sugar."
She grabbed it and hurried back to her spot, kneeling just outside the pentagram. Flipping through pages filled with highlighter marks and sticky notes, she found the spell—the one that might bring him back.
She took a deep breath, bit her bottom lip, and smiled.
"Alright, baby... let's see if mama's got the magic touch.
And in the glow of flickering candlelight, with her voice trembling with anticipation, Tiffany began the ritual—the first time she would ever attempt to bring someone back from the dead.
Ade due Damballa… give me the power I beg of you!"
Tiffany's voice echoed through the trailer, thunder rolling faintly outside. Her arms were stretched wide—one hand holding a flickering candle, the other clutching the Voodoo for Dummies book like it was holy scripture.
"Secoise entienne mais pois de morte… Morteisma lieu de vocuier de mieu vochette… Endelieu pour de boisette, Damballa!"
The room was bathed in candlelight and shadows. She closed her eyes tightly, raising her voice.
"Secoise entienne mais pois de morte… Endelieu pour de boisette, Damballa… AWAKE!!"
She snapped her eyes open and looked down at the patched-up doll of Chucky, lying limp on the pentagram-marked table.
Nothing.
Her expression soured.
Tiffany scowled and muttered under her breath, then leaned in and shook the doll.
"Awake... awake... awake! AWAKE!"
She slapped him once.
Again.
Then she started hitting the doll repeatedly.
"Wake up, damn it! Come on! Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!"
After a few more furious strikes, she groaned in frustration and dropped her hands in her lap, slouching like a disappointed child.
"Ugh... what a crock," she muttered.
She blew out one of the candles with a sigh and carefully set the other down so it wouldn't spill wax on her velvet altar. Tossing the Voodoo for Dummies book over her shoulder like it had betrayed her, she sat still for a moment, stewing.
Lighting a cigarette, she took a long drag and let the smoke roll from her lips.
"How could it not work?" she thought bitterly. "I did everything right. Every damn word. Chucky should be back by now. That stupid book—I followed it to the letter."
She inhaled again, the ember of the cigarette glowing in the dim room.
Just as she leaned back to wallow in her disappointment, there was a knock at the door.
Tiffany jumped slightly, startled. Her eyes snapped toward the sound, and she groaned, rolling her eyes. She set the lighter down on the stovetop, smoke still lazily curling from the tip of her cigarette.
Grumbling under her breath, she walked toward the door, the cigarette bobbing between her lips.
When she opened it, the rain was pouring outside, sheets of water illuminated by the distant lightning. Standing on her doorstep was a strange man.
He was soaked from head to toe, his long black hair dripping. He wore a leather jacket over layered dark clothes, rings on his fingers—and one on the middle of his bottom lip. Thick black lipstick matched the eyeliner smeared under his eyes.
To goths and occult lovers, he might've looked cool—edgy, mysterious.
To everyone else?
He looked like a walking Hot Topic clearance rack.
Hey, Tiffany!" he called out, shielding his eyes from the pouring rain with his hand. He stood at her doorstep, completely soaked, black hair plastered to his forehead, trying to grin coolly—though the nervous glint in his eyes betrayed his awkward affection for her.
Tiffany took a slow drag from her cigarette, tapped the ashes into a ceramic ashtray by the doorway, and held the cigarette between two fingers. Her sharp eyes studied him, one brow arched.
"What are you doing here?" she asked flatly, unimpressed.
Damien shivered in the rain, trying to act casual despite his chattering teeth.
"Come on, Tiff, let me in. I'll catch my death out here!" he said with a dramatic shudder.
She exhaled smoke and smirked.
"Promises, promises," she muttered and stepped aside.
He didn't hesitate. He hurried in, water dripping from his clothes as he shut the door behind him.
"Whoa—whoo!" he exclaimed, tossing off his soaked leather jacket like he'd just survived a hurricane. "Hey, How was your day?" he asked, trying to spark a conversation.
Tiffany didn't look at him as she replied dryly, still smoking.
"Same old, same old." Her tone made it clear she wasn't thrilled by the visit.
Damien hung his jacket haphazardly on a nearby shelf and rummaged through one of his pockets.
"Hey, check this out," he said, pulling out a printed photo and holding it toward her with a cocky smirk.
Tiffany glanced at the picture but didn't reach for it right away.
"What is it?" she asked, finally turning her head with mild curiosity.
"You mean who is it," he corrected smugly.
She rolled her eyes, already annoyed.
"Who is it?"
He corrected her again, smirking wider.
"You mean who was it."
She snatched the photo from his hand ignoring what he said, then her eyes widened.
"Oh my God…" she gasped, covering her mouth with her palm. Her expression shifted from disinterest to twisted delight. "You really did a number on him, didn't you?"
His chest puffed out proudly, thinking the ruse was working.
"What did you use? Was it bloody? Did he scream a lot?" she asked quickly, now invested—like a kid opening Christmas gifts, fascinated by the supposed carnage.
But just before she could keep going, her excitement paused. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the image more closely.
Something didn't sit right.
She leaned in, inspecting the details. Her eyes zeroed in on the hand of the "victim" in the photo—and the chipped, black nail polish.
Her expression darkened.
"You know, Damien…" she said slowly, turning to glare at him. "This guy looks awfully familiar."
She held the picture up to his face.
"I recognize the nail polish."
Damien's smirk vanished.
"Shit," he muttered, the color draining from his face.
Tiffany stepped back, her disgust boiling over.
"You never actually killed anyone, didn't you?" she hissed. "Didn't You!!, You pathetic, little worm!"
With a sharp flick, she hurled the photo at his head. It bounced off his forehead as she turned her back on him in disgust.
But then… she froze.
Her gaze fell on the altar—the pentagram drawn carefully in sand, candles still half-melted from earlier. Her cigarette trembled slightly between her fingers.
The doll was gone.
Little did the three inside the trailer know… they weren't alone.
In the far corner of the room, leaning against the cluttered, doll-covered wall, stood a fourth figure—invisible to all.
Dante.
He stood with his arms crossed, half-transparent, blending seamlessly with the dim shadows and soft amber glow of candlelight. A complex cloaking spell shimmered faintly around his body, warping light just enough to render him practically undetectable—even to the most paranoid eyes.
His steps were silent. His presence, a whisper in the air.
He'd been there the entire time.
"God, this is priceless," he thought, suppressing a laugh as he tilted his head, observing the awkward trainwreck that was Damien trying—and failing—to impress Tiffany.
His eyes casually drifted over to Tiffany. She was pacing, fuming, the cigarette still clutched between her fingers, her curves on full display beneath the flicker of candlelight and soft trailer shadows.
Dante bit his knuckle with a muffled groan.
"Damn…" he whispered with a smirk.
He took a moment to admire her.
"Goth, gorgeous, and homicidal. Just my type."
Tiffany, meanwhile, was scanning the trailer suspiciously, her eyes darting across the place Chucky's doll body was gone, and that kind of disappearance didn't happen without reason.
Dante's gaze returned to the dude who is under the table, looking for his edited Picture and he looks ridiculous.
He tilted his head, unimpressed.
"Should I save him?" he thought.
Then he looked again at Damien's outfit.
Dante rolled his eyes.
"Nah… dumbass got one of those faces. The kind that just begs to get punched."
He chuckled quietly, settling back into the shadows, still cloaked and unseen
[ to be continued ]
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I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! If you did, please consider throwing me some Power Stones and supporting the story—it really helps keep me motivated and inspired to keep writing. With your support, I might even drop a few extra chapters as a thank you!
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