Chapter Text

Part I - The Encounters

Dara Bram was leaning against the side door of the pickup truck, cross-legged, trying to reach his wife on the cell phone. A vintage dealer in his mid-fifties, he had spent the previous few days far from home, hunting salvage around the country. Now, his blue eyes were gazing at the customers brushing past each other as they entered and exited the gas station just outside the city of Chicago, where he had stopped for a hot double coffee before setting off on the long way to California.

The sun was already dipping down the horizon dazzling him from the west. He squinted as the sunlight hit his wrinkled, scruffy face. The noise from the passing cars on the heated highway was howling in his ears. The air was thick and heavy in the late afternoon outside Chicago. Clouds started roiling in the sky, and the gusty wind began to whip his hair in his face, lashing the fabric of his shirt. Soon the first fat drops of rain started shooting against the tarmac. It was one of those unpredictable last spring days in May, 2014.

He slurped a sip of hot black coffee in a poly-coated paper cup, pulled up the cuffs of his white shirt, and rolled them up above his elbows, revealing forearms, densely covered in tattoos. He looked more like an old hand dealer from Las Vegas.

“Hey, Elisia!” He raised his voice when his wife finally picked up the phone. “Listen, I am going now. I have some fabulous stuff here with me. Fabulous! You're gonna love it. First, I have a stop overnight in Kansas, then Vegas. By Sunday I'll be home.”

An indistinct chatter came out from the receiver.

“Sure thing, honey,” he said.

Elisia, his wife, must have urged him to drive carefully on the roads.

Dara Bram’s working day had begun with the sunrise.

First, he met a married couple, of whom the husband had fallen heir to an estate from distant relatives, an established "old money" family living in the better part of the city. He had pre-arranged a visit with the couple a week earlier. They were looking for ways to urgently raise cash, and were therefore clearing up the mansion, selling out pieces of furniture and disposing of many small bits of houseware. For the dealer all that could be saved from wasting and put to new use. His trained eye immediately spotted a few valuable items. He generously offered a good price for a couple of small cabinets, but then acquired two more valuable pieces for a pittance. The inexperienced couple, pressed by time and their urges, were happy to sell, despite his price being literally insulting.

After settling that business, he had a visit to a massive flea market located in the central South Side part of Chicago. That was an indoor-outdoor venue in a gritty industrial neighbourhood sitting just beneath the Junction Railway. In the afternoon, Dara headed to the flea fair. The facility spread out across hundreds of yards. An incalculable number of stands and camps unveiled in front of his sight in all directions the moment he crossed the entrance. Some sellers had their assortment of gadgets laid down directly on the ground over a blanket or tarpaulin. Housewares, vintage apparels, e-waste, legacy hardware, it was a plethora of obsolete technology. But also—pottery, glass, books, inexpensive jewelry and any sort of sparkling tinker. He leisurely browsed the stands while eating a fat burger. Not long after, he checked his wristwatch. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. A hoarse male voice came through the receiver:

“Yes?”

“Hi. It's Bram, I'm here. How can I find you?”

“Head to the market and take the perimeter alley that runs along the outer edge. Follow it all the way to the farthest row. It's directly under the railway tracks. Go straight from there, walk past the bistro, walk past the second-hand clothing store. You’ll find me on your left. Harry's,” and he hung up.

Bram weaved his way through the crowd of bargain seekers. It was a mixture of junk dealers, regular customers, tourists visiting for the first time, very much like himself. A peddler pushed his load from the opposite direction. He gave a long stare at Bram with shrewdish curiosity. The dealer gazed back in return, smirked to himself and kept walking.

Thirty minutes later, the bistro appeared on his left side. Dodgy characters gobbled their meals side by side with families and snotty children who guzzled sodas in the sunny afternoon. Bram’s eyes enjoyed the scenery. He was used to mingling with all kinds of people. A few steps down the alley and after the bistro, the clothing store emerged. He couldn't miss it—low quality knockoffs were hung on plastic mannequins right in front of it. And then he saw it: Harry's shop. It was an open-fronted booth.

Bram swiftly scanned the collection of items arranged on both wings of the entrance. Mostly cheap junk, he thought, but amidst all that motley assortment he could spot a few little gems. He was about to enter when Harry’s voice reached from behind him.

“Bram?!” Harry asked, and pointed at the dealer expectantly.

“Oh! Hi,” Bram offered a practiced smile.

They shook hands.

“I've just arrived,” the dealer noted.

“Come on in,” Harry urged him inside. “I'll show you in a minute,” he added and moved back to finish a business with a man sitting outside on the street.

The booth owner was a tall, sturdy, black-bearded man with black piercing eyes. He looked like a magician dressed in a black waistcoat, and his fingers all covered in hefty silver rings.

“First time in Chicago?” Harry engaged in a small talk.

“Second. But it's been a long time. Much has changed since then.” Bram smiled.

“I'm sure.“ Harry smirked in return. “Here it is,” he added, and retrieved an object of two-and-a-half feet height from beneath the counter. He carefully placed it on top of the wooden surface. It was wrapped in an opaque plastic bag. Harry pulled the item out and a matted red-haired head emerged from the wrapping followed by a yellowed body in grimy clothes. One palm was missing, revealing jagged edges. Harry flung the poly bag aside and propped up what appeared to be a doll on the counter.

That was Chucky.

Bram leaned forward to inspect the doll. A subtle smile cracked on his face.

“Can I get a closer look?” He asked as he stretched out his arms to touch the puppet.

“Sure thing. Go ahead.”

Harry stepped back, crossing his arms, his black eyes studying the client. He sniffed and bent down to pluck a newspaper from under the counter. The paper read "The Chicago Sun-Times". He flicked it onto the table next to the dealer and tapped the front page with his index finger. A close-up black-and-white photograph of what appeared to be a police detective, and a blond lady with a boy was filling the page. The title printed in giant font size read "A narrow escape - horrors in the children's room". Those words could raise one’s eyebrows. And they certainly raised Bram’s.

“A reporter from Sun-Times covered the story. A widowed mother, struggling to raise her son, the father dies in a car accident, and the boy has a complete nervous breakdown.” Harry began to explain.

“First, he kills his childcarer, who, by the way, was his mother's best friend and a colleague in the department store where she works at the time. It's over there, man, ‘Carson Pirie Scott & Co.’” Harry waved his arm pointing in the air. “Some twenty and what years ago.”

He made a pause to let the words land on his client, sniffed again, and continued. 

“So, the woman, the caretaker, flies down from the sixth floor of their building on North Pine Grove Avenue, smashed on the roof of a parked car. Instant death. The kid is later committed to a psychiatric ward where he…” Harry made a strategic pause.  “...murders the Chief of Psychiatry. Electrocuted.” He bulged his eyes at Bram who listened, flipping through the pages.

“But here is the twist,” Harry continued his narrative. “Coincidentally, Charles Lee Ray, known as the ‘Lakeshore Strangler’, is shot dead by the police detective who investigates the Lake View's case. The police capture the strangler's accomplice right next day, but he escapes. Follows a massive pursuit and before they manage to get him, guess what?” Harry smiled and smacked his palms together. “He's found dead. The whole ramshackle he lives in explodes to the air. They said there was a gas leak. It's all there.” Harry shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms. “But if you ask me, I don't know. How is it possible for a six-seven-year boy to engineer all this and execute it? He was eventually cleared.” He paused and looked at Bram calculatingly.

Bram shook his head and smiled. His muscular face—partly hidden under the twiggy strands of his blond hair—was turned down at the Sun-Times papers. He lifted his gaze from the old newspaper to look at his interlocutor who waited no further invitation but carried on.

“The unofficial version says there was a third player, a little person or something. Sounds fantastic to me. They even go so far as to suggest the kid's Buddy doll turned alive and went on a killing spree.” Harry's laughter rang out in the booth. He shook his head and brushed his stubble. “This explanation, as you can see for yourself, drifts into the supernatural end of the scale. But people love this kind of stuff, man.” Harry made another pause.

“And, that guy—Charles Lee Ray—they say, he was an adherent of Voodoo. His mentor was found dead too. Stabbed in the chest.” Harry wrapped up his narrative, and fixed his eyes squarely on Bram weighing the effect of the story on him.

“And that's the doll? The Buddy doll from the kid's story?” Bram asked while holding Chucky in his hands and turning him around to examine his state. The doll’s state was poor, to say the least.

“No. That one was burnt down into ashes. Must be somewhere in the Police evidence locker. This one is different but comes from the same year, and is the exact same model the kid had—a Good Guy doll.”

“How much for it?” Bram started talking business.

Harry pursed his lips and took no longer than a couple of seconds to think.

“Three-hundred bucks for it,” he cut in.

The Angelenos dealer snorted with laughter and shook his head.

“No, that's too much for a Buddy doll, I'm afraid. I am willing to pay fifty.”

“This doll has history. It is not just your average doll.”

“I understand,” Bram replied calmly. “But... it is in a deteriorated state. A broken hand. The original wrapping is missing. It's gonna cost me a fortune to restore it. A full restoration might not even be possible.”

“Will you consider two hundred and fifty?” Harry struck back.

“Seventy-five.”

“No, man. I can't go that low. People buy these dolls.”

“A hundred and twenty-five, and that's my final offer.”

“A hundred and seventy-five and we shake hands.”

Bram stared at the seller for a moment.

“And the newspaper.”

“Deal.”

They shook hands.