The Chucky Compromise

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 101

Every year, I throw a New Year’s party at my house and invite my friends and family over.

By the end of the night, my house looks less like a home and more like a refugee camp with better snacks. Every room is occupied. Every couch has a body on it. Every pillow and blanket has been claimed.. Someone is sleeping on the hammock. Someone is sleeping in a corner. Someone is probably sleeping under a table for all I know.

But I always make sure my parents get their own room.

Unfortunately, the room I gave them was my room.

And my room has dolls.

Not regular dolls. Not soft, friendly, “I love you, Grandma” dolls.

I mean dead dolls. Dolls that looked like they belonged to Annabelle’s sorority house.

Macabre dolls.

Dolls with the expressions of Victorian orphans who know where the bodies are buried.

My 4-year-old nephew walked into the room, saw them, and became deeply concerned.

“Auntie Cindy,” he said, looking at me like I had failed every safety inspection known to mankind. “I don’t like those killer dolls being in the same room as my grandparents.”

And honestly, fair.

But instead of admitting that maybe the killer dolls did look suspicious, I decided to turn this into a moral exercise.

“Well,” I told him, “if I take them out of here and put them outside on the street, you see how cold it is. They could die out there.”

He paused.

This tiny child stood there, weighing the safety of his grandparents against the survival rights of haunted dolls.

So I told him, “But if you want me to get them out, I’ll get them out.”

He thought about it.

Then he said, “No. It’s okay. I don’t want them to die.”

That was his final ruling.

The killer dolls could stay.

But there needed to be conditions.

So I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll just take the knives away.”

Because one of the dolls was Chucky.

Naturally.

For extra safety, and to ease my nephew’s worries, I also gave Chucky and the other dolls a formal lecture.

I told them, “My family is off limits. My friends are off limits. Occasional maintenance people are off limits. Anyone here by invitation, appointment, or blood relation is off limits.”

Then I paused.

“But burglars,” I said, “are fair game.”

Because I may be irresponsible enough to keep killer dolls in my room, but I do believe in boundaries.

I also patted down the dolls and removed anything sharp: knives, weapons, anything that could turn the room from “eccentric decor” into “true crime documentary.”

And somehow, that worked.

He relaxed.

The dolls were still in the room. My parents were still sleeping there. Chucky was still present, although without batteries.

But Chucky had been disarmed, and apparently that was enough for the Department of Nephew Homeland Security.

What killed me was his heart.

He was scared of the dolls. He did not trust the dolls. He fully believed they were capable of harming his grandparents.

But when faced with the idea of putting them out in the freezing cold, he couldn’t do it.

He chose compassion.

Not comfort. Not logic. Not even grandparental safety, exactly.

Compassion.

For killer dolls.

That is how much heart this child has.

He would rather leave Chucky in the room with my parents than put him out on the street to freeze.

As long as we took the knives away.