You ever get the feeling you're being watched?


I know, I know, that's about as cliche as you get. But, dear God, I got that feeling a lot lately. Soon, it would all make sense.


It all started with my little sister's fifth birthday party. A group of sugar-fueled kindergartens rampaged the house, and I just tried to keep my sanity as well as my life. It was, for the most part, the usual fare of a young child’s birthday party. A sickly sweet strawberry shortcake sat proudly in the kitchen, half eaten. I had to stop one young girl from wearing my bra as a crown when they played dress up. And the Furby my sister got as a present was staring into my soul.


Now, if you know anyone who lived in the eighties, nineties, or even now, you'd hear the same connotation with these little bastards: evil. One hundred percent, undoubtedly evil. The beady little eyes, the weird beak, the odd, incomprehensible language that's probably some long-forgotten tongue, a spell that allows a demon to enter your body as a vessel. When I texted my best friend and told her how unsettled I was, that's what she said. “It's a Furby, Louisa. They're creepy as hell. I'm sure it's fine.”


So I put the thought out of my mind. I tried to, anyway. But my sister carried the pink, fuzzy monstrosity with her wherever she went.. She brought it to school. She put it right next to her on the table when she ate, in a plastic Barbie chair the same artificial color as bubble gum. She even brought it to church, and I swear, it always seemed to wig out when we walked into the cross-bearing building.


For the most part, though, it just acted as creepy as Furbies usually do. Which is still pretty damn creepy. You know, turning on in the middle of the night, screeching that stupid “Furbish” non stop, naming itself “Carrie” (it's creepy enough they name themselves, but...Carrie?), generally sitting there looking like Satan's shaved back hair. But then the dog got to it.


One day, while everyone was away, our dog got a hold of the little bugger. When we got home, my poor sister screamed when she saw her beloved Carrie laying next to our sleeping pet, dog saliva matting the fur, it twitching slightly. She hugged it to smithereens, mumbling apologies, saying she loved it over and over. Now, that seems freaky enough, but that's not the worst part.


It's fairly common knowledge that a Furby’s personality depends and changes on how you treat it. The nicer you are, the nicer it is. The worse you treat it...well, you can imagine.


And you can also imagine that it didn't take too kindly to being used as a chew toy.


Carrie began to growl in my sister's arms. “Hey, don't be such a gasbag!” I shot at it. Maybe it was pathetic I was defending my sister from a Furby, but I hated the stupid thing.


In hindsight, not my brightest decision.


It wriggled out of my sister's arms, slowly crawling towards us. Annoyed, I kicked it. “Stupid thing.”


Now, here are two things you may not know about Furbies.


The first is they don't like being kicked. I know, shocker, right?


The second is that they're apparently pretty fast.


I grabbed my sister's hand and ran. It was nipping at our heels, coming so close yet so far to...doing whatever a Furby could to to us, I guess.


Wait, why were we running? I laughed, stopping in my tracks.


“Why are we stopping, Sissy?”


I laughed even harder seeing the poor girl's face, so scared of a piece of plastic and wires. “It's a freaking Furby! What's the worst it can-”


Apparently, the worst it can do is bite a chunk out of my arm.


I let out a pained scream, and my sister wailed for me, asking what we had to do. “Mandy,” I began, “get outta here. I'll be fine, don't worry abo-”


She ran out the front door before I could finish. What a gasbag.


I stared into the eyes of my fuzzy, cute opponent, and reached for a vase on the table next to me as a weapon. It lunged directly towards my head.


My only thought before the fight was: if you die, you'll be remembered as the girl who got
killed by a friggin Furby.