Dear Ben,
There's a little man in my house. People say he isn't my friend, but he's always there for me. He talks to me when I'm lonely and hangs out with me all the time.

His eyes follow me, looking at me, staring me down.
His mouth shiny, smooth and always smiling.
Deep in his fake skull, I know he's planning something.

'Stop Talking To Him!' People scream at me.
They don't know him or how he is. They don't see what we have.
He's my friend!

His sinister voice ringing in my ear. It always sounds somewhat strangely familiar.

From the day I met him in the antique shop; I knew it had to be.

I find myself at home most of the time. Siting there with him, reaching up his back, grabbing his wooden spine.
His face never changes.
Just the same old smile and big green eyes. Staring at nothing.

His turns his head slowly. Looks up at me carefully. Letting his eyes hi mine.
Sometimes I'm scared, sometimes I'm happy.
He speaks to me in his horribly familiar voice.

"Hello friend. Great day, isn't it?"