AN: My Scarecrow doll has a 'needle glove' that's been jabbing people who pick him up roughly. I think that when I am old I'll start spreading stories that it came from South America and was cursed by an ancient shaman. Then before I die I'll paint the 'needles' with some kind of poison, so when some idiot picks gets poked...CURSED DOLL! *snickers* I should be ashamed of myself.
* * *
She was not back to normal the next morning. If anything, she was worse.
"It's fine. I'm fine. You're having a nightmare, just wake up."
He'd taken over from her father, who had given him a look that just screamed, 'behave or else'. He was reasonably certain that the man hadn't wanted to go anywhere, but he'd been there for a while already and had dozed off in the chair twice. Mrs. Richardson had chased him out then, citing a bad back and the desire to keep the number of invalids to a minimum.
Mr. Richardson had left a worn copy of The Hobbit on the nightstand and he picked it up. He'd only read it once-Kitty made him-and he didn't remember much liking it. He'd never been one for dragons.
"Kitty?" He shook her-how hot was she, hot enough to risk a hospital? "Kitty.
Good. Lucid enough to recognize him, then. That was always reassuring.
"Yeah. How are you feeling?"
"You didn' put it back." Her accusation was weak. "Tha' diary."
"I did put it back." He was tempted to, anyway. "I put it back right where I found it."
"Why's he still 'ere, then?"
He looked in the corner, adjusted his glasses to make sure there wasn't any humanoid thing there, and shook his head.
"Kitty, there's no one there. You're sick, it's a hallucination."
"Shh. There really isn't anyone. I promise."
She was ignoring him completely, focused on the corner.
"He doesn't like you." she said hazily.
"No." she insisted. "Not like this."