Stanley's brow furrowed. "Andrew, what's that supposed to mean? Are you saying I made all this up?"

Andrew turned his eyes toward the other end of the crypt, where the royal throne stood. "Why don't we let your Little Emperor friend explain it himself—and see if you're the one telling stories?"

The puppet seated on the throne had somehow stood up. Its decapitated wooden head, which had been blasted off during the earlier gunfire, was now fully reattached.

A raspy, grinding voice scraped through the air, like rusted metal scraping against steel.

"Stanley, we meet again."

The puppet, carved entirely from wood, had no facial muscles. Yet somehow, at that moment, Andrew could swear its face came alive.

It stared at Stanley with a gaze so filled with hatred and bitterness that it could curdle blood.

Stanley froze, his entire expression locking in place. He stammered, "H-How is this possible? No! It's impossible! You've been dead for 100 years! You can't be alive—you can't!"

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