I did not get a sonic screwdriver for Christmas this year. And I even left a whole bottle of Maker’s to go with your cookies. WTF, man? I thought we were tight.
Sedrick loved stormy autumn nights, because that is when his toys would come alive.
Deep in his sleep, warm under his blankets—handmade, no doubt, by long-dead aunts or grandmothers—he would hear the wind howling and the branches of the twisted old juniper tree skritching against his bedroom window.
Then the toys would awaken. The robots would whir and beep and the army soldiers would line up in formation and the cars would rev and the battle tanks would chug and clank into action.
Sedrick would leap out of bed with glee and pull on his wellies over his pajama bottoms, gather the toys into a pillowcase, and head to the graveyard behind his house, where he would lead the living toys in a joyous macabre parade all around the crypts and through the headstones until the wind died down and the toys slowed and halted.
Then he would take them all back to his room and put them back where they belonged—because he was a good boy and kept his room tidy—and then get back into bed, to sleep once more and dream of the next time the wind would blow and the rain would fall deep in the night.