Rare Chucky Doll One Black Sole One Red Sole – READ DESCRIPTION CAREFULLY For Sale

I go thrifting all the time.

Garage sales, flea markets, thrift stores—anywhere I might find something unusual that I can resell in my store, Flip Finder Chuck.

Most days I find the usual stuff.

Old electronics. Clothes. Sports memorabilia. Collectibles. Toys.

But a few days ago, I found something different.

Something I almost didn’t buy.

I had been out thrifting most of the morning when I noticed a small garage sale down a side street.

It looked like they were getting ready to close up.

There were a few folding tables covered with dishes, old decorations, clothes, and boxes of random household items.

Then I noticed a doll sitting by itself in an old wooden chair.

It was Chucky.

Red hair.

Striped shirt.

Blue overalls.

It looked older, but surprisingly good.

Being a reseller, my first thought wasn’t anything paranormal.

My first thought was:

I wonder what that’s worth.

I picked it up and started looking it over.

That’s when I noticed something unusual.

The bottom of one shoe was red.

The other had a black sole.

I figured maybe it was a manufacturing difference, a replacement part, or something collectors might actually find interesting.

Then I heard a woman’s voice behind me.

“You like that doll?”

I turned around.

An elderly woman was sitting near the garage.

“I might,” I said. “How much?”

She looked at the doll for a few seconds.

“Five dollars.”

I figured for five bucks, I couldn’t go wrong.

I started reaching for my money.

Then she said:

“You might want to hear about it first.”

I laughed.

“What, is it haunted?”

She didn’t laugh.

That’s when I knew she was serious.

She told me the doll had belonged to her son when he was a little boy.

At first, there was nothing unusual about it.

He carried it everywhere.

Slept with it.

Played with it.

Talked to it.

But eventually she noticed something strange.

Her son wasn’t talking to the doll the way children normally talk to toys.

He seemed to be having conversations with it.

At night, she would walk past his bedroom and hear him whispering.

He would say something.

Then stop.

There would be a long silence.

Almost like he was listening.

Then he would answer.

One night she stood outside his door.

She heard her son whisper:

“No. She’ll get mad.”

Silence.

Then:

“I don’t want to.”

Another silence.

Then her son suddenly said:

“Stop telling me to do that.”

She opened the bedroom door.

Her son was sitting on his bed.

The Chucky doll was sitting beside him.

She asked who he was talking to.

Her son pointed at the doll.

She told him dolls couldn’t talk.

Her son looked at her and said:

“He doesn’t talk when you’re in the room.”

After that, strange things started happening.

Kitchen cabinets would be open in the morning.

Drawers would be pulled out.

Doors she knew she had locked would be unlocked.

Objects disappeared and turned up in strange places.

Then kitchen knives started going missing.

She blamed her son at first.

He denied touching them.

One morning she found one of the missing knives underneath his bed.

She asked why he had put it there.

Her son started crying.

“He told me to.”

She asked who.

Her son looked toward the Chucky doll.

That night, she took the doll away from him.

She put it inside a closet at the opposite end of the house.

She closed the door.

The next morning, the closet was open.

The doll was back in her son’s bedroom.

Sitting on his bed.

She thought maybe her son had gotten up during the night and retrieved it.

So the next night she tried something different.

She put the doll inside a large wooden trunk.

She locked it.

Then she kept the key beside her bed.

At around 3:00 in the morning, she woke up.

She could hear her son talking.

She walked down the hallway toward his room.

Then she heard another voice.

Not her son’s.

Lower.

Almost like a whisper.

She couldn’t understand what it was saying.

When she opened the bedroom door, her son was asleep.

But the doll was sitting beside him.

The locked trunk was empty.

She still had the key.

That’s when she decided the doll had to leave the house.

The next morning, she threw it away.

She watched the garbage truck take it.

Three days later, the doll was sitting in the rocking chair in her son’s bedroom.

She told me she nearly fainted when she saw it.

That’s when things became worse.

Her son started waking up with scratches on his arms.

Small footprints appeared in the hallway.

Things moved around the house at night.

Sometimes she would wake up and hear footsteps.

Not normal footsteps.

Small ones.

Slowly moving down the hallway.

One night she woke up because she heard something outside her bedroom.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Then silence.

She looked toward the doorway.

The Chucky doll was sitting on the floor.

Facing her bed.

She screamed.

Her husband came running.

They took the doll outside.

They put it into a metal fire pit.

And they burned it.

She watched the clothes catch fire.

The hair melted.

The plastic face turned black.

Eventually there was almost nothing left.

For several weeks, everything stopped.

No voices.

No footsteps.

No missing objects.

She thought it was finally over.

Then one night, she woke up to her son screaming.

She ran into the hallway.

His bedroom was empty.

She found him at the bottom of the basement stairs.

He wasn’t moving.

The police said he had fallen.

She stood at the top of the stairs looking down at him.

And sitting beside her feet…

was the Chucky doll.

Completely untouched.

Not burned.

Not melted.

Exactly the way it had looked before.

Red hair.

Striped shirt.

Blue overalls.

One red sole.

One black.

She told me she never let the doll inside her house again.

She put it in an outside storage building and left it there.

Years passed.

Eventually her husband died.

She got older.

And now she was selling the house and getting rid of everything she owned.

Including the doll.

I stood there holding it, trying to figure out whether she actually believed what she was telling me.

Finally I asked:

“If all of that happened, why would you sell it to somebody?”

She stared at me.

Then she said:

“Because throwing it away didn’t work.”

I looked down at the doll.

Then back at her.

“Five dollars?”

She nodded.

I bought it.

Maybe I shouldn’t have.

But I’m a reseller.

I’ve bought plenty of things with strange histories.

And whether her story was true or not, I knew someone out there collected Chucky dolls.

I also knew one thing for certain.

That doll wasn’t coming into my house.

I drove it straight to my storage unit.

I took the pictures.

I made the listing.

And I put it up for sale in my store:

Flip Finder Chuck.

I haven’t heard voices.

I haven’t seen it move.

Nothing strange has happened at my house.

Because the doll has never been inside my home.

It’s sitting in storage with the rest of my inventory.

At least…

that’s where I left it.

And as I’m writing this, the doll is still for sale.