The Mangered Smile

Oh, what an evil, wretched man I am. It wasn’t enough to think about it, oh no. Somewhere between the hymns and the flickering candlelight, I lost whatever decency I had left. I did it. I replaced the baby Jesus with a Chucky doll.

The church was darkening as the kids in their frilly costumes clustered around the nativity scene, their tiny voices rising in chorus to a rendition of “O Holy Night.” The lights were dim, the air cool and a little too thick with the smell of wet wool and pine needles.

But my mind—my wretched mind—was elsewhere. While everyone sang, I was at the foot of that blasted manger, a small, twisted smile spreading across my face as I pulled the infant Jesus from his wooden cradle and replaced him with that plastic monstrosity.

The doll fit perfectly, nestled in the hay like it had always belonged there. I couldn’t resist: I tilted its head ever so slightly, the same way it always tilted on those cheap horror movie posters. The firelight flickered, casting grotesque shadows across its painted face. It grinned—oh, how it grinned. That vile, unnerving grin that never seemed to fade, never seemed to stop smiling as if it knew something I didn’t.

When I stepped back, a cold thrill ran down my spine. I looked around quickly, heart pounding in my chest, half-expecting someone to walk in, someone to notice the horrific switch. But no.

The children kept singing, their angelic voices unaware of the twisted puppet. I stood there, basking in a sick satisfaction, my pulse a low hum of delight.

It wasn’t long before they finished. The choir director, her face flushed with enthusiasm, called for the lights to come up. They did, and the children and their parents, all with their eyes on the nativity. But it wasn’t the baby Jesus they were looking at.

There was a moment—a split second—where everything paused. The collective gasp that echoed through the room seemed to come from every corner but mine.

With its mismatched clothes and cracked, deranged smile, the doll stared at the ceiling as if daring anyone to challenge it. It was a mistake, and they all knew it, but it was too late.

The silence was suffocating. No one knew what to say.

The kids froze, their mouths open, their wide eyes drifting from the doll to their parents, their faces scrunched with confusion and disbelief. I didn’t care.

Not then. I’d crossed the line, and there was no coming back.

I told myself it was just a joke, just a harmless prank. But deep down, I knew better.

It wasn’t.

The evil part of me, the part I’d let loose, was alive now. I had taken what was sacred, something pure, and twisted it—turned it into a nightmare in front of everyone.

The pastor, his face ashen, stepped forward, his voice shaking as he asked, “Who… who did this?”

I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. I was too busy staring at the doll—at Chucky—sitting in the cradle like it had always been there.

The doll’s grin, a reflection mirroring something darker, instilled fear in their faces. But it wasn’t just the toy.

It was the fear of knowing that sometimes, the evil wasn’t just in the things around us but inside us all along.