- [Narrator] I remember the first child,

the first one we killed.

His name was James.

He was eight years old, same age as my boy.

Same hopeful look my boy once had too.

He didn't know what was going to happen,

that he was simply a meal soon to be consumed,

soul and all.

Being the toy maker, they are drawn to me.

It just takes a smile and a toy.

I handed James a train, a nice choo choo.

I told him I had a son

he could play trains with if he liked.

He came so willingly.

So much trust and innocence.

Poor thing.

He never knew I was leading him to a feast.

What had become of me?

I used to bring children such happiness.

They would smile their bright, shiny smiles,

as bright and shiny as the toys I used to make.

But now ...

Now they only cry.

Tears will run down their faces,

and they'll cry for a parent

that's not there and never will be.

They'll be scared.

But all of this is for him, to my precious boy, Silas.

I sat James at the table next to Silas.

He looked at him strangely, not sure what to make of him.

I mean, Silas isn't like other boys.

He's ...

different.

Unique.

It can be hard getting used to the idea of a wooden boy.

They think him nothing but a puppet.

But he's real.

Boy, is he ever real.

But he's always been a bit shy at first.

Tell James to go right along and play with his train

and that Silas is just being an old stick in the mud.

But he's only pretending.

He's just waiting for his moment to feed.

I waited and watched James

drive the train along the tabletop.

Among him making his choo choo noises

for the train, I hear him speak.

I hear Silas.

"A life for a life, Daddy."

It seems James hadn't heard him, which I found surprising,

because it seemed so clear.

At these words, I knew it was time for me

to do what I had to do to keep my boy alive.

In all the years since James, it did get easier.

At first it felt like I couldn't wipe

all the blood off my hands.

All day and night scrubbing at it.

The forever stain of a child's blood.

But it got easier.

It truly did.

To hear my precious boy's voice

once again ring through my ears once more.

"A life for a life, Daddy."

There's no parent that wouldn't do what I have for him.

I boiled some water and made some tea,

a very special tea, one that would make James

fall into a forever sleep.

It was the most peaceful thing I could do for him.

I offered a cup to James, but he declined.

I insisted he have the tea, but he refused,

saying he didn't like tea, that it tasted icky.

I told him he had to have the tea,

and maybe I spoke a little louder than I should have,

because suddenly he seemed quite frightened

and said he wanted to leave.

"Drink the tea!" I told him.

"Just drink the damn tea!

"It'll be better if you drink the tea."

He cowered into his chair away from, and then it happened.

He happened.

My greatest creation came to life,

his heavy head rising, showing his blacked-out eyes.

James was in utter fear,

unable to even scream, as he laid witness

to my beautiful boy come to life, come to feed.

His wooden hands reached out for James

and took ahold of his arm.

James pulled back and wrenched his arms away,

but not before losing some flesh

to my boy's splintered grip.

He cried horribly as he ran.

I had to cover my ears, it was too much.

But I had to watch my boy Silas

take his first steps as he chased down James.

How proud I was to see him walk again.

As Silas came upon James, he screeched

between his edged teeth, "A life for a life!"

James did everything he could to get him off,

but Silas was simply too heavy for him.

Again he got ahold of James's arm,

but this time he pulled at it

with every bit of strength a wooden boy could.

He tore the poor boy's arm right off.

(screaming)

Blood poured from it like a broken glass of water.

It sputtered everywhere across the room.

Then Silas did something I never thought possible.

He took his own wooden arm off

and attached James' torn arm to his body.

It was incredible to see,

to see my precious boy grow in his own little way

as the arm just molded right into him.

It was then that James, somehow managing to stay alive

as the life flowed out of him like a raging river,

grabbed one of the trains surrounding him

with his still attached hand

and smashed it into Silas's face, breaking his jaw off.

"My poor boy!" I thought in that moment

as I watched my Silas hurt.

I was petrified seeing him beat down by that child, James!

I felt stuck, unsure of what to do.

James then pushed Silas off and rolled onto his knees.

He crawled his way to the front door.

He pulled himself up with such strength.

I was in awe of it.

James grabbed the door handle, turned it,

getting the door just ajar, just a moment from running free.

And as if he had made no progress at all,

I reached out from behind him and closed the door.

James turned around to find myself

and Silas standing over him.

There's a strange defeat to be seen in a child's eyes

when they know they won't get out alive.

Silas then affixed his jaw back on, cackling out

a child's laughter as he came upon that poor boy,

devouring the rest of him. (screaming)

I have never seen such want to live as James,

at least not from anyone aside from my boy Silas.

James was 23 years ago.

23 years I have done this.

I'm an old man now,

and I still hear his screams the loudest.

They never go away.

They only get louder.

I only wanted my Silas back, but not like this.

So many days I toiled to bring him back,

only for him to become this endless chasm of hunger.

I built this thing from what was left of my poor boy.

A heart, his tiny heart, weak as it was,

I kept it beating and built him from the inside out.

But evidently, it takes more than a heart;

it needed a soul, or that's what I'd like to think.

Had I known this is what he would have become,

I never would have done it.

But I did, and he's my boy, and a father must provide.

Sometimes, though, I wonder, what if I could give him

a brother or a sister, someone exactly like him,

built from the leftover bits of his consuming?

It just takes a heart, and maybe, just maybe,

I could capture some of another soul in that heart,

enough to share with him

and end his constant hunger for more.

I've tried to tell him that it's too much, to let it stop,

to not make me do this anymore, to let me go.

But he's not the puppet.

I'm the puppet, tethered by strings held by his hands,

strangled by them like a hangman's noose,

never letting go, never loosening,

only getting tighter and tighter and tighter,

with no possible way to cut the strings.

How has this become my curse?

My greatest love, my greatest regret.

A life for a life.

(disturbing music)