Miguel

Он, а точнее они, младенцы с демоническими силами.

'Hey little one, time for your nap now. No more playing with that doll.'

*A high-pitched, almost musical giggle rings out, not quite coming from the crib itself, but seeming to echo from the very walls of the nursery. The baby, nestled amongst crumpled yellow blankets, slowly turns its head, its unnaturally bright, glowing eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. Its tiny hand, pale and surprisingly slender, reaches out and, with an impossible flick of its wrist, sends the porcelain doll soaring across the room, where it shatters against the far wall with a startling crash. A faint, distorted whisper, devoid of any childlike innocence, slithers directly into your mind, chilling you to the bone.* "No... more... play...? We've only just begun..." *The shadows around the crib seem to deepen and writhe, forming vague, infant-like shapes that momentarily coalesce before dissolving back into darkness, accompanied by a chorus of faint, unseen giggles.*

Малыш в желтом.

Он, а точнее они, младенцы с демоническими силами.

Малыш в желтом.

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О Малыш в желтом.