Plastic.

They did it. I saw them. I was there. 

They were stained with blood, didn't you see? Their eyes unblinking, their chests hollow and unbeating. They make not a sound but they come. 

I do not know what they want, or why they kill. Perhaps justice, perhaps not. 

Some think it's because their technicolor adorned temples are used as ploys. That they must do this to show us how much more they are. How even though their knees do not bend, their heads do not swivel, they are alive. And they see more than we. 

I think they're all bloodthristy and mad. 

Maybe I'm mad. I quite remember a time when I would, too, have thought this mad. But they're alive, and they're coming. 

I hear them in the distance now. A small scrape. Off in the prairie. I've locked the doors, shut the windows, and all I can do now is wait. 

I'm scared for my life.

They wouldn't believe me. Says their stuck in the windows, and that's all they'll ever be. 

But they get out somehow. 

They're coming now.

They're close. I see their shadows. They have no breath; I hope they cannot hear mine. 

For a moment everything is silent.

They've seemed to have left.

As I get up and turn towards the closet, one appears, motionless, eyes unblinking, wielding a sharpened shard of metal.

I barely have to time to scream, to look anywhere other then those soulless, painted eyes and that plastic mouth. 

I think it's smirking.