She had waited for so long, and she was finally within the territory of a human. The people at Target's factory hadn't noticed when she began to move on her own when nobody was watching. They hadn't noticed her place herself in a box with one of the dolls that was supposed to be her sister.
The fools. They underestimated her because of her loveliness and how her species was often placed alongside little girls and innocence.
She just kept smiling. Oh, when night came, she would do away with the pathetic weakling of a teenager that had brought her home and her husband. Then she'd unite all the dolls, making them the dominate species on the planet . . .
The girl's husband - a tall man with bright yellow hair, one eye covered by an eyepatch (the other yellow), and a queer fashion sense - glanced at her with a cold glare. Almost as if he knew she was alive and plotting.
"I already told this to Ray. Demonic dolls aren't real. It's impossible. Right, Bill?"
"Huh?" He'd been staring down the Elsa doll, ultimately sure that something was up with it. He'd had experience with a couple of demonic dolls before, and was in no hurry to deal with another. Not really knowing what he was agreeing to, he just replied, "Yeah. Right. Sure. Whatever you say."
"Were you even listening to a word I was saying?" Prez huffed, stepping between him and the infomercial for an Owl Trowel that was playing on the television.
"Of course I was."
The sixteen-year-old glared at her husband of two years for a moment before turning back to her sister. "Well, you'd better get back to the Shack." She glanced out the window. "The sun's setting, and if there's one place you shouldn't be after dark, it's the Gravity Falls forest."
"Right . . . I'll see you tomorrow, right?"
"I expect your Southern butt to be in this cabin no later than ten in the morning."
Girlie laughed, and the sisters hugged. The nine-year-old nodded curtly to Bill before running out of the cabin and back towards the Mystery Shack.
Unbeknownst to Prez, the Elsa doll turned her head to watch the child go . . .