30 Jul Jerry the Dinosaur

Chapter 1

Eddie Larkins had never hated his reflection more than he did that morning. He sat in the driver’s seat of his rusty Honda Civic, parked on a side street in Burbank, trying to ignore the greasy outline of his face in the cracked rearview mirror. He hadn’t shaved in four days. His hair looked like he’d rolled out of bed and dunked his head in fryer oil. If this was the look of a professional actor, it was no wonder his agent barely returned his calls.

The Civic had become his home by necessity. Two weeks ago, his landlord had changed the locks while Eddie was out buying a breakfast burrito. The man had tossed all his things in black garbage bags and left them by the dumpster. Eddie retrieved what he could, shoving clothes, scripts, and headshots into the Civic’s trunk. Everything else—his coffee maker, his thrift-store TV, even his bed frame—was gone. Now he was living off fast food and stale granola bars, washing up in public bathrooms between auditions that never went anywhere.

His phone vibrated in the cup holder. The screen lit up with a name he hadn’t seen in days: Jules, Agent.

Eddie fumbled to answer. “Please tell me you’ve got something for me, Jules. I’m dying out here.”

There was a long pause on the other end, the sound of someone shuffling papers. “You’re going to hate me,” Jules said, “but I might have something.”

“Define might.” Eddie leaned back, trying to sound casual, though his chest tightened with hope.

“Children’s television gig. Think Barney the Dinosaur, but… different. It’s called The Wonderful World of Jerry.” Jules snorted. “Apparently their last guy quit or, uh, vanished or something. They’re desperate. The pay’s not bad.”

Eddie groaned. “A dinosaur suit? Jules, come on. My career isn’t that dead.”

“I’ve seen your bank account. Yeah, it is,” Jules replied flatly. “Look, you want to keep doing commercials for cat litter? Or you want a steady paycheck for a while? Think of it like a mascot gig with residuals. If you play along, this could pay off your rent in a month.”

Eddie rubbed his face. He could already feel the weight of the costume, the heat of a thousand preschoolers screaming at him in mall appearances. It sounded humiliating. But so did spending another night in a Civic that smelled faintly of sour milk and despair.

“Fine,” he said, exhaling sharply. “Where’s the audition?”

Jules rattled off an address in Glendale. “This afternoon. One o’clock. Be there. And for God’s sake, shower somewhere. You smell like expired milk in that car.”

Eddie hung up and let his forehead rest against the steering wheel. A dinosaur gig. He’d dreamed of Shakespeare, indie films, even a gritty cop drama once. Not this. But desperation had a way of lowering the bar until you tripped over it.

* * * * * *

The building looked more like a bunker than a studio. The front entrance was just a gray slab with tinted windows, and the sign over the door read: “WELCOME TO THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF JERRY!” in giant bubble letters, painted in cheerful pastel colors that felt oddly threatening.

Inside, the reception area was unnervingly bright, like someone had turned the saturation dial up too high. Walls of pink and lime green. Cartoon murals of a grinning dinosaur with oversized teeth. A TV in the corner played an endless loop of old episodes—Jerry dancing with children, Jerry hugging children, Jerry leading them in song. The theme song played on repeat: “Jerry loves you, Jerry cares. Jerry’s happy everywhere!” The melody was so saccharine that Eddie felt cavities forming just listening to it.

The receptionist, a young woman with a smile so wide it looked painted on, greeted him. “You must be here for Jerry!”

“Yeah,” Eddie muttered. “Lucky me.”

“You’ll love it,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Jerry is all about joy.” She handed him a visitor’s badge and gestured to a hallway. “Studio 2, down the hall on your left. They’re waiting for you.”

Eddie followed the corridor past framed posters of Jerry holding balloons, Jerry riding a train, Jerry waving with kids clustered around his legs. Something about the dinosaur’s expression unsettled him. The eyes were just black ovals, and the grin seemed too wide for a friendly character. It was the kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes—because there were no eyes, just empty pits.

He shook off the thought. It was just a mascot costume. He’d worn worse. One time he’d dressed as a giant bottle of hand sanitizer for a local pharmacy commercial.

Studio 2 was a cavernous soundstage. At its center was a colorful set made to look like a park—plastic trees, foam grass, a rainbow-painted fence. A camera crew lingered near the back, talking quietly among themselves. A tall man with thinning gray hair and piercing eyes turned when Eddie walked in.

“You’re Larkins,” the man said, his voice clipped and authoritative. “Malcolm Greaves. Showrunner. We’ve been looking for the right Jerry for months.”

Eddie forced a smile. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m, uh, ready to audition.”

“Good.” Malcolm snapped his fingers, and a young woman appeared with a giant duffel bag. She was petite, with a ponytail and a grin that matched the receptionist’s—too big, too polished. “This is Clara,” Malcolm said. “She’ll get you into the suit.”

Clara handed Eddie the bag. “Jerry is so excited to meet you,” she said, her voice sing-song.

“Yeah, I bet,” Eddie muttered.

The costume was heavier than he expected. He pulled out the head first—a bulbous dinosaur face with big round eyes and a toothy smile. The material was… strange. Not just rubber, but something softer underneath, almost like skin with a thin layer of latex stretched over it. When Eddie slid his hand inside, it was warm.

“Is this… heated or something?” he asked.

Clara tilted her head, still smiling. “Jerry’s always warm.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie tried not to think too hard about that.

They helped him into the rest of the costume. The torso hugged his body tightly, and the tail swayed when he moved. The arms ended in padded claws. The whole thing smelled faintly of copper and mildew. By the time they fastened the head, he was sweating buckets.

“Perfect,” Malcolm said, stepping back. “Now, Jerry is happy. Always happy. He waves. He hugs. He doesn’t speak—just giggles and roars. We’ll cue the music, and you improvise. Show me Jerry’s joy.”

The theme song started playing. Eddie felt ridiculous, bouncing in place, waving his arms. He tried a clumsy dance step, then mimed hugging imaginary children. Inside the suit, his breathing echoed against the walls of the mask.

Then, faintly, he heard it. A whisper.

Smile.

Eddie froze. “What?”

“Keep going,” Malcolm barked. “You’re doing fine.”

Dance.

It wasn’t Malcolm’s voice. It wasn’t Clara’s. It was coming from inside the headpiece—faint, like the scrape of a fingernail on glass. He shook his head, telling himself he was imagining it. He kept moving, his steps stiff and awkward.

“Better,” Malcolm said, smiling. “You’re perfect.”

When Eddie finally stripped off the costume, his arms were covered in red marks, like tiny scratches. He didn’t remember bumping into anything.

“Great work today,” Malcolm said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Jerry likes you.”

“Yeah,” Eddie muttered, staring at the costume lying in a heap on the floor. “I can tell.”

Chapter 2

Eddie came back the next day with a fresh change of clothes, his hair half-tamed with a travel-size bottle of gel he’d borrowed from a gym shower. He’d told himself that the scratches on his arms had come from the costume’s seams, nothing more. A prop like that was probably thrown together on a budget—cheap foam, rough stitching. Nothing mystical about it. Just a sweaty, humiliating gig.

The production lot was quiet when he arrived. The building’s exterior, drab and featureless from the street, gave way to the same pastel fever dream once he stepped inside. Posters of Jerry covered the hallway, each one featuring the dinosaur mid-wave or mid-song, eyes too shiny and teeth too perfect. It was the kind of imagery that was supposed to be comforting to kids but made Eddie’s skin crawl the longer he looked at it.

Clara was waiting for him near the studio door, holding a clipboard. She waved, her grin as bright as ever. “Welcome back, Eddie! Or should I say, Jerry!” Her voice dripped with practiced cheer.

He gave her a flat look. “Yeah. Just Eddie’s fine.”

“Not on set,” she said, wagging a finger. “Once you put on the suit, you’re Jerry. Only Jerry.” She said it with such rehearsed certainty that Eddie wasn’t sure if it was a production rule or something more cultish.

He raised an eyebrow. “What happens if I slip up and, you know, act like a regular guy?”

“You won’t,” Clara said, her tone firm in a way that surprised him. “Jerry’s world is all about magic. No one wants to see Eddie. Not even us.”

Something in the way she said it made him uneasy. He forced a laugh to cover it. “Got it. Magic. Hugs. Happiness.”

Clara’s expression softened. “Exactly. We keep the illusion alive at all times. It’s what the kids love.”

Eddie followed her onto the set, taking in the fake park again—the plastic trees, the painted backdrop of rolling green hills. It all looked cheerful enough, but under the bright studio lights, everything had a strangely flat quality, like a stage set for a nightmare. The smiling sun painted in the corner of the backdrop seemed too intense, almost glaring.

The kids were already gathered on a foam mat near the center. Six of them, ranging in age from about four to six years old, all wearing bright pastel clothing that matched the set. Most of them were chattering or playing with small props. All except Tina.

Tina sat slightly apart from the group, clutching a stuffed rabbit in both hands. Her hair was dark and tangled, and her big brown eyes darted toward the costume bag Clara carried, then away again. There was no joy in her gaze—just a quiet kind of dread.

“Morning, kids!” Clara called. “Jerry’s here today!”

The children perked up and clapped, though it felt more obligatory than excited. Tina didn’t move.

Eddie shot Clara a look, but she just beamed and nudged the costume bag toward him. “Time to suit up.”

* * * * * *

The headpiece was still warm. Eddie frowned as he slid it on, wondering if someone had used it before him that morning. But no—he was the only Jerry now. He could smell the faint coppery tang again, beneath the sweat and rubber. The interior padding was damp, as though it had absorbed more than just perspiration.

“Smile,” Clara said, giving him a double thumbs-up. “Jerry is always smiling. Even when the cameras aren’t rolling. The kids need that.”

“I can’t exactly not smile in this thing,” Eddie muttered, adjusting the jaw of the costume. “The face is stuck like this.”

Clara leaned closer and whispered, “No, I mean you. Smile. Jerry doesn’t like frowns.”

He was about to joke about union rules for mascots when the stage manager called out, “We’re live in three! Two—” and the bright studio lights flared.

The theme song started, sugary and repetitive. Eddie stepped forward, swaying and waving his arms the way Malcolm had shown him. The kids clapped on cue, though Tina’s claps were hesitant, half-hearted. Eddie crouched to her level, pretending to give her a playful high-five. Her small hand trembled.

When the segment ended, the kids were ushered to a snack table off set. Eddie slipped behind a backdrop, trying to catch his breath. The heat inside the costume was suffocating.

Then he felt it again. That strange, subtle vibration.

Dance.

Eddie froze. “What?”

No one was near him. Clara was talking to the cameraman across the set. The voice was inside the costume again, faint and whispering, as though the fabric itself was breathing against his ears.

Smile, Jerry. Smile.

His throat went dry. He yanked the head off and tossed it onto a prop bench, running a hand over his sweaty hair. “This thing has an echo chamber or something,” he muttered to himself. “I’m losing it.”

“Everything okay?” Clara’s voice was suddenly at his side.

“Yeah,” he said too quickly. “Just… hot in there.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “The first week can be rough. But you’ll get used to it. Jerry becomes part of you.”

“That’s… not exactly comforting,” he said with a weak laugh.

Clara smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t fight it. The last guy… he had trouble letting Jerry in.”

Eddie’s stomach sank. “What happened to him?”

She paused just long enough to make him uncomfortable. “He’s gone now. It’s fine.”

* * * * * *

Later, while Eddie was peeling off the costume in the dressing room, Tina wandered in. The other kids were still at craft tables, but she moved silently, rabbit in hand, watching him.

“Hey, kiddo,” Eddie said, giving her a small wave. He felt ridiculous, standing there half in costume, drenched in sweat.

She pointed at the discarded dinosaur head. “He’s not nice.”

Eddie frowned. “Jerry? He’s just a character, sweetheart. A pretend dinosaur.”

Tina shook her head hard. “No. He’s real. He’s hungry.”

Eddie crouched down to her level. “Who told you that?”

She stared at him for a long moment. “He told me. In my head.”

Before Eddie could respond, Clara appeared in the doorway. “Tina! What did we say about wandering off? Come on, honey. Let’s go.”

Tina gave Eddie one last look—something between warning and fear—before Clara ushered her out.

Alone again, Eddie turned back to the costume. The head’s grin seemed wider somehow, though he knew that was impossible. He reached out and touched the rubber teeth. They felt warm.

“Just a job,” he told himself. “Just a stupid job.”

But even as he said it, he thought he heard a faint giggle from the costume’s hollow mouth.

Chapter 3

Eddie woke the next morning with a dull ache crawling up his arms and shoulders, the kind of soreness you’d expect from hauling bricks, not waving at children for three hours. He sat up in the backseat of his Civic, grimacing as he rolled his shoulder. When he pulled up his sleeve, he saw the scratches again—long, faintly red lines that hadn’t been there before he started this job. They were arranged almost like claw marks.

He tried to shake it off. The costume was old, maybe full of hidden wires or broken padding. But as he traced the lines with his fingertip, the memory of Tina’s small, trembling voice replayed in his head: “He’s hungry.”

Eddie groaned and shoved a stale protein bar into his mouth. He didn’t believe in cursed suits or haunted puppets. He believed in paychecks, even when they came from humiliating gigs. Still, something about this show was starting to get under his skin.

* * * * * *

By the time he reached the studio, the lot was buzzing with activity. A new batch of crew members were moving cameras around, adjusting props, and testing lights. The air inside smelled like fresh paint and something faintly metallic. Eddie caught sight of Malcolm Greaves standing near the edge of the set, giving orders like a man conducting an orchestra of invisible strings.

Malcolm spotted him and waved him over. “Ah, our star dinosaur! Ready for another magical day?” His voice carried a strange warmth that felt forced, as though he were smiling with his teeth rather than his eyes.

Eddie smirked. “As ready as I’ll ever be to sweat my brains out.”

Malcolm clapped him on the back. “Good attitude. Remember, Eddie, you’re not just putting on a suit. You’re becoming Jerry. He’s real when you wear him.”

“Right. Real,” Eddie muttered. He’d heard Malcolm talk like this before, but there was something unsettling about the way the man’s gaze lingered on the costume, like it was more important than any actor who wore it.

Clara appeared at Eddie’s side with the familiar oversized duffel. “Time to suit up,” she sang, her tone just as chipper as always. She set the bag down and began laying out the pieces with reverence, smoothing her hands over the torso as though it were a fragile artifact.

Eddie crouched down to pick up the head. It was warm again. Warmer than it should’ve been. He tilted it, half-expecting to see a heating unit or battery pack inside, but the interior was empty—just that same strange rubbery padding that looked almost… porous.

“Does this thing always feel like it’s alive?” he joked, slipping his hands into the sleeves.

Clara didn’t laugh. “Jerry’s full of life,” she said, her smile never wavering. “Kids can tell when he’s happy.”

“Happy,” Eddie muttered. “Sure.”

* * * * * *

The first rehearsal of the day was grueling. The script called for a sing-along segment, with Eddie leading the kids in an overly cheerful song about sharing and friendship. The music blared while the kids clapped and hopped in a circle around him. He moved as best as he could in the heavy suit, his arms feeling heavier by the minute.

About halfway through, Eddie felt something strange—like the suit was… moving with him, not just responding to his motions but anticipating them. The padding around his arms seemed to contract slightly, as though tightening to grip his skin. At first he thought it was just his imagination, but then he felt it again. A faint squeeze. Almost a pulse.

“Cut! Take five,” Malcolm called from behind the camera.

Eddie stumbled off the mat, peeling the headpiece off and gasping for air. He set it down on a bench, watching it warily. Sweat dripped down his temple.

Clara trotted over with a bottle of water. “You’re doing great,” she said, her grin unwavering. “The kids love you.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie said, taking a long drink. “It feels like this thing has a mind of its own.”

Clara tilted her head. “Maybe you’re just finally letting Jerry in.”

“What does that even mean?” he asked, half-laughing. “You all talk like Jerry’s an actual guy.”

She looked at him, her expression suddenly unreadable. “To the kids, he is. That’s what matters.”

Before Eddie could respond, a crew member passed by and gave him a pointed look. “Careful,” the guy said with a smirk. “The last guy who wore that suit said the same thing.”

Eddie’s stomach tightened. “The last guy?”

Clara shot the crew member a warning glare. “Don’t start with your stories.”

“What stories?” Eddie pressed.

The guy shrugged. “He just… left one day. No goodbye. No nothing. People say the suit messed with his head.”

“Enough,” Clara said sharply. “Don’t scare him off. We need this to work.”

Eddie looked between them, uneasy. “What happened to him?”

The crew member just grinned. “Maybe Jerry didn’t like him.”

That night, Eddie dreamed of the costume. In the dream, it wasn’t on a hanger or in a bag. It was standing on its own in the middle of the studio, grinning with its wide, painted teeth. The eyes weren’t black anymore—they were red, glowing faintly in the dark. As he stared, the mouth opened just a little too wide, revealing not foam padding but rows of sharp, glistening teeth.

“Smile,” it whispered, its voice high and childish.

Eddie woke in a cold sweat, his heart hammering. He sat up in the backseat of his car, gasping for breath, the echo of that voice still crawling through his head.

* * * * * *

The next morning, he noticed the scratches on his arms again. New ones. Deeper this time. He ran a hand over them, wincing as his fingers brushed the raised welts.

By the time he arrived on set, his nerves were shot. He decided to keep quiet about the dream, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling that the costume was… watching him. Even when it was lying in its bag, it seemed to radiate a strange presence, like a living thing pretending to be dead.

Clara caught him staring at it. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head. “Just wondering what the hell this thing is made of.”

“Jerry’s special,” Clara said. “He’s been around a long time. Longer than most shows like this last.”

“How long?” Eddie asked.

She smiled, but her tone was evasive. “Long enough.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of filming. Eddie went through the motions, singing, dancing, hugging kids on cue, but his mind wasn’t on the performance. Every time he moved, he swore he could feel something beneath the costume’s padding—like tendons flexing, like muscle responding not just to his movements but to something else entirely.

By the end of the day, he was so drained that he barely noticed when Tina approached him. She was clutching her stuffed rabbit again, looking at him with wide, solemn eyes.

“You should go,” she whispered when Clara’s back was turned.

Eddie crouched down, the costume’s head resting under one arm. “Go? Why?”

“Jerry doesn’t like new people,” she said. “He’s hungry.”

Eddie blinked. “Hungry?”

Tina’s gaze dropped to the costume. “He eats.”

Clara swooped in a moment later, her smile bright but her tone sharp. “Tina! Let’s not bother Jerry, okay?” She pulled the girl away, leaving Eddie staring after them.

When he turned back to the costume, he could almost swear its grin had widened.

Chapter 4

By the fourth day on set, Eddie had decided to stop telling himself the weirdness was in his head.

The costume wasn’t just heavy; it clung to him. The scratches on his arms and shoulders were getting worse, as if the inside of the suit had grown sharper overnight. When he’d pointed this out to Clara, she’d just smiled and said, “It means you’re becoming one with Jerry. It’s a good sign.”

Eddie hadn’t known how to respond to that. He’d nodded and walked away, deciding not to ask any more questions that might make him sound insane—or, worse, make him realize he wasn’t imagining things at all.

The studio had begun to feel like a second home in the worst possible sense: cramped, airless, and full of strange noises that didn’t belong. The set looked cheerful under the lights, but when the cameras were off and the kids were gone, the place felt wrong. Too quiet. The fake grass had a chemical smell. The colorful props seemed to tilt at odd angles when the room went dim, like they were leaning in closer.

That afternoon, Eddie sat alone in the green room, half in costume while the crew reset the cameras. He slumped into a chair, the head of the suit lying on the table next to him. He stared at its grin—wide, toothy, almost manic—and felt his lip curl.

“You’re one creepy bastard,” he muttered.

The grin didn’t change, of course. It was just foam and rubber.

But then, softly, like a breath against the inside of his skull, came a whisper.

Smile.

Eddie’s blood turned to ice. He looked around the room. No one was there. “What?”

Smile for the children.

The voice wasn’t coming from outside. It was inside the head. Inside the costume.

Eddie shoved the head off the table, sending it tumbling to the floor. “Nope. Nope, I’m not doing this.” He rubbed his temples, telling himself it was fatigue, maybe dehydration. He’d been sweating buckets all week.

When Clara came in, she found him glaring at the head like it had personally insulted him.

“Everything okay?” she asked with that infuriatingly bright tone.

“Do you ever hear… I don’t know… things in this suit?” Eddie asked, voice low.

Clara tilted her head, smiling as if she were humoring a child. “Jerry talks to all of us, Eddie. That’s how we keep the magic alive.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Eddie said sharply. “I mean actual voices. Words. It’s not normal.”

Clara’s grin faltered just a fraction. “Don’t fight it. If you do, it’ll be harder. Jerry doesn’t like it when someone fights him.”

Eddie stared at her. “You keep talking like this thing’s alive.”

She looked away, adjusting the papers on her clipboard. “It’s not a thing. It’s Jerry.”

* * * * * *

The whispers didn’t stop when filming started. If anything, they got worse.

As Eddie danced and waved on cue, he felt the voice under the music, murmuring to him. Sometimes it said, “Smile.” Other times, “Closer.” Once, when he reached for Tina’s hand, it hissed, “Take her.”

Eddie froze mid-dance, his chest tightening. The director shouted, “Cut!” but Eddie barely heard it. He was too busy staring at Tina, who had pulled her hand back, her eyes wide with a fear that looked far too real for a children’s show.

“What’s wrong with you?” Malcolm demanded as he strode onto the set.

“I—uh, nothing,” Eddie stammered. “I just—got dizzy.”

“Don’t get dizzy,” Malcolm snapped. “Jerry doesn’t get dizzy. He’s happy, he’s strong, he’s—” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Are you not feeling Jerry yet?”

Eddie blinked. “Feeling him? What the hell does that mean?”

Malcolm’s expression softened into something that almost resembled pity. “You’ll get there. They all do.”

The way he said it made Eddie’s skin crawl.

Later, during lunch, Eddie found himself sitting next to Tina at the craft table. The other kids were coloring happy rainbows and smiling dinosaurs, but Tina was hunched over her paper, furiously drawing in dark crayon strokes.

“What are you making?” Eddie asked, leaning closer.

She didn’t look up. “Him.”

Eddie glanced at the page. It was a crude but unmistakable drawing of Jerry, but not the Jerry the crew wanted to show on TV. This Jerry had red eyes and sharp, jagged teeth. The dinosaur’s arms were too long, stretching toward stick-figure children who were trying to run.

“That’s… pretty scary,” Eddie said. “Why’s he look like that?”

“Because that’s what he is,” Tina whispered.

Eddie swallowed. “Tina, it’s just a costume. It’s me in there. You know that, right?”

She finally looked up at him, her expression strangely adult. “No. It’s not you when you put it on.”

Before Eddie could respond, Clara appeared like she’d been summoned. “Hey, Jerry! Break’s over!” she called. Then, noticing the drawing, she crouched down and smiled at Tina. “Let’s not scare Jerry with those pictures, sweetie. Why don’t you draw something nice?”

Tina looked at Clara with quiet defiance, then crumpled the drawing into a ball. Eddie didn’t miss the way Clara’s hand lingered on the child’s shoulder, firm, almost too tight.

The day ended with a long, exhausting scene involving a birthday party setup. Balloons, streamers, and fake cupcakes. Eddie danced, sang, and hugged children until his muscles burned. When the director finally called it a wrap, he nearly tore the costume off.

As he shoved the head into the bag, he felt something shift inside. He froze and peered into the empty eye holes. For just a second, he thought he saw something wet glisten in the darkness—a hint of movement, like something alive crawling just beneath the surface.

Eddie dropped the head. It rolled across the floor and came to rest upright, its wide grin aimed directly at him.

He backed away. “Nope. Not doing this. I’m quitting.”

“You can’t quit,” Clara said from the doorway. She was holding his paycheck for the week, her smile sharp. “You signed a contract.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. “I’ll pay the penalty. I don’t care. That thing’s not right.”

Clara stepped closer, holding out the envelope. “Take the money. You need it, don’t you? You don’t want to go back to sleeping in your car.”

Eddie froze. “How do you know about that?”

She didn’t answer. She just smiled.

That night, Eddie couldn’t sleep. He kept the duffel bag with the costume on the passenger seat of his car, zipped up tight, but the thought of it sitting there made his stomach churn. Around 3 a.m., he woke to the faint sound of something shifting in the bag. A soft, rubbery creak.

He unzipped it just a crack and shone his phone’s flashlight inside.

The head was turned slightly toward him.

He hadn’t left it like that.

Eddie zipped the bag shut and shoved it into the trunk.

Chapter 5

Eddie arrived at the studio the next day determined to get some answers. He had barely slept, his dreams consumed by the sound of that whisper—Smile. Dance. Closer. He woke with the unsettling feeling that the suit had been watching him while he slept, though he’d shoved it in the trunk of his car.

The crew bustled around as usual when he arrived. Camera operators adjusted tripods, the lighting rig hummed, and the kids rehearsed with the stand-in crew members. The ordinary chaos of a children’s TV set should have been comforting, but the air felt heavy, like everyone was going through the motions of a ritual rather than a show.

Malcolm was nowhere to be seen, which gave Eddie an idea.

He needed to know what happened to the last guy.

While Clara was distracted organizing props, Eddie slipped out of the green room and down the hall to the production office. He had been in there once for a quick contract signing, but he’d barely looked around. Now, he noticed that the walls were lined with cabinets, each labeled with a year range: 1993–1995, 1996–1998, and so on.

Eddie’s fingers hovered over a cabinet marked: “ARCHIVE – SEASONS 1–5.” He tugged the drawer open. Inside, rows of VHS tapes stared back at him, each labeled with white stickers in tidy handwriting: “Jerry – Episode 4A,” “Jerry – Sing Along Special,” “Jerry – Campfire Fun.”

He reached for one at random but paused when he saw a smaller box pushed to the side. The label read: “UNSAFE – DO NOT USE.”

His curiosity surged. He glanced at the door to make sure no one was coming, then slid the tape into the player on the office TV.

The screen crackled to life. The footage was old, grainy. The set looked similar to the one Eddie knew, but smaller and dimly lit. Kids danced around a slightly different Jerry—one that seemed bulkier, with a darker green hue and smaller, sharper teeth. The man in the costume waved, but his movements looked stiff, almost pained.

Eddie squinted. The actor’s eyes were just visible through the mesh of the costume’s mouth. They were wide and frantic.

The scene shifted abruptly. The kids were gone. The man in the suit stumbled toward the camera, pulling at the head. It wouldn’t come off. He clawed at the sides of the costume, leaving scratches in the foam, while muffled shouting filled the audio.

“Help me! It won’t—It’s not—” The feed glitched, cutting his voice into static.

For a moment, the man stopped struggling. He turned slowly toward the camera, and a strange smile stretched across the dinosaur’s face—unnatural, as if the suit itself was grinning.

Then the tape cut to black.

Eddie sat frozen, the hiss of static filling the room. His heart was pounding so hard he felt it in his throat.

What the hell was this?

* * * * * *

“Looking for something?”

Eddie jumped and turned. Malcolm was standing in the doorway, his face shadowed by the fluorescent light.

“Uh—I… was just curious about the old episodes,” Eddie said, fumbling for an excuse. “Thought I’d see how the character evolved.”

Malcolm’s eyes flicked to the TV, then back to Eddie. “Those aren’t for new cast members. Too much… history.” He stepped inside and stopped the tape, ejecting it with deliberate slowness. “You need to focus on this Jerry, not the past.”

Eddie stood, hands raised. “I just—who was that guy? The one in the tape?”

Malcolm smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “An actor. That’s all you need to know.”

“Did something happen to him?” Eddie pressed.

Malcolm’s smile sharpened. “We don’t talk about him anymore. And neither will you. Understand?”

The threat was subtle but clear. Eddie swallowed and nodded.

“Good,” Malcolm said, sliding the tape back into its box. “Jerry is about joy, Eddie. Don’t get lost chasing shadows.”

* * * * * *

Filming that afternoon was worse than usual. Eddie couldn’t stop picturing the man on the tape, screaming behind the costume’s grin. Every time Eddie moved, he felt the suit squeeze tighter, almost like it was testing him.

When he crouched to hug one of the kids, Tina flinched and whispered, “You’re not you anymore.”

The words hit harder than he expected. He tried to smile through the mask, but it felt wrong. His own grin didn’t matter. The costume was already smiling for him.

* * * * * *

During a short break, Eddie cornered one of the background actors, a guy in his twenties who played one of the human sidekick characters. “Hey,” Eddie said quietly. “You ever hear stories about the last Jerry?”

The guy’s expression darkened. “Yeah. He freaked out one day. Started screaming that the suit was alive. They said he walked off set and never came back. But…” He hesitated, glancing around. “Some of us think he didn’t walk anywhere. Think he’s still here.”

Eddie frowned. “What do you mean, still here?”

“Malcolm had the studio closed for two days after that. When we came back, they had a new Jerry. No one ever saw the guy again. No goodbye, no social media, nothing.”

“That’s not normal,” Eddie said.

The guy gave him a sharp look. “You think any of this is normal?”

Before Eddie could reply, Clara’s voice called from across the set, overly sweet. “Jerry! We’re ready for you again!”

Eddie turned, but Clara’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. He wondered how much she knew.

* * * * * *

After the day’s filming wrapped, Eddie stayed behind while the crew left. He told Clara he needed a few minutes to “decompress.” She gave him a strange look but didn’t argue.

Once alone, Eddie approached the costume bag. He stared at the head for a long moment, then slowly reached out and touched its surface. It was warm, like always.

“You’re not alive,” he whispered. “You’re just rubber and foam. That’s it.”

The grin stared back at him.

He leaned closer, his breath fogging the smooth surface of the teeth.

Then he heard it—soft, unmistakable.

Don’t fight me.

Eddie jerked his hand back, heart hammering. His mind screamed at him to get out, to drive away and never come back. But his rent money was in the next paycheck, and something told him Malcolm wouldn’t just let him walk.

He zipped the bag shut and stormed out of the studio, but the words lingered in his head like a splinter.

Don’t fight me.

* * * * * *

That night, Eddie tried to distract himself with fast food and bad TV, but the whispers wouldn’t stop. He didn’t even have to touch the costume now—he swore he could feel it in the trunk, calling to him.

At one point, he turned off the TV and sat there in silence, listening.

Dance.

His heart pounded. It was faint, but it was real.

He grabbed his keys and almost left the car parked by a dumpster. But where would he go? He didn’t have another gig. He didn’t have a home.

He was trapped, just like the man on the tape.

Chapter 6

The next morning, Eddie felt like someone had shoved a live wire into his skull. He hadn’t slept, not really—every time he drifted off, he felt that whisper press against his thoughts, just on the edge of hearing. Smile. Dance. Play. He’d even dreamed of the suit slithering down the aisle of his car, crawling closer like it didn’t need him to wear it to move.

By the time he pulled into the studio lot, his hands were trembling on the steering wheel.

Inside, everything was as bright and cheery as ever, which somehow made it worse. The pastel walls glared under the fluorescent lights. The murals of Jerry plastered along the corridor seemed to watch him as he walked toward Studio 2. He tried to tell himself it was just exhaustion, but deep down, he knew something was wrong.

Clara was waiting near the set, smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Good morning, Jerry!” she chirped, holding out the duffel bag.

Eddie barely glanced at it. “Clara, we need to talk.”

Her smile wavered just slightly, but she kept her voice bright. “We can talk after filming, okay? We’ve got a tight schedule today.”

“No,” Eddie said, lowering his voice. “This thing—this suit—it’s not normal. It’s scratching me. And I swear I hear—” He stopped, realizing how insane he was about to sound.

“You hear Jerry,” Clara finished for him, her tone suddenly softer, almost maternal. “It means he’s bonding with you.”

“Bonding?” Eddie repeated, incredulous. “What is this, some cult thing? Because I didn’t sign up for—”

“Shhh,” she said sharply, glancing around. “Don’t talk like that here. People get nervous when you question Jerry.”

Eddie stared at her. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Clara smiled again, but there was a strange tightness in her expression. “Let’s just get through today, okay?”

On set, the children were gathered around a foam picnic table, rehearsing their lines with the crew’s stand-in performer. Most of the kids looked bored, fiddling with props or chattering amongst themselves, but Tina sat apart, quietly clutching her stuffed rabbit. She didn’t take her eyes off the duffel bag in Clara’s hands.

Eddie caught her gaze. For a moment, it felt like she was staring right through him, like she knew he was about to put on something that wasn’t entirely… him.

When filming started, Eddie forced himself into the costume, ignoring the warmth that seeped into his skin the second it closed around him. The script called for a cheerful picnic scene, with Jerry handing out fake sandwiches and singing about how “sharing is caring.” Eddie went through the motions, but the whispers started again almost immediately.

Closer.

He froze mid-step.

“Jerry!” Malcolm barked from behind the camera. “Don’t freeze. Hand Tina her sandwich.”

Eddie shuffled forward, the suit feeling heavier with each step. Tina recoiled when he crouched to offer her the prop sandwich.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “It’s not you anymore.”

The words stunned him, and he almost dropped the sandwich. Behind the cameras, Clara smiled encouragingly, mouthing, “Go on, Jerry.”

Eddie finished the scene with his chest tight and his breath shallow.

* * * * * *

During a break, Eddie slipped off the head and slumped on a bench near the craft table. He was soaked with sweat, his arms throbbing with fresh scratches. He glanced down and saw the marks again—angrier now, redder, as if the suit’s insides had claws.

Tina approached quietly, looking around to make sure no adults were watching. “You need to leave,” she said softly, her small fingers gripping the stuffed rabbit like it was a lifeline.

Eddie looked at her, startled. “Tina, why do you keep saying that?”

“Because Jerry gets worse,” she said. “When he picks someone, they don’t come back.”

Eddie’s mouth went dry. “What do you mean, they don’t come back?”

She looked down, her hair falling over her face. “The other guy. He was nice. He’s gone now. Jerry ate him.”

Eddie felt a chill roll through him. “Tina, that’s… that’s not possible. It’s just a costume.”

She shook her head slowly. “No. It’s him.”

Before Eddie could ask anything else, Clara appeared, her voice sugar-sweet. “Tina! Let’s get you some juice, sweetheart. Jerry needs a rest.” She shot Eddie a disapproving glare and led the girl away.

Eddie sat there for a long moment, trying to convince himself this was all just some twisted joke. But when he reached for the head of the costume again, he felt something inside shift under his fingers, like muscle flexing beneath skin.

He dropped it, heart hammering. “What the hell are you?”

There was no answer, just that ever-present grin.

Later, Eddie cornered one of the camera operators while Clara was busy. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You’ve been here a while, right?”

The guy shrugged. “Long enough.”

“You ever hear anything about the last Jerry? The guy who wore this suit before me?”

The camera operator looked nervous. “You don’t want to ask about him.”

“I’m asking,” Eddie said firmly.

The guy hesitated, then lowered his voice. “He started talking about the suit like it was alive. Kept saying he couldn’t take it off. Then one day, he didn’t show up. No calls, no messages. Just… gone. Malcolm said he quit, but I don’t buy it.”

Eddie felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “You think something happened to him here?”

The guy just gave him a pointed look. “I think you should watch yourself.”

Filming resumed with a “storytime” segment where Jerry sat on the grass with the kids gathered around, reading a storybook with exaggerated gestures. Eddie tried to keep his mind on the lines, but the whispers kept creeping in.

Smile. Closer. Take her.

His hands trembled as he turned the pages. He glanced at Tina, who was watching him with wide, knowing eyes.

She looked like she wanted to run.

When the day finally wrapped, Eddie practically tore himself out of the costume and stuffed it into the bag. He couldn’t get away from it fast enough.

Clara appeared, blocking the door. “Tough day?” she asked with a smile that felt sharper than usual.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “What is this, Clara? What’s going on with this suit?”

Her smile didn’t falter, but her voice dropped. “Don’t fight him, Eddie. It’s worse if you fight.”

“Him?” Eddie repeated. “You’re talking like Jerry is a person.”

“Jerry’s more than that,” she said, tilting her head. “He’s what the kids need. What we all need. You’ll understand if you just… let go.”

Eddie stared at her, horrified. “You’re all out of your damn minds.”

She only smiled and stepped aside. “See you tomorrow, Jerry.”

That night, Eddie lay in the backseat of his car, staring at the ceiling. Every sound outside—the hum of traffic, the buzz of a streetlight—was drowned out by the memory of that whisper.

Don’t fight me.

He covered his face with his hands, and for the first time, he wondered if he was already losing the battle.

Chapter 7

Eddie woke with his shirt stuck to his chest, drenched in sweat that smelled faintly of copper. It was still dark outside, the interior of his Civic lit only by the dim orange glow of a nearby streetlamp. For a few disoriented seconds, he thought he was still dreaming—that he was still trapped in the dinosaur suit.

Then he realized he wasn’t wearing it.

He sat up with a jolt, the backseat creaking under his weight. The duffel bag was zipped shut, sitting upright on the passenger seat like an unwelcome passenger. Eddie stared at it, heart hammering, certain he’d seen it move. A faint, rubbery creak echoed in his mind, though the car was dead silent.

Don’t fight me.

The whisper was faint, but it was there. Not in his ears, but deep in his skull. He scrambled for the bag, unzipping it in one frantic motion. The head of Jerry rolled into his lap, grinning at him like it had been waiting.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie muttered, shoving the head back inside. He zipped the bag again and slammed it into the trunk, locking it like that would do any good. He sat for a long time, hands gripping the wheel, until the sky outside began to lighten with the dull gray of dawn.

He had half a mind to quit. Walk away. Forget the paycheck, forget the show. But as he looked at the cracks in his windshield and thought of the motel debt he still owed, quitting wasn’t an option. Not yet.

Not until he understood what the hell was happening to him.

* * * * * *

When Eddie arrived at the studio, he was greeted by Clara, who looked as annoyingly bright as ever. “Morning, Jerry!” she sang, as if nothing were wrong.

He forced a smile. “Morning.”

“You look tired,” she said, her smile softening. “Jerry needs his energy, you know. The kids can feel it when you’re not… all there.”

Eddie’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I bet they can.”

She tilted her head but didn’t press. Instead, she handed him the bag. “You’ll feel better once you’re in him.”

He almost flinched at the way she said it—in him, like it was more than a costume.

He wanted to tell her no, to walk out, but something in her gaze—calm, knowing—stopped him. Against his better judgment, he took the bag.

The second Eddie pulled the torso of the costume over his head, he felt it. A strange suction against his skin, as though the inside of the suit had molded to him overnight. He shifted his arms and felt the material pull with him, tight but yielding, like muscle sliding over bone.

It was warm—unnaturally so. And not just warm, but pulsing, like a slow, faint heartbeat.

He froze, his breath catching. “What the hell…”

Closer.

The whisper slithered into his mind, smooth and almost affectionate.

He yanked the head back off, panting. “No. Nope. This isn’t happening.”

“You okay?” Clara called from across the room.

Eddie forced a shaky laugh. “Yeah. Just… hot in here.”

Clara gave him a long look but said nothing.

* * * * * *

Filming that day was a nightmare. The script called for a game of tag with the kids, which meant Eddie had to run, jump, and crouch in the heavy suit. Every time he moved, he felt the inside of the costume shift—not like fabric, but like something living. At one point, when he bent to scoop up a prop ball, he swore he felt something brush against his ribs from inside the suit. A faint, slick touch, like fingers.

He froze mid-scene, heart racing. One of the kids giggled, thinking it was part of the act.

“Keep going, Jerry!” Malcolm barked from behind the camera. “Don’t stop now. You’re golden!”

Eddie stumbled through the rest of the scene, but by the time it wrapped, his shirt was plastered to his back with sweat.

During a short break, he went into the dressing room, locked the door, and ripped the costume off. As he peeled the torso away, he noticed something strange—his skin was blotched with faint, round marks, almost like suction bruises.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he muttered, running his hands over his ribs.

Then he saw the zipper.

It hadn’t been there before.

A thin zipper ran vertically along the costume’s belly, half-hidden in the green material. His breath hitched. He tugged it open, half-expecting to find padding or foam.

Instead, he found flesh.

The interior wasn’t synthetic at all—it was wet, glistening, and pink, like raw muscle. Something inside flexed slightly, as if reacting to his touch. A faint, sour-sweet smell, like blood and rotting meat, wafted out.

Eddie staggered back. “No. No, no, no—”

Feed me.

The whisper wasn’t faint anymore. It was clear and insistent.

Eddie slammed the zipper shut, bile rising in his throat.

He barely made it back on set, his hands trembling as he adjusted the head. Tina watched him from across the fake picnic table, her big brown eyes wide with fear.

“You see it now,” she whispered when he walked past.

Eddie froze. “What?”

“The belly,” she said, barely moving her lips. “It’s hungry.”

Her words sent a chill down his spine. He glanced at her, but before he could respond, Clara swooped in, smiling. “Everything okay over here?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, voice tight. “Everything’s just great.”

* * * * * *

That night, Eddie tried everything. He dragged the costume out behind the studio, doused it with lighter fluid, and struck a match. The flames licked at the surface, but instead of burning, the material bubbled and hissed like skin under heat. A foul stench filled the air, and Eddie dropped the match in horror. The flames died out almost instantly, leaving the costume untouched.

“Goddammit,” he hissed, kicking the bag. “What are you?”

There was no answer, but he swore the grin looked wider in the moonlight.

He returned to his car, shaking. He’d had bad gigs before. He’d been humiliated, underpaid, and ignored. But nothing—nothing—had ever scared him like this. He needed to get out.

He picked up his phone and called Jules. “I’m done,” he said as soon as his agent answered. “This show, this suit—something’s not right. I’m quitting.”

“Eddie,” Jules said with a groan, “you can’t quit now. You just landed steady work. Do you know how rare that is for you?”

“I don’t care. I’m telling you, something’s wrong with—”

The line went dead. His phone screen went black. When he tried to power it back on, nothing happened.

The battery wasn’t dead. It had been at 70%.

Eddie stared at the reflection of his face in the dark screen, and for a split second, he thought he saw Jerry’s grin staring back.

When he finally collapsed in the backseat of his car, the costume was still in the trunk, silent. But Eddie couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the whisper again.

Don’t fight me. You’re mine now.

He pressed his hands over his ears, but the voice came from deeper than sound.

Chapter 8

Eddie didn’t sleep that night. When dawn rolled in, gray and lifeless, he was still sitting in the driver’s seat of his Civic, staring at the trunk. He’d spent hours trying to convince himself that he was hallucinating, that the suit’s strange warmth and whispers were nothing but his frayed nerves.

But deep down, he knew better.

When he walked into the studio, Clara greeted him like always, with that too-wide smile. “Morning, Jerry!” she sang, swinging the duffel bag toward him.

“Cut it out,” Eddie muttered, waving her off.

“Cut what out?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“This… this act,” Eddie said, his voice low. “Something’s wrong with this suit, and I know you know it. You’ve known all along.”

Clara’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes hardened. “It’s better if you don’t fight it,” she said softly. “You’re his now. It’s easier if you just… let him in.”

He stared at her, his gut twisting. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“You will,” she said. “Everyone does.”

She turned and walked toward the set, leaving him holding the bag like a man holding a live grenade.

That day’s shoot felt different. There was a tension in the air, heavier than usual. Malcolm was pacing, his voice sharper than normal as he barked instructions at the crew. “We’re filming something special today,” he announced. “A live taping. A big event to celebrate Jerry’s return.”

The word return stuck in Eddie’s brain. Return from what? Or to what?

The kids seemed nervous, especially Tina. She sat with her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest, staring at the cameras with wide, wary eyes. When Eddie crouched near her before filming, she whispered, “Don’t let him eat me.”

Eddie froze. “What did you say?”

Tina’s lip trembled. “He wants me. I heard him.”

Eddie’s stomach turned. He looked up at Clara, who was watching them closely, smiling as if nothing was wrong.

* * * * * *

During the first break, Eddie cornered Malcolm. “What’s going on with this ‘special episode’? And why is Tina so scared?”

Malcolm’s expression was calm, but his eyes were cold. “Tina is perfect for this. She has… energy. The kind Jerry thrives on.”

“Energy?” Eddie asked, his voice rising. “She’s a kid, not a battery.”

Malcolm stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You don’t understand what Jerry is. You wear him, but you haven’t truly become him yet. When you do, you’ll see.”

Eddie’s skin crawled. “See what?”

Malcolm smiled faintly. “The real magic.”

When Clara led the kids off set for snacks, Eddie decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to know what was behind all this.

The stage had a back area filled with props and set pieces. Eddie had always assumed the door at the far end was just for storage, but today, curiosity gnawed at him. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then slipped through the door.

What he found didn’t look like storage.

A narrow staircase led down into darkness. A draft of cold, damp air rushed past him, carrying the faint stench of mildew and… something coppery, like blood.

“Jesus,” he muttered, flicking on his phone flashlight.

The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended. The walls were concrete, rough and stained. At the bottom, he found a long hallway lined with doors. The first few opened into storage rooms, full of old props—costumes of human characters, faded set pieces, broken cameras.

Then he opened a door marked “RETIREMENT.”

Eddie’s breath caught in his throat.

The room was filled with old Jerry suits.

Dozens of them, piled like carcasses. Some were moldy and torn, others stiff with what looked disturbingly like dried blood. One had claw marks raked across its belly, as if someone had tried to claw their way out.

Eddie stumbled back, his heart pounding.

Smile, a whisper hissed in the dark, but this time it didn’t come from his head. It came from one of the suits.

He froze. The nearest suit—the one with the claw marks—was twitching, its head jerking slightly as if something inside it still lived.

Eddie slammed the door and bolted up the stairs, his breath ragged.

When he emerged back onto the soundstage, Clara was waiting. She tilted her head, her smile knowing. “You’ve been exploring,” she said softly.

Eddie’s voice shook. “What the hell is all that down there?”

Clara didn’t answer directly. Instead, she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Jerry needs to be renewed. He needs… energy. It’s always been this way. We just give him what he needs.”

“What are you talking about?” Eddie demanded.

She glanced at Tina, who was sipping from a juice box across the set. “Tonight’s episode is special. Jerry will be fed.”

Eddie’s stomach turned. “Fed? On what?”

Clara’s smile widened, but her eyes stayed cold. “You’ll see.”

* * * * * *

The rest of the day felt like a countdown to something terrible. Malcolm kept referring to the “ritual episode,” though no one else used the word ritual. The crew avoided Eddie’s gaze, working quietly as they set up props for the “big finale” scene—a birthday party sequence with Tina as the “birthday guest of honor.”

When Eddie tried to talk to Tina, Clara blocked him. “Focus on your role,” she said, voice like steel under the sweetness. “It’s almost time.”

Eddie wanted to rip off the costume and run, but some part of him—maybe desperation, maybe the sick pull of curiosity—kept him rooted.

As the cameras rolled for the special taping, Eddie found himself trapped. Every time he tried to move in a way the script didn’t call for, the suit resisted. The heavy padding hugged him tighter, almost steering him. He tried to step back, but the costume propelled him forward, waving, smiling, hugging the kids.

When Tina stepped onto the stage, holding her stuffed rabbit, the whispers exploded in his mind.

Take her. Feed me.

Eddie staggered, clutching the side of his head. “No,” he hissed under his breath. “I’m not doing this.”

“Jerry!” Malcolm barked from behind the camera. “Big smile! Go hug Tina!”

Tina’s eyes locked on his, terrified.

“Help me,” she whispered.

The suit moved on its own. His legs lurched forward like they weren’t his. His arms opened wide, the claws flexing.

Take her.

Eddie fought back with everything he had, digging his heels into the foam grass. “No!” he shouted, ripping the head halfway off. The cameras caught the break, and Malcolm stormed onto the set, furious.

“What the hell are you doing?” Malcolm growled.

“This thing—this thing—it’s not a costume!” Eddie shouted. “It’s alive! It wants—”

Malcolm struck him hard across the face, the blow shocking him into silence. “Don’t you dare ruin this,” Malcolm hissed. “Jerry must be fed.”

Eddie stumbled back, clutching his face. For a moment, all he saw was Malcolm’s smirking face and Tina’s wide, terrified eyes.

And then, something inside Eddie snapped.

If the suit wanted to feed, it wasn’t going to be on a child.

Chapter 9

Eddie’s ears rang from the blow, his cheek throbbing where Malcolm’s hand had connected. The director’s face hovered inches from his, sharp and furious. “You’re not going to ruin this, Larkins. Do you understand me? You’re nothing without Jerry. We all are.”

Eddie staggered backward, the dinosaur suit still hanging from his shoulders like dead weight. “You’re out of your mind!” he spat. “This isn’t a show! It’s a—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. The suit tightened, a sudden, suffocating squeeze around his torso. His breath caught.

Feed me, the voice snarled inside his skull, no longer soft or coaxing. It was demanding, feral.

Malcolm’s grin widened. “Ah. He’s waking up in you, isn’t he? You feel it now. You see what we’re doing here.”

Eddie shook his head, trying to back away, but Clara appeared behind him, smiling like she always did, though her eyes were different now—hungry, almost worshipful. “Don’t fight him,” she said softly. “It’s worse when you fight.”

“What the hell are you people?” Eddie rasped. “You’re feeding this… thing. On kids. On Tina!”

Clara’s smile never faltered. “Jerry needs love. And children are full of it. The energy sustains him. It’s always been this way.”

“You’re insane,” Eddie said, his voice cracking. “I’m not going to let this happen.”

Malcolm’s face twisted in anger. “Then you’ll be the one he feeds on.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Eddie cried.

Before Malcolm could react, he stumbled toward Malcolm, claws raised, hovering inches from Malcolm’s throat. The suit pulsed with a sick warmth, almost eager. He could feel its hunger like a second heartbeat, clawing at his mind.

Eddie gritted his teeth. “You want to be fed?” he snarled at the voice in his head. “Then eat this!”

Yes, the voice in his head called. Closer. Take him. Feed me.

To his horror, Malcolm never even flinched. “Go on! Do it!” he taunted Eddie. “Then you’ll finally see what it means to be Jerry!”

Before he could reconsider, he drove the claws into Malcolm’s chest.

The studio erupted into chaos. One of the camera operators screamed. Clara dropped her clipboard, her cheerful façade cracking as she stared at Malcolm, who let out a gurgling sound, eyes wide with shock. Blood soaked his shirt in dark, spreading patches.

Eddie staggered back, horrified. He hadn’t meant to… but the suit had wanted it. It had pushed him to do it.

Malcolm collapsed to the floor, his lips curling into a strange, almost satisfied smile as he whispered, “Jerry… lives.”

The suit pulsed against Eddie’s skin, the warmth intensifying. A low, guttural laugh echoed inside his mind.

Good. 

Eddie tore at the costume, trying to rip it off.

“Get off me!” he shouted, clawing at the seams. But the material wouldn’t tear. The zipper on the belly writhed under his hands, almost like it was alive.

Clara stepped forward, her voice trembling but still carrying that twisted devotion. “You’ve done it. He’s yours now. You can feel it, can’t you? He’s part of you.”

Eddie’s breath came fast and shallow. He stumbled backward, shaking his head. “No. I’m not—”

“Jerry’s chosen you,” Clara said, stepping closer. “You can’t fight it. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

Eddie’s gaze darted to Tina, who was standing frozen near the fake picnic table, her stuffed rabbit clutched so tight her knuckles were white. Her eyes met his, pleading.

Eddie clenched his jaw. “I’m getting her out of here.”

Clara’s smile turned brittle. “You can’t. She belongs to him.”

“Like hell she does!” Eddie snarled.

The crew moved to block him as he tried to grab Tina, but the suit reacted before Eddie could. A sudden surge of strength shot through his limbs, and he swung his clawed arm without thinking. The claws tore through a camera tripod, sending it crashing to the floor. Crew members screamed and scattered.

“Stay back!” Eddie roared, his voice distorted through the costume’s head.

For a moment, no one moved. Clara stared at him, her face pale but still smiling in that uncanny way. “You can’t run from him, Eddie. He’ll follow you. He always does.”

Eddie ignored her. He scooped Tina up in one arm—she was light, shaking like a leaf—and bolted toward the side exit.

The suit’s weight slowed him, but the adrenaline kept him moving. Every step felt like he was running in quicksand, the costume pulling and constricting, as if it didn’t want him to leave.

Don’t run. Stay. Feed.

“Shut up!” he shouted aloud, pounding through the hallway.

He made it to the dressing room and slammed the door behind him, locking it. Tina stared up at him, her face pale. “You’re not you,” she whispered.

“I’m still me,” he said, trying to sound steady even as the suit’s claws twitched on their own. “I’m getting you out, okay?”

She shook her head. “He’s inside you.”

Eddie swallowed hard and started tearing at the zipper. He needed to get the suit off. But when he unzipped the belly, the pulsing flesh inside writhed like a nest of worms. A faint, wet laugh bubbled in his mind.

Tina whimpered. “It’s hungry.”

“I know,” Eddie muttered, zipping it shut again. He needed a weapon. Something to cut this thing off his body.

His eyes landed on a pair of scissors on the dressing table. He grabbed them and tried to slice through the arm of the suit. The blades screeched against the material, barely leaving a scratch.

“Come on,” he growled, sawing harder. But the suit flexed around the scissors, pushing them away as if alive.

The doorknob rattled. Clara’s voice floated in, soft and coaxing. “Eddie… open the door. It’s okay. You don’t have to fight him. Just bring Tina back. We’ll take care of her.”

“Stay back!” Eddie shouted, pressing his back against the door.

Clara’s tone didn’t change. “You’ll see, Eddie. This is what you were meant for. Why do you think you were chosen? Why do you think the suit picked you?”

Eddie’s skin crawled. “I don’t care what it wants. I’m done.”

The suit pulsed, the voice hissing. You’re never done.

Eddie’s mind whirled. He had to get out. He scooped Tina up again and glanced at the window. It was small, but maybe—just maybe—he could squeeze through if he broke it.

He grabbed a chair and swung it hard. The glass shattered, raining shards onto the parking lot outside.

“Cover your eyes,” he told Tina, climbing onto the ledge.

Behind him, the door splintered as someone slammed into it. “Eddie! Don’t you dare leave with her!” Clara’s voice had lost all sweetness now; it was raw and desperate.

Eddie didn’t wait. He jumped.

They hit the asphalt hard, but Eddie rolled, shielding Tina from the worst of it. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he pushed it aside. He ran toward the parking lot, the suit heavy but not enough to stop him.

The whispers turned into snarls. Stay. Feed. You’re mine.

“Not today,” Eddie spat, fumbling for his car keys.

He tossed Tina into the passenger seat and dove into the driver’s seat. The suit tightened, the claws scraping against the steering wheel like it was trying to stop him. He jammed the keys into the ignition and floored it.

Behind him, Clara and the crew spilled out of the building, shouting. For a moment, he saw Malcolm’s body sprawled in the doorway, the blood dark and gleaming under the studio lights.

Eddie didn’t look back.

He drove for what felt like hours, Tina silent beside him. When he finally pulled over on the shoulder near an under-construction on-ramp, his hands were shaking.

“We’re okay,” he said, though he didn’t believe it. “We’re okay now.”

But the suit pulsed against his skin, tighter than ever, and the whisper that followed made his stomach drop.

You can’t run from me, Eddie. I’m inside you now.

Chapter 10 

The road stretched empty under the dying light of the evening, cracked asphalt fading into a horizon of rust-colored hills. Eddie sat behind the wheel of his idling Civic, hands clamped to the steering wheel. The suit clung to him like a second skin now, tighter than it had ever been. Every breath felt like it had to claw its way past something alive.

Tina stood a few feet away on the roadside gravel, clutching her rabbit, her wide eyes locked on him.

“You’re not taking it off,” she whispered.

“I’ve tried,” Eddie said, his voice frayed. “It won’t come off. I swear to God I’m trying. It’s like it’s become a part of me.”

Tina frowned.

Eddie fumbled at the zipper across his chest, but the metal was fused to the suit now. He pulled harder, and the material flexed against him in response, rippling beneath his fingers like muscle. It laughed—he laughed—from somewhere inside his own skull.

“You need to get away from me, Tina. As far as you can. Now.”

“I’m not leaving you,” she said, her grip on the rabbit tightening.

“You have to. This thing—it wants you. But it can’t have you. Not if I end it first.”

She shook her head slowly. “You can’t kill him. He just finds someone else.”

“Maybe,” Eddie said, starting to tremble. “But maybe if I go out with him, there won’t be anything left to pass on.”

Tina’s lips parted, but no words came out. The wind pulled at her tangled hair. She didn’t argue.

Eddie swallowed, then stepped back toward the Civic and opened the door. “When I’m gone, find someone you trust. Tell them everything. Burn anything that’s left.”

The suit pulsed in protest. Don’t.

“Watch me,” he muttered.

He climbed in, shut the door, and locked it. The act felt symbolic more than anything—this was a one-way trip.

Through the windshield, he saw Tina step back to the shoulder, the rabbit still held to her chest like armor. She was crying, but she didn’t try to stop him. She understood. Maybe better than he did.

Eddie pressed the gas. The Civic lurched forward, wheels spitting gravel as it accelerated toward an unfinished overpass ahead—a skeletal ramp terminating in a row of unassembled concrete partitions. 

The suit tightened, its claws digging into the steering wheel, trying to twist it. He wrestled it back.

“You don’t get her,” Eddie growled. “You don’t get anyone!”

The voice snarled inside his mind. You’re mine. Forever.

“Then we die together.”

The overpass came fast, and with it the promise of a collision with the concrete barriers, and freedom. 

Eddie floored it.

The last thing he saw was Tina’s small figure growing distant in the mirror, standing alone beside the road.

Then the world went white.

* * * * * *

Metal screamed. The Civic slammed into the barrier and crumpled like foil. The windshield imploded. The airbags hit. A second later, the undercarriage ruptured. Gasoline poured in streams across the shattered concrete, forming an oily pool that ran beneath Eddie’s feet.

He didn’t remember crawling out.

But he was out—dragging himself through the wreckage, one glove torn away, the exposed flesh of his hand blackened and slick with blood. The suit was shredded in places, but it clung to his body with sinewy resolve. His skin beneath was ruined—charred and blistering, cracked open in patches where the rubber had fused and burned through to the muscle.

He collapsed beside the leaking fuel, ribs grinding, vision flashing in and out. From the floor of the car, somehow untouched by fire or debris, he spotted an old matchbook—soggy at the corners, but intact.

His bare fingers closed around it.

The suit screamed in his head. No!

Eddie dragged himself into the slick. The gasoline soaked his legs, his arms, the exposed wounds where skin had peeled away. The matchbook slipped in his hand, slick with sweat and fuel, but he clutched it tight.

Tina stood yards away, trembling, rabbit pressed to her chest. She started forward, sobbing.

“Please don’t die!” she cried.

“I have to,” he said. “So you don’t.”

Tina cast a glance at the matchbook in Eddie’s hand as he withdrew a single match.

“What are you…” Tina cried.

“Run!” Eddie cried. “Get out of here! Now!” 

Tears in her eyes, Tina backed up, hesitantly at first, and then took off at a sprint, taking cover behind a nearby piece of heavy machinery. 

He struck the match. The flame quivered to life, and he dropped it into the fuel.

The fire didn’t simply ignite—it detonated. A pulse of heat lifted the wreck from the ground. The flames rushed outward in a bloom of light, engulfing the Civic and everything around it.

The suit writhed, its flesh bubbling, screaming—not just inside Eddie’s skull, but in the world itself. Its voice was pain. It buckled and peeled back, seared from the inside.

Eddie remained conscious just long enough to know it was burning.

When he came to, he was lying half-charred on the gravel. His body was a ruin. Most of the suit had fused into his skin—melted rubber now part of his limbs, his abdomen. His fingers on one hand were gone. His face was scorched down one side, the eye swollen shut, lips cracked and blistered.

Tina knelt beside him, sobbing uncontrollably, and reached out to touch his face.

“Don’t,” he croaked. “It… it hurts too much.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Flashing lights painted the wreckage red and blue. First responders flooded the scene—firefighters, EMTs, and police. As they converged, Eddie felt arms lifting him onto a stretcher. The pain was overwhelming, every movement a blade drawn across raw nerve endings. His vision swam.

He turned his head, just barely, and saw Tina wrapped in a silver blanket, surrounded by officers. She pointed at him, still crying. He couldn’t hear her words.

Please, he thought, just let her be okay.

Then the doors closed.

* * * * * *

The ambulance raced through the dark, sirens blaring. Inside, Eddie lay strapped to the stretcher, oxygen mask tight across his face. The medics shouted over the monitor beeps and the roar of wheels.

“BP’s tanking. Keep that line open!” one of the paramedics shouted. 

“We’re losing him!” another cried. “Stay with me, Eddie! You’re almost there—”

Then his eyes snapped open.

The vitals monitor flatlined.

And Jerry moved.

With a convulsion of inhuman strength, Eddie’s arm shot up and crushed the throat of the paramedic leaning over him. Bones cracked. A second medic screamed, fumbling for a radio.

Eddie sat up, ripping the straps free. The other medic turned to run, but didn’t make it to the door. Eddie’s claws tore through her spine with a sickening snap.

The driver shouted from the front. “What the hell’s going on back there?!”

Eddie was already behind him.

The wheel jerked, the vehicle careened, and the ambulance smashed through the guardrail of a narrow bridge, plummeting into the river ravine below.

It struck the rocks nose-first. Fuel ignited. The sky lit orange, visible for miles. 

* * * * * *

The following morning, Eddie was gone. A search team had sought to recover his body from the ravine, along with those of the paramedics, but found no trace of him amongst the wreckage. 

The studio issued a statement saying Eddie had “quit unexpectedly,” just like the last Jerry. No one questioned it.

Tina disappeared as well. The studio informed her parents that she had run away during filming and had not returned. For a while, authorities suspected Eddie of wrongdoing, of being involved in her disappearance, but by then he had vanished, and any other leads soon went cold. Tina’s parents, notoriously neglectful to begin with, grieved in public while raking in funds from sympathetic parties through crowd-funding for weeks, and then quietly moved on with their lives. 

Miraculously, Malcolm survived his injuries, and following a lengthy hospital stay, his condition was deemed the result of an unusual “accident” that occurred during filming. Anyone who knew otherwise kept their mouths shut.

And the show went on. It always went on.

The very next week, Clara stood in the dressing room, watching as a new actor—a young man barely in his twenties—tried on the freshly cleaned Jerry suit.

“It’s warm,” he said with a nervous laugh. “Feels kind of weird.”

Clara smiled. “You’ll get used to it. Just remember: when you put it on, you’re not you anymore. You’re Jerry.”

The actor chuckled. “Right. Jerry the Dinosaur.”

From the suit’s open mouth, faint as a sigh, a whisper curled through the air:

Smile. Dance. Play.

Clara’s smile widened.