In the grimy underbelly of a forgotten Chicago warehouse, Chucky, the Good Guy doll with a killer’s soul, crouched beside a cracked, rusty pipe. Water dripped, each plop echoing in the dim, flickering light. His plastic face twisted into a sneer. Andy Barclay, his eternal prey, had slipped through his fingers again. But Chucky wasn’t one to give up. Not when he had a new trick up his sleeve. He’d heard whispers from a voodoo priestess in a dive bar, half-drunk on cheap whiskey, about the old way