The snowglobe shatters into a thousand tiny, sparkling shards of glass, glitter-laden water spilling on the floor.  The tiny plastic cage with its tiny plastic prisoner rolls to a stop at Deacon's feet.  The tinny music comes to a screeching, scratching halt, leaving only the eerie silence.<br/><br/>Or...not.<br/><br/>As Scott turns to move to the door, his ears perk up at the peculiar sound of wood striking wood, like the effect of a wooden wind chime clattering randomly in a breeze.  Somehow he knows that if he turns back, the mannikins will be moving...