There’s something off about Mr. Giggles...
 
His head—rubbery, slick, and unsettling to the touch—bears a grotesquely exaggerated grin that stretches far beyond anything joyful. His mouth is gaping, as if forever mid-scream… or mid-laugh. His squinted red eyes seem pressed into its face, swollen shut or simply refusing to see. Wisps of red hair sprout from either side of his head, thin and patchy like something that’s been pulled out by hand.
 
He almost resembles Clarabell, if Clarabell had been left in the attic too long… if Clarabell had seen too much.
 
But the real horror begins below the neck. Instead of a typical clown costume, he wears a crude, hand-stitched body made from fabric patterned with tiny kittens—a jarring, almost mocking contrast to the face above. The cloth is stained in several places, and a ragged tear at the base exposes the hollow cavity where fingers once controlled it. The stitching is uneven and erratic, almost frantic. This wasn’t made by a factory—it was made by hand. And maybe not a very steady one.
 
Whether used in a children’s show or something far more deranged, Mr. Giggles carries the energy of a toy that was never meant to entertain. The kind of thing that turns up in a box you didn’t pack. The kind of thing that makes noise when no one’s near it.
 
There are no maker's marks. No tags. No explanation.
Just a too-wide mouth, sealed shut with silence, and eyes that never open entirely.