I guess you could call me a collector. Over the years, I’ve amassed a sizable stockpile of videogame memorabilia that ranges from retro Japanese cartridges to locks of John Romero’s hair.  So, whenever I pre-order a new game, I make sure to get the collector’s edition.  Sure, it costs a bit more, but my basement full of cheap, plastic trinkets and pointless metallic cases shows that I am a true videogame enthusiast.

When I heard about the Splinter Cell: Conviction special limited edition, I just knew I had to have it.  The metallic case, art book, and broken USB device alone were enough to make me reach for my super-rare Zelda wallet.  Then, I saw it – the Sam Fisher statuette.  Dear sweet Lord, I immediately knew how great this tiny stealth operative would look – covered in dust – sitting forgotten behind some Animal Crossing plushies.

So when I walked into GameStop that brisk, April day I didn’t yet realize the terrible mistake I was making. I realize it now, though – this Sam Fisher statue is haunted.

I know what you’re thinking, but I swear on my limited edition Diner Dash apron that this figurine is possessed by some sort of ancient demon.  The trouble began almost as soon as I arrived home with the statue.  I placed the effigy on the kitchen table while I poured through the other collectible contents.  After briefly glancing at the included art book, I placed it in a drawer with a bunch of other shit I’ll never look at again.  I turned back to the Fisher statue – it was gone!  I know I had placed it on the kitchen table, but after a quick look around the house, I found the figurine inside my wife’s underwear drawer.  How could this be?

I decided to blame the strange occurrence on my lack of sleep and left the statue sitting next to the television.  Late that night, I went downstairs to add the new Splinter Cell game to my library.  I don’t actually play the games anymore, but I really enjoy alphabetizing them on a large shelf.

I was placing the game next to an unopened copy of Space Quest IV when I heard a loud bang.  I raced upstairs, only to find my Solid Snake action figure lying on the ground with what appeared to be a tiny bullet hole in his head.  Terrified, I looked around in the dark room.  That’s when I saw three tiny green lights in the corner.  I backed away slowly before running upstairs.

Obviously, at this point, I was scared.  The next morning, the statue had returned to its place next to the television – something was clearly wrong with this situation.  I decided that keeping the collectible wasn’t worth my sanity and resolved to get rid of it.  I hated to throw the valuable character-shaped paperweight in the trashcan, but the whole situation had left me feeling uneasy.  The next morning, I watched as a garbage man crushed my trash in the back of a dump truck.  When I turned back to my breakfast, I spit coffee all over my Cooking Mama placemats.

There, standing next to my plate, was a miniature Sam Fisher.  What’s worse, my scrambled eggs had been devoured.

Although I was terrified, my anger took over – no one eats my eggs.  I bashed the statue to pieces with a hammer, lit the remains on fire, and swept the ashes into a box.  I then placed that box into a locked steamer trunk, wrapped a spool of barbed wire around the trunk, and placed the entire package inside an industrial safe with a forgotten combination.  After loading the safe into the back of a semi-truck, I drove to a nearby bridge and released the trailer into the river. As the trailer slowly sank to the bottom, I laughed maniacally, knowing the nightmare was finally over.  My joy ended abruptly, however, when I looked at the passenger seat next to me.

There, in stunning condition, was that goddamned Sam Fisher statue.

I don’t know what to do.  I’ve tried everything imaginable; mailing the statue to China, selling it to kids on Ebay, even praying to the spirit of Michael Ironside.  Every time, the statue ends up back in my house.  It stands on the nightstand and watches us while we sleep.  Last night, I think it laughed while we had sex.

We’re so scared.  Please help.

Further reporting by Hardcasual’s Matt Clark.