I’m not exactly pediophobic, but porcelain dolls… they just creep me out. Mom, unfortunately, loves them – the more grotesque, the better. So, here we are, traipsing around second-hand stores in search of her next prize find.
I completely miss Mom’s question, until a cracked, soot-blackened face, surrounded by scraggly hair, is thrust in front of mine. Startled, I stumble back.
“Isn’t she perfect?” says Mom.
“Mom, no. It’s… well, something feels wrong.”
I swear the thing smiles. At this point, every light in the store goes out.
“Hello, Katy.” A creaky whisper in the dark. “I’ve been waiting for you.”