HAPPY LITTLE KILLER DOLLS

I had a huge doll collection when I was a kid. There must have been a couple hundred of them, altogether, including Barbies and Trolls and Liddle Kiddles and Chatty Cathys and all that kind of stuff.

(My favorite was "Tressy," a sort of Barbie-Wannabe. You pushed a button in Tressy's navel and yards of platinum blonde hair spewed out of a hole in the top of her head. Then you stuck a plastic key into a slot in her back and rewound her hair back into her skull. Great fun.)

Grandma was constantly adding to my collection, and she seemed to derive a great deal of pleasure from it. To tell you the truth, I think she was more into it than I was. Because I was actually .. uh ... secretly afraid of my dolls.

They sat in neat little rows on my bookcase shelves, and at night I imagined that they were all glaring at me in pure hatred, plotting to kill me the instant I fell asleep. The "Talking Tina" Twilight Zone episode did NOTHING to dispell my unease.

Anyway. It was actually kind of a relief to grow up & move away, leaving the entire doll collection behind.

So imagine my horror when, shortly after I got married, Grandma and Grandpa showed up at our house with a carload of my childhood stuff I'd stored in their attic. Including, yes, the whole Happy Little Killer Dolls collection. I opened up the trunk of the car, and there they were.

Looking naked, dirty, abandoned ...

... and pissed.

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