They're Baaaack

When I was a kid, I had this doll collection.

To be honest, I have no idea why I collected dolls. I think I was just at that age where somebody gives you a present, and you’re all “Thanks Great Aunt Gladys, that’s pretty cool” (even though it really isn’t), all of a sudden your parents are telling your friends, distant relatives, and strangers on the street that you “collect” this item. So you start getting said item for birthdays and Christmases and its fine and all but honestly, you just can’t wait to play Mousetrap.

Remember Mousetrap? That shit was OFF THE HOOK.

Regardless, I suspect it was from the above chain of events that I started collecting dolls.

These dolls were amassed on a high shelf across the room from my bed. They were pretty, albeit dusty ‘cause it was hard as a mother to get up there and dust those bad boys. In other words, I didn’t really do anything with them or even pay attention to them, to be honest.

During the day, at least.

Night was another story.

Once the sun went down, I would lie in bed and look at the dolls.

And they would look back at me.

And the whole time I was staring at them (and they were staring at me), I was rigid with terror, hoping and praying that they weren’t going to come to life and devour me.

And then I would swear to god that one of them winked at me or moved a finger or shifted ever so slightly, and it would be over.

I would lose my shit and hide under the covers and listen while they were undoubtedly communicating in their creepy, dollish ways about how and when they were going to hop off the shelf, skitter across the carpet, climb my bed, and do something hellishly gruesome to me, like eviscerate me and fill me with stuffing and replace my eyes with glass ones. Just. Like. Them.

Yeah, I had a pretty dark side, even at the tender age of 7.

And then the sun would come up and they were just harmless dolls again and I was 100% okay with them being in my room, lined up in a row, staring at my bed.

I can only explain this by concluding that I was a “special needs” kid and to this day, my parents haven’t had the heart to tell me.

Which explains a lot…

So yeah, I had a doll collection.

And then I found out this weekend that, due to the fated “thanks, Great Aunt Gladys, that’s pretty cool” statement described above, my mom – 20 years, a divorce, and 3 moves later – kept the dolls.

“I though you liked them,” she said.
“Sure, if you LIKE the kind of toys that come to life at night and plan on stabbing out your eyes,” I replied.
“Oh, Lil, you always were a strange child.”

[I KNEW IT – Special Ed all the way. WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME, MOM?!?]

And how did I find out that she had kept this creepy doll collection?
Because she brought them over – to the place where I SLEEP - for me to store.

That’s right.
They’re back.

And for those of you who are saying, “why don’t you just throw them out?”
To you, I say “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN MIND?!?!??!?!?”

If I throw them out, they’ll get mad.
And the only thing WORSE than a bunch of dolls that come to life at night are a bunch of dolls that come to life at night and realize that you tried to pull one over on them.

Uh-uh, no thanks.
No way in HELL am I pissing the doll-army off.

So what else could I do? I had to take them. I took the two cardboard boxes and stacked them gently in the garage.

And then? I had a talk with them.

I told them that they could stay, but I had to lay down some groundrules:
1. No moving around
2. No crying blood
3. No whispering or making other creepy noises
4. No plotting my or my significant other’s demise

If they can play by these rules, then we’re going to get along just fine.
But SO HELP ME GOD if either of those boxes are moved even a centimeter I’m going to get an old priest and a young priest and shit will go down.

You hear me dolls? I will TOTALLY go old-school on your ass.
That is...er...
...uh....
please don't be mad. You're not mad, are you?

Are you?!?