So, we spent Thanksgiving weekend at Scope’s parents’ house where there’s this—this—hey, wait a minute…. Have I ever bothered to describe Scope’s parents’ house to you before? Hmm?….
Oh. Huh. Well, lemme try to paint a mental picture of it for you: it’s simultaneously an antique hunter’s heaven, a garage sale guru’s jungle gym, an eBay excavator’s bouncy house, and a thrift store surfer’s wicked wild wave. How’s that for summing it up? ;-)
The house is bursting full (FULL) of old collections. We’re talking dolls, buttons, skeleton keys, pins, photographs, figurines, books, plates, linens, artwork, and all kinds of other antique-ish goodies and treasures. You could spend a week exploring in there and still not see it all, I swear! It’s really quite something.
The doll collection sits posed around a chair on the recreation room floor near the couch where my daughter sleeps when we are staying there. Gwen has outgrown dolls, of course, but she doesn’t mind sharing the room with them.
Except for this one:
I’m told his name is “Little Brother.” He looks perfectly innocent and harmless, right? Absolutely. Yet for some truly mysterious, inexplicable reason he frightens the living heck out of Gwen. She actually has panic attacks when she sees him. And there’s no use throwing a blanket over him or turning his back to the room or anything like that, no, no, no, because just knowing he is there is enough to freak Gwen out.
We’re talking about a 14 year old girl here. A 14 year old girl whose room at home is full of skeleton figurines and black bats hanging from the damn ceiling! So, I’m having a little trouble seeing what is so terrifying about a baby doll.
I mean…. it’s not like he watches you, unblinking, in the shadows with a sinister stare….
It’s not like his depraved eyes follow you across the room as he plots his evil plans….
It’s not like he lingers closer…. and closer, licking his vile lips while you change your clothes….
It’s not like he has a terrifying temper and an axe to grind….
It’s not like he climbs soundlessly into your bed and leans over you, maliciously smirking while you sleep and startles you awake when you feel his foul breath on your face….
It’s not like his unholy hand lunges out and grabs you as you scream and struggle to get away….
It’s not like he has a perverse taste for human flesh and the last thing you’ll ever see is Satan reflected in his eyes….
Nope. Nothing like that. He’s just a baby doll. Sweet dreams, Blogaritaville.