I walked through the house tonight collecting toys, socks, and papers as I always do after the kids hit the hay. M’s had her dollhouse two days, and here I’d already found the mama and the master bed, upside down, on my hardwood floor a couple rooms over. I picked them up, carried them back to where they belonged. Thinking for a moment where M might want them, I tucked the mama in bed in the upstairs bedroom.
A prickle ran up my spine. The dolls don’t forget…
A book I read decades ago, rushed back. Leaving me with a case of the creeps.
Betty Ren Wright, you scared me silly. Again.
I read The Dollhouse Murders in the 80’s. It is perhaps the only book I’ve chucked across the room then burrowed beneath the covers. With my light on. Quaking, but unable to stop reading. Spooked, but somehow loving it. Thankful for amazing storytelling.
However, if M ever wants to read this book, I’ll strongly suggest daytime.
Have you thought of a book from your childhood recently? If so, what?