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There once was a dolly, with the face of an innocent little baby. She could eat and breathe through the hole in her mouth. Her single eye stared relentlessly, some would say malignantly, as though full of evil, watching, waiting . . . As the years rolled away, she waited in the attic to be picked up, cooed over, and set free to work her will . . . Dorrie had lost her father, and was trying to adapt to her new surroundings. She found happiness in the attic, with her new-found dolly. Her mother, brother and sister seemed busy doing other things. If she had better understood this life and death thing, she might have been concerned when her little doll began to move on its own. If only Dollie had understood that her little doll might have a mind of its own, she might have wondered if the doll was capable of killing … killing …