When I was in college, a bunch of friends and I went out trick-or-treating (Yeah, I apologize for being “that kid” who was definitely too old to be going door-to-door begging for candy.) Some time during our night of galavanting we approached a vine-riddled old place that resembled a gingerbread house. The light was still on, so it was fair game for trick-or-treating, or so we thought. It was warm enough outside that the owner had left the inside door open, with the screen door the only thing separating us from the interior of the house. One of us rang the doorbell and we waited.
From the porch we could see a large foyer area piled high with an overwhelmingly large collection dolls, as well as many grotesque paintings of said doll-faces. A small narrow pathway between the dolls wound its way to the back of the foyer where a light from another room illuminated the scene in eerie chiaroscuro. Surely this was some kind of Halloween prop!!? There were so many dolls and paintings I couldn’t count them all; each one more frightening than the next. White porcelain faces with huge lifeless eyes stared back at us from all directions. We glanced at each other in panic and disbelief. As we contemplated abandoning this house, a pale waif of a woman greeted us.
She was slight of frame and dressed like a schoolgirl; a stark contrast to the rest of her appearance. Mousey brown hair fell at her shoulders in frizzy waves caused by over-brushing. Her face, while not altogether unattractive, was pale and wan. However, her sunken cheeks and creased lips couldn’t mask the evidence of a formerly beautiful face. This did not appear to be a costume, and those dolls probably weren’t clever props.
Speaking with an overly-happy sing-song, she delighted to learn that we were from the nearby university. We shifted in our shoes, eager to escape this uncomfortable encounter. She asked if we knew “so-and-so” who also went to school there. We assured her that we didn’t know him, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible, but she kept on talking. Clearly, she was a little ill. Finally we broke free, said our goodbyes and went on our merry way.
As we were leaving, I couldn’t help but feel bad for her; maybe she didn’t get many trick-or-treaters that evening because the neighboring kids know about her sick obsession with creepy dolls!? Not to mention the fact that she comes across as more than a little weird.
An interesting follow-up to this story: a year or so later, I attended an art festival where I’m pretty sure I saw her selling her disturbing doll paintings!
