“It’s their daughter. There’s unusual activity with one of her . . . things she owns.” I froze. I slowly turned on him. “John, does this object happen to be a toy, by chance?” “I would have to double-check my notes. It’s not a doll, if that’s what you’re thinking.” We’d eventually had to rent a storage locker to keep all the haunted/possessed/cursed dolls we’d accumulated, thanks to a series of enormously popular movies on the subject.
