Bad Dollies! Bad! **

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When I was 8, I had a killer doll for an imaginary friend–two, actually. The one that was “mine” I stole from Stuart Gordon; in my head, she was a tiny thing with a big knife who wore a yellow raincoat. In reality, she was a not-tiny My Child doll whose haunted stare seemed perfect for someone who killed people when I wasn’t lookng. Her name was Francine–from some mostly-forgotten Arthur book, maybe–and she spoke with a lisp. The other doll, her brother, was Chucky.

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