T H E summer was coming to a close. We had fallen asleep watching Night of the Living Dead in Timmy’s living room. Some creaking noise woke me up. I rolled over, the room blurring in my vision as I tried to find the clock on the wall. 4:17 am. My eyes were open now.

I stared wide-eyed at the armoire, probably his mother’s, that displayed rows upon rows of dolls. They had various styles of hair, straight, curly, brown, black, blond. All girls. All staring. All with white plastic eyes of reality wanting to look left and right. I shuddered. Maybe the room had just got colder, but I shivered and thought I was seeing a sort of fog rise from the potted plants around the room.

Timmy was asleep.

I was awake, and fear crawled up my back as I stared at the dolls. One of them moved its eyes. I would have bet my next summer vacation on it. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but deep down I knew. I blinked, and one of the little girls started to move. She stretched her arms above her head and creaked her neck left and right. Cracking. I needed to sleep, now more than ever. She took a step forward and waved her hand in front of the other dolls. They all turned their eyes toward her, together. She pointed at me, and immediately dozens of animated dolls made their way down the front of the pine armoire.

“Good night, Dennis. Go to sleep. Good night, Dennis. Go to sleep.”

I pulled my head down into my sleeping bag but left room to peek out the opening. The girls began marching circles around my bag and whispering in still soft voices, “Good night, Dennis. Go to sleep. Good night, Dennis. Go to sleep.” I wanted to sleep. I really did. I tried to sleep. I tried counting sheep, but they turned into dolls in my mind. I opened my eyes again and peered out the opening. I could still hear the chanting whispers -“Good night, Dennis. Go to sleep.” - and the soft shuffling of feet.

There in the opening of my sleeping bag was the face of one of the girls, eyes staring, mouth moving with the others around my bag, “Good night, Dennis. Go to sleep.”

I pinched closed the opening and pretended, tried, hoped to fall into sleep. The room fell silent for a moment. I was slightly relieved. My heart slowed a beat.

But the chanting resumed with a different whisper, “Wake up, Timmy. It is time. Wake up, Timmy. It is time.”

I could only guess in terror about what was happening. I had to sleep. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to imagine and keep sleep in my mind.

One, Two, Three, Four…