Andrea Squeaks

My paternal grandmother gave me a hideous, beautiful old doll when I was little porcelain head, wooden limbs, glass eyes that followed me around, but didn't quite focus. At night, I would dream that she stood at the foot of my bed, swiveling her wooden hands at me, the old joints squeaking with the effort of turning. The doll, Andrea, terrified me. I still have her. Here she is.

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