“What do you mean you won’t go through that trunk?”
They were already behind evaluating and tagging the
estate. The sale was tomorrow.
“You’re the boss. You do it.” she replied and moved on
to a table full of glassware.
Grumbling about the lack of good employees anymore, he
opened the steamer trunk and froze.
Staring up at him were at least a dozen dolls.
Hair matted, clothing mildewed, their plastic skin was
dusty with mold, and their eyeballs were chalky, the pigmentation of their
pupils long gone.
He quietly closed the trunk and carried it to the burn
pile.
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