There they were, just as he remembered. Rooms and rooms of them. Dolls. Toy soldiers. Clowns. When he was a kid, his Aunt Cary’s toy collection should have been a child’s paradise. But instead he had been terrified by their staring eyes . . .
Twenty years had passed since Jay Clute set foot in Victory, Missouri. Twenty years of trying to forget that night—that hellish night of unimaginable horror. Now his Aunt Cary was dead, and it’s all been left to him—the house, the furniture, every last piece of her toy collection. And nothing has changed. Not the painted-on dolly smiles or the garish clown colors—or the tiny hands dripping with bright red blood . . .