Suburban home; a dark hallway, dark wood, dark trim, but light melamine birch-colored shelves, light, but scarcely visible: a panoply of books, photographs, but most of all, haunting dolls aplenty occupying an old rocking chair, every shelf, and standing like glass-eyed dead things gazing out at nothing.

Stories are at the heart of our existence.

I'm beginning to think that it's getting to be time to tell the story of the house of dolls.

Small, sinister brown and black tabby-striped cat, lurking malevolently on the corner of a couch, astride a California flag blanket, floor a mess.

OK: Paying my cat tax in advance.