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 . . .