They call her the Hinna-Hin.
Years ago I collected Anne Geddes dolls. Just… don’t ask. My past obsessive-collecting of these dolls and the non-existence of that collection now is a prime example of (things) that seem soooo dang important, not being important.
My collection and collecting of these dolls, sunflower baby, rabbit baby, etc., came to a screeching halt when Sal, the younger of the twins, was a toddler. He flat out wouldn’t go near them. The choice between cuddling up with a rabid animal, frothing at the mouth, and an Anne Geddes doll would have been painful.
I tried to unload them at a garage sale, practically giving them away. One kind lady fell in love with a couple remaining dolls and I gave them to her at a mercy price, thankful to her for getting them out of my house.
The rabbit/Hinna-Hin remained.
Frank threw Hinna-Hin in the trunk of his car to take to the dumpster. But time went by and he forgot to dispose of her, and one day, as we were driving, Franny (the other twin), reached into the trunk (we have back seats you can pull down and access the trunk) and laughed. “Guess what’s in here Sal?!!” He pulled her out. An older (8-year-old) Sal wasn’t scared, but had refined his reaction, now conveying repulsion. They giggled and laughed about the Hinna-Hin, setting it in the seat, mimicking Twilight Zone doll who could not be killed. Sal was a good sport, and though he laughed, I could tell he still did not like the doll.
Recently, somehow, the oil-stained creature has made it back into our home. Sal will touch her, but only to move her far away from him. He can talk and laugh about the Hinna’, but keeps a steady eye on her with that curious fear we all get sometimes with things that ook us out, but we can’t help to steal a glance.