When we were little, my father surprised us with every little girl's dream - a pink playhouse for the yard complete with curtains. He'd made it himself. He helped us prepare for its occupancy filling it with child-sized furniture, dolls, toys, and tea things. My sister and I were delighted. We knew we would be the envy of the neighborhood.

Gazing out of our window on the first night, we saw shadows on the curtains. The dolls seemed to be moving around and whispering. Probably a trick of the light. The wind, we thought. Until the curtain slid back and a pink bear's beady eyes glared at me, drawing his fluffy paw menacingly across his throat. Terrified, we hid under the covers.

The next day, we went to grandma's so we didn't get a chance at the playhouse. After supper, we heard loud noises coming from the backyard. Dad came in with my favorite doll which had been torn to shreds - head almost completely torn off, hair pulled out and arms grotesquely twisted. Dad said a raccoon must have gotten into our playhouse.

After that, we couldn't get the playhouse door open to get inside to play. The windows were blocked with toys and furniture. The voices grew louder and more menacing. Often, passing the playhouse on the way to school, we could hear wicked laughter.

Mom asked Dad, "where did you get the wood for that playhouse?"

"Behind the cemetery at work," beamed Dad.

We burned it.