What makes dolls so creepy? To the point, in fact, cherished childhood playthings have become a staple of so many horror movies?

Consider the who’s who of frightening dolls that come to life on the big screen. We’re talking Chucky, Annabelle and, more recently, the technologically advanced M3GAN. That’s not to mention the dolls that appeared on the small screen. Remember Talky Tina on “The Twilight Zone?” The doll that does everything really does. Including warning an abusive stepfather she’s going to kill him and then making good on the promise.

As a writer who dabbles in what I’d like to believe are scary stories, I’m always looking for ways to twist my tales. I’ve already written about the ghostly crew of a doomed locomotive, a vengeful chef who makes killer pizzas and an automobile navigation system with the ability to peer into the future. What’s next? I remain equally vigilant for monsters that terrify not only the protagonists of my stories, but also the readers. Hopefully, at least a little. Preferably, a whole lot.

I found some inspiration on a recent Saturday night while watching the rerun of an old, made-for-TV movie titled “Trilogy of Terror.” For those unfamiliar with the movie, the 1975 production stars Karen Black in the leading roles in each of three segments. In the final segment, she portrays Amelia, a young woman who lives alone in a high-rise apartment building. The segment begins with her admiring the birthday gift she just purchased for her anthropologist boyfriend — a wooden fetish doll depicting a fierce warrior with long black hair, pointy white teeth and a spear. A scroll warns the doll contains the evil spirit of a Zuni hunter, but a gold chain encircling the doll keeps the spirit trapped within. It’s not long before the chain falls off, of course.

What ensues has been described as the scariest 25 minutes of TV as a 13-inch-tall fetish doll grabs a kitchen knife and attacks Amelia despite her best efforts to drown the doll in a bathtub, trap it in a suitcase and stab it with a screwdriver. Amelia believes she’s finally safe after tossing the doll into an oven and watching it burn. Spoiler alert: she’s wrong.

Another doll. Another blood-curdling confrontation.

Maybe dolls become so frightening when playthings intended to foster joy and security instead turn malicious, shattering the expectations of safety. Perhaps a vestige of superstition lingers from a time when dolls were used in rituals and believed to offer links to the supernatural.

There’s also that unsettling foray into the uncanny valley. That’s the term for the psychological reaction to an object that looks almost human, but its lack of life makes us feel uneasy. In graphing the response to objects that appear human, comfort initially rises with realism, but then plunges as brains detect mismatches that trigger apprehension. One study found people were particularly unnerved by objects they believed had the ability to sense and experience things.

That explains why millions of moviegoers and TV viewers react the way they do to dolls that come to life. As well as the widespread fear of dolls, puppets and mannequins. That sweating, shortness of breath and sense of dread you experience could be pediophobia.

More than 50 years after the fact, I still recall the ambivalence I felt about the doll in my grandparents’ mountain cabin.

Ella was ancient even then, attired in a long green dress and matching bonnet. She perched on a swing suspended from one end of the ridge beam that ran the length of the one-room log cabin. In the bright light of day, Ella’s hand-drawn face peered out from under her bonnet, her eyes and smile warm and genial. Illuminated at night by the amber glow of a kerosene lantern, she looked different. Less friendly and more ominous. Were those shadows flickering across her face? Or did her innocent smile suddenly turn into a knowing leer?

I swear there were times I’d wake up to a creak, creak, creak that kept pace with the old clock that ticked away the small hours of the night. I’d look up from my bed and watch Ella swing.

I’m sure it was the wind that blew through holes in the chinking between logs or slipped through the gaps around the single-pane windows that pushed Ella on her swing. Surely Ella couldn’t swing on her own. Could she?

The fabulous editors of the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers anthology revealed the cover for the 2026 collection of short stories. I’m thrilled my story “Pizza Girl” will be among them. The anthology centers on the theme true story and features fiction blending real events, local legends and historical figures with original storytelling. The book is scheduled for publication Sept. 15. It’s an honor to be included among such talented contributors. And I’m grateful anew for all RMFW does to nurture the craft of writers along all stages of their creative journeys.

Consider for a moment some of the inexplicable mysteries of the universe. What happened before the Big Bang? Does intelligent life exist on other planets? Why do socks disappear in the dryer?

Then there’s the greatest mystery of all: Where does time go?

I ask this last question because nearly two years of retirement has only added to my befuddlement.

Before I retired, I spent most of my waking hours at the newspaper where I worked. Writing and editing stories. Building pages. Persevering against the erosive toll of deadlines. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my job. But I yearned for what I imagined would be the freedom of life after employment. No interviews. No deadlines. Just hour after unfettered hour to do as I pleased.

I was especially eager for the opportunity to change vocations from journalist to novelist. Several rungs up the evolutionary ladder. I managed to complete two novels over the last decade of my newspaper career, herding words early in the mornings, late in the evenings and on those weekends I didn’t have to go to the office. But my heart raced in anticipation of how much more I could accomplish in retirement. Two novels? Hell. Make it five. With ample time to spare for queries and the opportunity to find a literary agent and publisher who share my passion for my characters and their adventures.

What was I thinking?

Almost two years into retirement, I’m still mired in the sagging middle of my third novel. My quest for traditional publishing feels more quixotic than promising at a time when agents overwhelmed with queries seldom respond with even perfunctory rejections. Don’t get me started on the threat artificial intelligence poses to what should be a strictly human endeavor.

What happened?

I’d love to report I’ve made the most of the additional hours retirement affords for writing and publishing fiction, toiling every bit as diligently on my novel and queries as I previously worked on print journalism. Yeah right. That would be a blatant lie.

I’ve got a few of what I deem good excuses. Most important, I fell in love and married a wonderful woman who endures double duty as my stoic wife and developmental editor. We moved into a beautiful condominium in Palm Springs and savor desert life in both Southern California and western Colorado.

I’ve enjoyed travel to other remarkable locations, among them Italy, Mexico, Bonaire … Kentucky. That’s not to mention the growing number of national parks I’ve visited and crossed off that bucket list.

Despite those welcome distractions, I still enjoy more time to write fiction now than I did before I retired. But I discovered something else: I possess considerably less discipline. No longer faced with limited time to write before and after work, I squander the abundance with which I’ve been blessed. Mostly scrolling through social media posts and scurrying down internet rabbit holes. I rationalize I’m conducting research for my writing. As author Dan Brown noted: “Google is not a synonym for research.”

I’m no less mistaken in my belief writing is a difficult undertaking that requires dedicated blocks of time. More than a casual 30 minutes here or an hour there wedged between other pursuits. Writing can be difficult, no doubt. But I’m frequently astonished by how deep a dive follows once you’re willing to dip your toe into the water.

Worst of all, I know better than to procrastinate. Especially when it comes to writing.

Just like physical fitness, writing requires flexing muscles that otherwise atrophy with neglect. Butts in seats and fingers on keyboards, as my wife and editor admonishes. Then brains in gear. Or in the words attributed to no less a prolific author than Stephen King: “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.”

As if I needed the reminder, a scrap of paper that’s taped to my desk and appears directly above my computer screen offers this reminder in bold print: “Today is the most precious asset you own — and is the one thing you should truly fear wasting.” As yet another author, Geoffry Chaucer, put it back in the 14^th century: “Time and tide wait for no man.”

That applies not only to writing, but also life. I can’t understand how fast my 67 years on earth sped past. In a blink, it seems. I expect the pace to only accelerate. Until one day it doesn’t.

The 17^th century English poet Robert Herrick famously warned virgins — and, I presume, everyone else — to make much of time: “Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that blooms today tomorrow will be dying.”

That’s the moral of the story, isn’t it? And what should be more than sufficient inspiration. To craft novels and stories and poems and blogs. To compose heartfelt love letters and thank-you notes. To dispatch emails and texts.

It’s a privilege to gather rosebuds whether they’re proverbial or literal. To make much of time. Even in retirement. Especially in retirement.

That’s because the greatest mystery remains unexplained. None of us knows where time goes. Or, for that matter, how much we have left.