Dear Diary:
I had just finished a jog in Prospect Park when I noticed an older woman beckoning me from the door of a brownstone.
I pulled out my earbuds.
"Yes?" I called up to her.
"Can you get my newspaper?" she asked, pointing to the bottom of her steep stoop.
"Oh, sure," I said.
I quickly jogged the paper up to her.
"Ah, thank you," she said, beaming at me like I was Wonder Woman, not a sweaty, middle- aged mom in ill-fitting exercise shorts.
I was making my way back down the steps when she called out to me again.
"Sorry?" I said, turning back toward her
"My window," she said. She gestured sadly toward a window overlooking the street. "It is stuck. My apartment, so very warm."
I hesitated.
"Did you call your super?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "He never comes."
She stared at me beseechingly.
"Um, you want me to open it?" I asked.
She grinned.
"Yes, come!"
She motioned for me to follow her, and I walked uneasily into the building. Should I really be entering this stranger's home, I wondered. I could picture my husband shaking his head at me.
As I entered her dimly lit living room, I stopped in my tracks. Hundreds of shiny eyes stared back at me, and a chill ran down my sweaty back. The entire wall was filled with a collection of old-fashioned porcelain dolls.
"There," she said, pointing to the window.
I hurried over and gave it a heave, and it popped open.
She grinned.
"Wonderful," she said.
I wished her a good day and made my exit. I was happy to have given her a breeze, but I was now wondering how many brownstones secretly had entire walls of spooky dolls.
— Johanna Gohmann