A month later, my collection had grown. Considerably.
I now lived in a large mansion, thanks to my wishing that my mother would win the Powerball jackpot. (It was in nine digits by then.) I talked her into buying the mansion, and used one of the rooms to put my collection.
I added something else to the room -- a large series of habitrails. Instead of just admiring my "dolls" in cases, I began to watch them moving around in the network of plastic tubes. I gave them a few things I decided were necessities, such as a toilet, shower, bathtub, and lighting. I usually kept the lights in the room out so that I could see the little ladies, but they couldn't see me. (I'd made the walls of the habittrail <which included some rooms> one-way.) And, if anyone but me entered the room, they just saw hamsters in the complex.
One morning, I was in the room, surveying my collection. I had actresses, supermodels, singers, TV newswomen, debutantes, and a few women who weren't that famous, but I wanted them just the same.
The only thing was, I was getting bored. It was just too easy.
"I wish I hadn't wished that your disappearances would go unnoticed," I muttered.
I left the room and got the newspaper to read during my breakfast.
I nearly choked on my toast when I saw the headlines.