The Doll of the Dead

The street lamp flickered on and off periodically, throwing an amber halo on the lone man at one moment and rendering him to darkness the next. He waited patiently outside the shop for the open sign to flip before ringing the doorbell.

The hinged entrance grated open with an ugly scrape against the tweaking floorboards. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, oscillating as it dimly lit up the ghastly-looking rag dolls more or less situated along the window sill. Threads stuck out punctured holes like hair’s split ends. Buttons hung loosely off the torsos Stitches burst around the mouth, sketching smiles flipped upside down.

The man shrugged off his grey overcoat and called out to no one in particular. "I've come to pick up my order."

A whirring mechanic drone responded. “And it is ready, dear customer, as long as you brought what I required.”

His hand reached for his pockets, hesitated, then pulled out an old locket, rusted bronze at the edges. He unclicked the pendant, revealing in the hidden compartment, a ringlet of honey blonde hair that belonged to his dead child.

“Good, ” said the storekeeper in the shadows.

He applied the lock to one of the dolls that had a stitched-up mouth, one button eye dangling from its socket, and patches of fabrics sewn up in the appearance of a dress. A gooey liquid adhered them together.

He, or she, pushed the finished product onto the front desk. “Remember to use this hourglass, dear customer, and minute the time you spend with the doll every day. The second you've gone past two hours, you'll begin to forget that it is merely a doll... But, keep in mind that it will always shift back to its original form once it's outside of your doorway."

The man nodded half-heartedly and went on his way.

He could close his eyes and hear his wife's desperate sobs as she flung herself against their child's grave, somberly stony and grey. Her black veil rippled atop the windy cliff as no more than ten people gathered. Each held an umbrella though the overcast sky bore no rain. After the priest finished his prayer, he himself and several other men lowered the casket down into the dug out hole. They worked monotonously with their shovels and filled it back up then erected a headstone.

It read. God’s garden needs flowers.

His steps were heavy as he entered the front door and saw her inanimate face. Curtains drawn, shards of the Tiffany she broke last week still glinted in the various corners they occupied. He sneezed. A thick layer of dust coated the hardwood floor, the embroidered tablecloth, and the blue-and-white porcelain set as well as the other oriental-patterned dinnerware on display in the glass cabinet. She used to spoil them with polishing.

Returning home used to mean a bright ball of light before he reached the porch. Upon entering, little James’ high-pitched cries would usher him into the dining room where a feast awaited. Pie fresh from the oven. A bubbling ceramic pot of stew.

On the way back, his stomach had grumbled beyond the mortal capacity of hunger. The gate-leg table to the right, where he hung up his jacket, was still draped with a linen runner, beige hibiscus sewn over a gunmetal blue. A gust blasted in from the window she left open, wrapping around the unlit candlesticks. The wick trembled before the constrained space killed the wind’s rapid fluidity.

He approached the hunched figure staring out into their backyard, where phantoms of their son played hide-and-seek. "My dear, it's me.” He lightly tilted her chin his way. She twitched back.

“Look what I brought you!" He set the no longer hideous doll, but a fine replica of their seven-month-old.

She lifted her head, the past glint absent from her eyes, and slowly took in the doll. For a moment, he feared suddenly that the alleged toymaker was a swindler, and his earlier image was the upshot of his grief or placebo effect. But soon, her features transformed.

"Oh, dearest! You've brought me back my baby!" She squealed and snatched it out of his arms, cuddling it to her cheeks. In that split second, Ronald again saw their baby James in his rose-pink swaddling. His tiny limbs wriggled out of the blankets as he wailed for his mother's milk.

So the doll was true to its claims.

Hence, the unsightly marionette joined their dinner table. However, never once did Ronald see his child out of it again. He was only glad that it gave his Lillian a renewed fervor to live. She carried it around day after day and refused to neither let it out of her sight nor her arms, showering the monstrous thing with smooches on the nose. Her impulsive hard squeezes would have choked the air out of it if it was their boy. For a while, he would rather work night hours than witness Lillian’s love for an object. And the worst thing was that she, who would have definitely complained in the past, thanked him for giving her quality time with “James”.

"My God, Lillian, what are you doing now?" he demanded, flabbergasted by her feeding beef stew to "James" and making an absolute mess on the floor.

"Feeding our baby, of course.” Another spoonful slipped down the doll's schmatte and dropped onto the carpet, not the only one in the two months since he sought the queer store’s service. Stains streaked their opulent Turkish rug like the floor of the Chinese takeout the two of them once vowed to abandon. Nasty brown marks.

Lillian kept talking. “Look how much he had grown. He doesn't even need milk anymore."

"Lillian, this has got to stop.” He set down his utensil abruptly. He had put up with this playing house for weeks, and he simply couldn't stand it any longer. “It is time that we throw the doll away.”

"Doll?" Don’t she dare give him that incredulous look! “What in the world are you talking about?”

He had wondered repetitively why Lillian would attach herself to an impostor. The fierce woman he wedded wasn’t this weak.

Her eyes, blue like Jame’s, narrowed. “Oh... I see. You want to get rid of my baby because you feel that you have to compete for my love. How very disappointing! Well, I won’t give him to you. I'm going to guard him with my life.”

“But it's a…”

Could it be? That he had not touched the thing again and was, therefore, immune to its powers? The toymaker did mention something about two hours, or was it three? Then maybe the nonsense about the hourglass wasn't false as well. The hourglass that now laid in the depth of their trash.

That night, the grandfather clock struck midnight. He rolled over, finding the other side of the bed empty, and noticed that from a distance, the light was still up in the parlor, a baleful coppery glow. He tiptoed down the hallway, following Lillian's soft humming voice as she gently rocked the doll in her arms and sang a lullaby. Hearing his approach, she glared and motioned for him not to make a sound.

The dread solidified inside of him like an iceberg finally peaking out of the surface. He was the one that drove his wife to this insanity. Therefore, he must save her from it. Crossing his arms and leaning by the corridor, the two of them glowered at each other in a stalemate as she clutched her baby closer to her heart. He would get this impostor out of his house.

He waited, patiently, chasing drowsiness away whenever his eyelids threatened to succumb. Lillian stood her ground as well, biting on her lips so hard that it bled.

Minutes ticked by, then hours. Eventually, exhaustion won out for her, and she nodded off.

"I'm sorry, my love, but this is for your own good," he mouthed inaudibly and removed the doll from her grip, marching determinedly towards the front porch. He didn't make it far before a mother's instinct aroused her also.

"Give me back my baby, you thief!" She bellowed at the top of her voice.

Ronald broke into a sprint. Dawn's muted shade of fawn drew nearer and nearer.

"Please, Ronald! Don't! You barbarian! Don't do this... I am begging you!" She let out a string of curses and pleas, but nothing could change his mind.

He kicked open the door, tossing the blighted thing forever out of their house. Screeching, his wife lept after it.

Later in the day, neighbors reported seeing the man frozen at his doorstep, mouth hung wide open, with two instead of one doll laying on the portico, one with a golden lock and the other an onyx-black ringlet the exact hue of his wife's.