MABEL

Mabel froze at the creaking of the floorboard. Still as a mannequin, her eyes weighted open saw nothing, she sought the source of the sound, feeling for vibrations, sensing changes in body heat, even a subtle increase of air pressure giving clues. There, outside the window she sensed movement, more than just the wind and rain. There was the warmth that emanated from human bodies. They had come again to invade her space.

She held her pose, her porcelain skin growing cool in the chilled room, planning her next move. All of her usual hiding places were too far away for her short strides so running was not an option. Also, if the intruders had looked into the window and saw her before she had become aware of them, they would question her disappearance. Better to hold her stiff pose and wait for her opportunity. She had often held that stance for hours.

In her memory she scanned the room for any evidence of her activities. The fire in the fireplace set by the last visitors had burned out years ago and all the embers were now just cold ash, she had no need of its warmth. The pool of blood on the floor had dried to a stain which she had covered with a rug, the body disposed of before the blood had dried. No candles, lanterns or lights were lit as light was useless to her sightless eyes.

Vibrations on the floor told her more than one person had entered her home. The nervous laughter and vulgar language told her it was young men, probably teenagers. The callous kick to her side and the glee they expressed as it sent her crashing to slide the length of the floor told her they were bullies.

As her body came to rest against a wall she felt her arm break, an errant nail head snagged her tightly curled hair and ripped out a lock. Still, she made no sound, no movement. She lay where she landed, she was patient but not kind. She had dealt with vandals like this before. While they partied she planned her revenge. When they had settled down for the night in a drunken stupor, she pulled herself up. Feeling around she located the shattered bits of her arm. A prestidigitatorial use of superglue had her arm like new in minutes.

She moved quickly in her well rehearsed dance. In the kitchen, using drawers for a ladder, she pulled herself up to capture a knife, back to the living room dragging the knife behind her to dispatch first one, then the other intruder. A quick yet firm drawing of the knife across throats, efficient, effective and silent but for a few surprised gasps and some gurgling. Ropes and pulleys were her only tools but they served her well in dragging their giant bodies to the cellar door where her glass-booted kick projected them into the dank beyond. They landed at the bottom of the unlit stairs atop the five others who had dared to invade her home in as many decades.

She couldn’t see how they landed, perhaps in a jumbled pile, arms and legs akimbo, faces down and asses up, perhaps in some other configurations. Nor could she know their expressions, the terror of their final look as they awoke to find what they had dismissed as merely a creepy doll, wielding a knife as big as herself to slice their throats. She couldn’t see and she didn’t care. Her only concern was that her home was safe and her life was undisturbed.

Mabel closed the door on the makeshift grave, used a damp cloth to sponge the blood spatter from her ceramic dress and the knife. She returned her tools to their proper places and returned to stand sentry in the middle of her living room as she had done for the last 51 years.

Legend has it that the house is haunted by the soul of a child murdered there. But Mabel knew better, she was no child and she had no soul.