The Doll and The Room

A porcelain doll in a white dress, arms reaching to be held by someone; imprisoned by the room that held it now. Undisturbed and forgotten, left to rot and waste away. The smell of mold and rot filled the air as dust slowly drifted through shafts of light coming from the window. A rocking chair in a corner creaked as though it were raising its head to see who had entered the room.

Just my imagination, he thought as pleasant images of chairs with teeth and large appetites danced in his head like sugar plums and fairies. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. Curse my imagination.

Picture frames with yellow-stained photographs lined the walls. They held no color, the expressionless faces stealing the warmth from his bones as he raised his collar with a shiver. Their famished eyes seemed to eat his attention alive.

Slow, seemingly deliberate creaks came from the floor, confirming or denying whatever the rocking chair was espousing about the new visitor. The hanging dust flowed like flocks of birds swimming through the air as a cold breeze entered the room.

Old carpet and furniture the final resting place for the dust as it settled, the patterns in the persian rug that covered most of the hardwood floor was mostly obscured. He ran a finger along a smooth surface, bringing it up to his face to inspect the fine gray powder.

Discerning eyes beheld what this room used to be, now merely a gravestone, marking a passing memory.

He laughed at his own words; they were about as useful as a wet sock in this moment.

Silent apologies came from his mind as he disturbed the dust, moving to the end of the room that held the porcelain doll. The attention the dust and old pictures were given was placed into the open arms of the doll, and the doll would not let it go. He could make out more and more of the fine cracks all along the unnaturally stiff smile as he approached. The lace in the dress looked like it had just been made yesterday.

Just in and out, Quickly now , No need to leave a flourishing bow.

The creaking in the floor grew in consistency and volume until it was a constant droning sound as he stopped right in front of the cracked face of the doll, the arms reaching for him. His ears rang as the room fell silent in anticipation. All the eyes in the room were straining to see the man and the doll.

Kneeling down to be eye level,

He reaches out and grasps the little devil

Making these silly rhymes belittled the fear slowly gripping the back of his neck; sweat tickling his eyebrow.

Let the fear grip hard enough and I will be paralyzed.

As he wrapped his hand around the porcelain he was confused when the sensation quickly left his fingers. He tries to grasp the doll and finds that his fingers are completely numb. His palm could still feel the fine red fabric.

He lifts his hand, leaving the doll and his fingers sitting on the mantle while his thumb tumbles to the floor.

A record player in the corner blares to life, the hand crank turning a warbled and corrupted version of Right behind you Baby by Ray Smith out of the large brass horn.

Dust from the surface of the photos shifts and falls to the ground, faces in every picture turning to view their prey. The walls slowly begin shaking as though a train were passing just beneath them. The creaking that had been so loud just moments before roared back to life. Quickly he steps backwards, shoving his balled-up palm into his armpit. Feeling the pulse beat strongly from his severed hand, he flexes his armpit to apply pressure and runs for his life.

Slipping on his own dismembered thumb, he falls to the ground as the walls close in around him. Splintering wood, collapsing roof, shattering glass. A small laugh can be heard as the room returns to what it once was, waiting for its next meal.