The Doll's Eye

by Marina Cohen

  “Hadley? Is that you? Where are you?”

  “I’m here, Gabe! I need your help!”

  “Just a sec,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  “Do you have the doll?” she yelled. “Tell me you still have it!”

  “It’s at home,” he said. “Why?”

  Gabe’s voice drew nearer. He must have been only a few feet away. Hadley swatted again at the yellow fog, but it was no use. It was like trying to part water.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she yelled. “I need you to get the doll. Get it now and bring it here. We need to put back the eye!”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just do it,” she said. “And hurry. Before it’s too late.”

  Hadley could hear Gabe drop his shovel. She felt he was so close, if she could just reach through, she could touch him.

  “Is everything okay?” He sounded worried.

  “No—it’s not! Please, Gabe. Hurry!

  “Okay,” he said. “Wait right there. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!”

  Seconds passed like hours. The fog was so thick and so tight it was growing harder to breathe. Hadley swallowed great gulps, but her lungs began to ache under the strain.

  Then the door to the apartment above the garage swung open. Althea de Mone waved at Hadley. “I’m so glad I found you!” she said. “I’ve been looking all over! You must come inside.”

  Hadley searched frantically for Gabe, trying once again to see beyond the fog, certain he would arrive any moment. “Not now, Granny. I’m busy.”

  “But it’s finally ready,” she said cheerfully. “Don’t you want to see it?”

  Hadley turned to face the old woman.

  Althea de Mone stood at the top of the metal stairs. She held something in her hands. “Your gift, dear,” she said. “I think you’ll like it.” And then she disappeared inside.

  Thirty-three

  Hadley paced steadily toward the garage. She grasped the metal railing, and as she climbed the steps she found herself thinking of an old poem she’d once read, the one that began: Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly …

  The door was wide open. Granny sat on the floral sofa, a cup of steaming tea halfway to her lips. Her dark glasses obscured her eyes, but something told Hadley the old woman was looking right at her.

  As Hadley stepped inside, a thin grin snaked across Granny’s lips. She took a sip of tea and then gently lowered the cup, placing it on its saucer.

  “Come in, dear,” she said quietly. She patted the empty space on the sofa beside her. Facedown in her lap was a doll.

  “I can’t stay,” said Hadley, shifting nervously, checking through the open door for Gabe. “I’ve got something really important I need to do.”

  “But you have something important to do right here,” she said. “Come sit with me. I have something to tell you. There’s more to that old story. Do you want to hear?”

  “I can’t, Granny, I—” she tried to explain. The eye bulged in her pocket; her hand flew to it instinctively. She should go back outside. Gabe would be there by now—with the doll.

  “He’s not coming,” Granny said quietly.

  “Who?” asked Hadley, still searching through the open door.

  “Why, that friend of yours—Gabe—isn’t that who you’re looking for?”

  Hadley took a tentative step toward the sofa. “But how…”

  “Have some tea,” said Granny, pouring a cup.

  Hadley shook her head slowly. Something had changed. The tea no longer smelled fresh and soothing. It smelled musky and earthy like boiled dirt.

  Hadley stared at the doll in Granny’s lap. It wore a pink frilly dress identical to the one she’d been forced to wear. Identical to the one the first doll had worn.

  “That girl,” said Granny, “the one who died all those years ago. She was such a charming little thing—and feisty, just like you. But so unhappy. So terribly unhappy. How she’d longed to have both her parents by her side. How she’d longed to return to her old home. How she’d wished for a friend…”

  “I’m sorry, Granny. I really don’t have time for this right now,” said Hadley. “I’ve got to go…”

  “She fell down the stairs one night, poor dear. They buried her at the back of the yard—to keep her near the house.”

  Granny’s words reached Hadley’s ears in good time, but they seemed to take a lot longer to sink into her brain. The girl fell down the stairs. The scream. The girl’s scream. The one she’d heard in the house the day Isaac hurt his ankle …

  “Of course, the yard was much larger in those days,” she went on. “With all the erosion of soil it’s dropped off now. The grave has slid right down into the ravine.”

  Gabe was right. The soil was eroding. And the doll they found—had it been buried along with the girl? Was there a grave somewhere down there? A box of bones long decomposed? Did all those flesh flies still think there was a body somewhere to feast on? Was that why they hung around? Or were there more bodies? Fresh bodies, bodies of missing families …

  Hadley gulped.

  “Her name was Althea,” said the old woman. “Did I mention that?”

  “B-but,” Hadley stammered, somehow unable to connect the words with their meaning, “isn’t that your name?”

  Light from the open door cast a shadow on the heavy dark drapes behind the old woman. The proportions of her body were wrong—the head too large and angular and the body too thin. It looked like some kind of—

  Before the word had fully formed in her mind, Hadley saw Granny’s name as if it were written in the air above her. Althea S. de Mone …

  Althea’s demon.

  Hadley drew in her breath as the door slammed shut behind her. She spun around and tugged at it, but it was sealed tight.

  “Such a sweet little girl,” continued the old woman. “And clever, too.”

  Hadley stared into the dark glasses. Grace’s words echoed in her mind. Perhaps if you give rather than take …

  She was suddenly certain that what lay behind the dark glasses was a great gaping hole in place of an eye. That was where the glass eye belonged. Hadley had to replace it—to break the spell.

  In a burst of energy, she lunged for the sofa, and before the old woman could react, Hadley had snatched the frames and yanked them from her face.

  Althea de Mone did not move a muscle. She simply sat staring calmly at Hadley. Her two eyes were enormous, completely black and unblinking. Like an insect.

  Hadley shrank back. The glasses clanged to the ground. The woman’s lips curled into a crooked smile. Hadley hadn’t noticed before how sharp her tiny white teeth appeared.

  “She tricked me, you know,” said the old woman matter-of-factly. “I gave her all she’d asked for—even her final wish, to never see me again—and how did she repay me? With treachery. She was to give me one small thing in return—one of her precious little eyes. But when the time came, I received a glass imitation.”

  Hadley’s hand flew to her pocket once again. The eye was still there. “Wh-who are you? What are you really?”

  “What does it matter?” she said. “‘A rose is a rose…’”

  Hadley needed to get out of the apartment. She needed to find Gabe. She needed to get her hands on the one-eyed doll.

  “How Althea loved her dollhouse. And her dolls. That’s what gave me the idea. To make the dolls.”

  Thunk.

  Hadley had heard that sound before. She searched the apartment, her eyes settling on the old trunk in the far corner. The woman stood and walked calmly toward it. Holding the new doll in one hand, she lifted the lid.

  Hadley’s heart nearly stopped as her world narrowed to a fine point.

  In the trunk lay row upon row of wooden dolls—dolls of all shapes and sizes—male and female, old and young. They had large, vacant eyes.

  Hadley’s insides turned to stone. Lying there, as if in a tomb, was the first family of dolls—the one with the little girl
—the family from the newspaper, the one that had gone missing from the house. Beside them was Hadley’s father, a creepy smile still fixed to his lips. And then she saw them—Ed, Isaac … and her mother.

  “Lovely,” Granny said, “don’t you think?”

  Seeing Ed, Isaac, and her mother lying there sparked courage in Hadley. She raised herself taller and squared her shoulders. She met the demon’s black eyes with a fierce scowl. “I want them back,” she said coldly.

  “Ah, but you gave them to me,” she said, chuckling. “Don’t you recall?”

  Hadley fished through her memory. What did the old woman mean? Then suddenly she recalled her wish. Up in the attic. I wish my family were like these dolls.

  Hadley closed her eyes. She had said that. She had wished it. But she hadn’t meant it. Not that way. Without thinking, she pulled out the glass eye.

  “That’s it,” said the old woman. “You have one wish left. Go on. Make it a good one.”

  The words flew out of Hadley’s mouth before she could stop them. “I want my family back.”

  As the final word left her lips, the old woman’s grin grew frighteningly wide. Hadley could feel the blood crackling to a halt inside her chest. The eye slipped from her hand and rolled across the floor. The numbness was traveling from Hadley’s heart toward her head. Once it reached her brain she would not be able to control her body.

  If you get something, you must give something in return …

  The old woman stooped to retrieve the eye. She held it up to the dark bulb that was her own. “Ah, the falseness of it all. The constant reminder of the treachery I suffered. I vowed never to be fooled again. Never to rely on promises. Now I take what I’m owed. Limb by precious limb…”

  She extended the doll she had been holding and Hadley got a clear view of the wooden face with large, pleading eyes. It looked exactly like Hadley.

  Hadley backed away. She turned and staggered toward the window. She had to get out of the apartment before it was too late. The window was her only hope. If she could smash it, she could escape. It wasn’t too high up. She could jump out the window and get away. She grabbed the dark drapes and yanked. The curtains ripped off their rod and dropped to the ground.

  A giant metal rim with spokes filled the space outside the window. Behind the huge wheel was a rocking chair the size of a mountain.

  Thirty-four

  The August humidity had eased. Summer was fading fast and autumn lay just around the corner. The downward arc of the calendar had begun.

  In Hays Woods the canopy was changing from deep green to crimson and gold. Flies still buzzed about during the day, but they retreated when night came—and it came earlier these days. The woods were quieter now as well—the birds had begun to fly south. The snakes and rodents had disappeared into their nests.

  Hadley lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The pink organza dress no longer itched. It fit perfectly. It was as though by wearing it, she had finally become the person she was meant to be.

  Ed and Mom sat facing each other in the family room. They were smiling. They were happy again at last. Isaac was at the kitchen table in front of a bowl heaped with Flaxy O’s.

  Hadley’s final wish had come true after all. They were all together again. The perfect family. In the perfect house. How could she ever have wanted anything else?

  Outside, the sky was a pale, lackluster yellow—the color of an old sheet gathering dust. And somewhere, in the vast space beyond, was Gabe.

  Had he come to rescue her with the one-eyed doll after all? Had he wondered where she’d gone? Was he worried about her now? If only she had waited a minute longer. If only …

  Hadley imagined Gabe in Hays Woods, looking through his binoculars, searching for bugs, or lingering snakes and birds. She hoped he had finished building the retaining wall. She hoped he would build the berm that would redirect the water flow. If not, the house would eventually drop off into the ravine like he’d said.

  Maybe Gabe would remember her—remember what to do with the one-eyed doll. Maybe he’d come looking for her. Maybe he’d bring the doll, return the eye, and break the spell. She could no longer go to Gabe, but there was nothing stopping Gabe from coming to her. If he remembered.

  Hadley wished Gabe was with her now. She wished very hard, only she had nothing left to pay with, so there were no more wishes to be had. Grace had warned her. Hadley hadn’t listened.

  Of course Grace might remember as well. She might come by the house looking for her, too. She could bring her carpetbag purse filled with her special tools—the feather duster and alluvial mud. Perhaps she could capture the old demon in one of her colorful glass bottles and cork it tight. She might even send the invisible gnomes. Perhaps invisible gnomes could fight demons. After all, they’d liked her. Grace had said so.

  As Hadley lay still and calm, she was reminded of something else Grace had told her. If you believe you are happy, then aren’t you? Hadley had her family back. They were all together now. Forever. And though not in the way she’d hoped, she decided it was okay. She was happy.

  Suddenly, a shadow crept over her. The yellow sheet flew away and the dollhouse exploded with bright light. Fingers tightened around Hadley’s body as she was lifted gently into the air. Large eyes stared at her in surprise and wonder.

  Then a low rumble echoed across the floor. It was the eye. The girl picked it up and held it beside Hadley’s head.

  Hadley tried desperately to move her mouth—to warn the girl—but her tongue was like stone. Her body was its own prison.

  Inside her head, words danced themselves into a feverish frenzy. They screamed this way and that, trying desperately to find a way out. They bounced off the walls of her mind, echoing on and on, until they disappeared.

  I’m not a doll.

  I’m not a doll.

  I’m not a doll …

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When I was in the seventh grade, the local high school, Wexford Collegiate, put on a performance of The Monkey’s Paw and invited surrounding elementary schools to attend. I would like to thank my teachers for taking our class to see the play. I would also like to thank author W. W. Jacobs for never showing me what stood behind that door. The gentle knock, knock, knock has echoed in my mind all these years.

  I completed the first draft of this manuscript several years ago, and it’s not without the help and support of many wonderful people that it shifted and morphed and changed until it found its true shape.

  A heartfelt thank-you to my first-draft readers—Valerie Sherrard, Martha Martin, Deborah Kerbel, Kathy Temean, and Jaime Cohen. Thank you to Alison Weiss, whose feedback led to valuable changes. Thank you to Caroline Carlson for helping me navigate the Pittsburgh area, and to Darlene Beck Jacobson for lending me her historical fiction eyes.

  Thank you to the Ontario Arts Council for your generous support of this work via the Writers’ Reserve Program.

  Thank you to the very talented Nicoletta Ceccoli for the delightfully creepy cover and illustrations.

  To my three wonderful children and to my amazing husband, Michael Cohen—your love and support mean the world to me. Always.

  To my superhero agent, John M. Cusick—I’m so very lucky that something about this story snagged your attention all those years ago, and that you stuck with it and me on our long journey to this great place.

  And last, but most important on this list, the biggest thank-you goes to the amazing team at Roaring Brook Press—to Anne Diebel for her wonderful design, to Karla Reganold and her copyediting team, who made sure all my “eyes” are dotted, and especially to my brilliant editor, Emily Feinberg, whose keen eyes, patience, and absolute dedication have made this book the very best it can be.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Marina Cohen grew up in Scarborough, Ontario, where she spent far too much time asking herself what if … In elementary school, her favorite author was Edgar Allen Poe. She loved "The Tell-Tale Heart" and aspired to write similar stories. She is
a love of the fantastical, the bizarre, and all things creepy. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Text copyright © 2017 by Marina Cohen

  Illustrations copyright © 2017 Nicoletta Ceccoli

  Published by Roaring Brook Press

  Roaring Brook Press is a division of Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership

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