by Jeff Strand
Mr. Wuzzy and I are playing ball tag when the creeping sensation crawls up everyone’s backs, making the fur of our scruffs stand on end. Humans are watching.
We are pros; every bear drops instantly, simultaneously. The forest is now a silent place, littered with lifeless toys. Light slices through the trees at a long angle. The ball bouncing through the long grass and off into the trees is the only movement.
I sense a juvenile human weaving through the trees toward us, and I know that it is you. Mr. Wuzzy knows it, too; I can see the panic in his plastic eyes from ten feet away.
You could still remain safe. But then you step into the clearing.
It is all any of us can do not to gasp. The excitement that runs through us is electric, almost palpable. You step right over Mr. Wuzzy and his matted old fur. You step over a dozen bears on your way to me, so gentle, so careful not even to kick any of them. In this moment we all love you, but I love you most of all because I know you are mine.
“Mr. Fuzzy,” you say, bending over to pick me up, “what are you doing out here?” You scoop me sweetly up into your arms, not even tugging me by a paw, and pluck a leaf from the fur of my face.
For an instant I’m not sure I can do it.
I look into your innocent face, questioning me as though you already believe I could answer. Then I rear my head back and bare my teeth, pointy and sharp and crowded as a shark’s. I wait for your shock; need to feel it. Perhaps I am trying in my own way to give you an escape. But you do not drop me.
And then I bite.
My poison acts fast. You drop like we do, like a rag doll onto the forest clearing, still cradling me in your arms like a precious baby.
In the next moment the bears come to life, cheering and pumping their paws in the air. A few bears look disappointed, kicking stones and muttering things like, I thought it was my year. But they do not complain.
Only one bear is truly upset. As I step down from your paralyzed body, Mr. Wuzzy approaches me shaking his head. “We should let her go,” he says. “She’s been kind to us and doesn’t deserve this.”
“You’re just jealous,” I say. I run my paw through the fur on my head, smoothing it down. “You’re not her Mr. Fuzzy anymore and now you never will be.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but we are interrupted by last year’s Chosen Bear. Cuddles is an old bear, taller and thinner than Mr. Wuzzy and I, with the lumpy misshapen look of a comfort object. His fur is even more matted and stained than Mr. Wuzzy’s, and one of his plastic eyes fell off long ago and was replaced with a gray button. He grabs my paw with his and lifts it into the air like I’m a boxing champion. All the other bears cheer again. In the corner of my eye I see a Joy Bear clapping her paws across her rainbow-embroidered tummy. When she catches my eye I see her wink.
Cuddles turns back to me when the crowd starts to disperse. “Congratulations, Mr. Fuzzy. What a year you’ll have. I must have seen the whole world! It will be hard for me to go back to the stillness again.” His plastic eye takes on a faraway look as he rambles, but his button eye holds fast to me. He claps me on the back. “Enjoy the rest of the picnic, son. I’ll get everything ready.”
And so I step away from your body. I have a Joy Bear to find, a Mr. Wuzzy to ignore, and a picnic to enjoy.
It is difficult to lose Mr. Wuzzy, who follows me around jumping up and down like a young human who has to pee. “You don’t understand,” he says, but I do not listen.
It is easier to find Joy Bear, and when I do at last old Mr. Wuzzy gets the hint and goes, head down, out into the crowd. Joy bear is forward, nuzzling her pink heart nose into my neck even before we sneak away from the clearing. Already I enjoy being the Chosen Bear.
* * * * *
When the black sky starts to lighten, we gather for the ceremony. You are bound hands and feet in the center of the clearing, and when you see us gather around you your eyes grow wide with fear. It seems now you understand: it’s lovely down in the woods today, but safer to stay at home.
Cuddles stands beside you, as does Mr. Wuzzy. He strokes your face, staining his fur with your tears. When the crowd’s murmuring dies down Cuddles speaks: “Another year of paralysis has passed. Another year begins at dawn. But before it does, we make this offering so that next year we may again gather here.”
He turns to you, gesturing with one paw. He has a flair for the dramatic that I’m trying to memorize. Next year it will be I saying these words. “A human has come here, of her own free will. Who will testify to it?”
The crowd erupts as almost every bear raises a paw and shouts his testimony. Cuddles gestures to me. “Mr. Fuzzy, Chosen Bear, is this your human?”
“Yes,” I say. Mr. Wuzzy scowls at me.
“And are there any challenges?”
I am surprised when Mr. Wuzzy raises his paw. “I challenge,” he says. A gasp ripples outward through the crowd like a wave through water.
Cuddles looks confused. Never have I seen a challenge, even though it’s usually the case that more than one bear is linked to the human in question. The honor belongs to the Chosen Bear. “She is your human, too?” asks Cuddles.
“Yes,” Mr. Wuzzy says.
The crowd is loud with speculation. What happens now? I hear some ask. A female voice says, Maybe they can share the heart. But I look into Mr. Wuzzy’s eyes. He does not want to share. He wants to set you free. I wonder if you know the depth of his devotion: without a sacrifice none of us will be released from our paralysis next year.
And so I don’t wait for a judgment. “I am the Chosen Bear!” I shout. “Her heart belongs to me.” There is a moment of silence before the crowd reacts, but when they do it’s clear they are on my side. They cheer for me, and I feel powerful. I bare my teeth at Mr. Wuzzy, running my tongue along each thorn-like point. I do it to make him angry, and it does.
Mr. Wuzzy jumps across your squirming body and tackles me, his own needle-teeth snapping in my face. I am on my back in the grass, but I manage to get all four paws under him and push him away, and he falls back. I charge him like a bull, but he is quicker than me. He grabs me and before I really know what he’s doing my face is in the dirt. I think he is stepping on my head, twisting and grinding until I feel the stuffing breaking apart inside, feel the dirt working deep into my fur. Over it all I can hear your scream.
Suddenly the pressure is gone, and I stand up. All around me is chaos, bears hitting each other, grabbing and pulling at fur and ears and tails, stabbing at eyes and biting with their sharp, sharp teeth. The crowd has pulled Mr. Wuzzy off of me, and now they surround him, so many people attacking him that they’re hurting each other by accident.
I brush the dirt from my face, afraid of how badly my fur’s been damaged.
Cuddles breaks free of the melee and jumps onto your tummy, waving his arms in the air. “Quiet!” he yells, with such force that it cannot be ignored. Bears freeze with paws drawn back mid-punch; they freeze with mouths snarling open.
“The sky lightens,” he says, softer now, “and so we must proceed.”
Looking chastened, bears get back into order, helping each other up and murmuring apologies. A battered-looking Mr. Wuzzy brushes himself off, even as other bears stand around him like guards.
“Chosen Bear,” Cuddles says. “As custom dictates, I leave the honor to you. It is up to you to decide if you’ll share with the challenger.”
I nod humbly to Cuddles, then glare at Mr. Wuzzy. “I will not,” I say.
“Then on your word we begin.”
I step toward you and you twist away. “No. No. No,” you chant through the tears. Standing on your chest I stroke your face with my paw as Mr. Wuzzy did, and when I look at you I understand how he felt. It didn’t have to be you, and perhaps I would even have been happier if it were not you. I do not like to see you so sad and afraid.
But it was you.
“Yes, Cherie,” I say quietly, only for you. Then, “Yes!” I say louder. The bears strike as one mass, fast as
a pack of snakes. Shark-like teeth surround you from all sides, and we devour you quickly. You do not scream for long.
We eat until there is nothing left, crunching through your bones and licking every last drop of blood from our fur and the grass in the clearing. In our frenzy we even eat your clothes and the ropes with which we bound you. Yet your heart is mine alone, and I eat it slowly, savoring the year of freedom it buys me.
The sky is very light when the last bears leave and I worry that they will not make it back to their homes or stores before paralysis sets in. I am in no hurry. I dawdle, deciding where to go, when I hear a soft moaning from just outside the clearing.
Mr. Wuzzy crawls toward me from the woods. I see a new rip along his side seam, and I think his left eye looks loose. “Mr. Wuzzy,” I say, “Did I do that to you?”
Mr. Wuzzy laughs. “No, Fuzzy. I don’t think you could.”
I reach down to help him up, checking the sky in alarm. The sun will peek over a distant ridge any moment now; Mr. Wuzzy should be home by now. Even as I worry about the sun, another thought occurs to me. “Did you get any of the . . . of Cherie?”
He shakes his head. “Couldn’t get through the crowd. For some reason they were mad at me.” He smiles again, but weakly, and I realize how much I’ll miss his sense of humor. Even during paralysis, Mr. Wuzzy was a pal.
I run to the center of the clearing where the grass is matted and trampled. “Maybe there’s some blood left!” We may have missed some in the low light, I think. But I see nothing.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I was asking for it anyway.”
“But the paralysis! Next year—”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Just take me ho—”
The sun has climbed into the sky, and Mr. Wuzzy is inert again, just a toy. He falls limp onto the ground and I run over to squeeze him, shake him. It’s no use. I want to cry, but of course I cannot.
It’s hard work, but I carry him all the way back home. There are people about, and so I have to stop frequently to act like a toy. It’s noon by the time we get to your house, a household in pandemonium. Your humans are frantic looking for signs of you, but they will never find any, Cherie. I looked myself, but not a drop of you remains.
I use the confusion to enter unnoticed. Your door is closed, so I stand on Mr. Wuzzy’s lifeless head to reach the knob, then I carry him the rest of the way to the neatly-made bed. It was never rumpled last night. I push him up onto the bed and arrange him just-so against your lacy pillow, just the way you used to place me.
I whisper, “Goodbye, Mr. Wuzzy.”
I take one last look around the room before I go, memorizing everything. Like you, I will never return.
Dollhouse
Craig Wallwork
The cottage Darcy’s parents bought was set within the peaceful district of the Ryburn Valley. It stood elevated upon Yorkshire moorland where heather, crowberry and cotton grass grew all the year round. The limestone walls were shades of the moon’s darker side, and when the sun settled beyond the hills, the cottage appeared more forbidding than in day. Darcy grew accustomed to the snapping of logs and cinder trails on the carpet that came from the open fireplace, and at times the wind could be compared to a hundred tortured voices baying upon every window pane. But fear never exploited Darcy’s mind, for as her father contested on many occasions, all things can be explained. The low thundering rumble that tore a hole in the night was not that of a monster pushing its way from one world to the next, but the nightly groans from the heifers keeping warm in the farmer’s barn across the fields. The unexpected squeak of a floorboard was not the heels of a ghost, but instead the yawning of wood as it waned under the heat of water pipes. The illusory evil that supposedly cowered in shadows, or became the cold breath of night that followed her from room to room, was only a mischievous current of air. All could be explained. Everything, that is, save for the dollhouse.
It was a perfect replica of the cottage in every detail. Shaped gable ends, stone quoining to front corner elevations and detailed mullion windows with glazing. The front and its roof opened to reveal the same three story, eight room accommodation. Stair railings, banisters and newel posts perfectly matched the deep mahogany like those her hands touched every day. The roll top bath was finished with similar gold fixtures and ornate feet. The only noticeable difference was the absence of furniture in the rooms. But it was beautiful and well crafted, and would have remained hidden in the attic had it not been for the ghost.
The previous evening Darcy had awaked to a large bang. The wind was an ocean rushing up and down the chimney’s flue. Its noise would have pulled the most rationale mind to the presence of something unworldly. But Darcy deduced that a door had been left ajar in the cottage and the wind was moving from room to room with little care for those sleeping. She left her bed and felt the pinch of a cold wooden floor against her bare feet. The faint hue of a silver moon cast the landing in a static haze. Shadows huddled for warmth in every corner and the floorboards moaned and grumbled as each was stirred from their slumber by her tread. Darcy passed her parent’s bedroom and pressed her ear to the door. The sonorous breathing of her father bled through the wooden panelling. The door was firmly closed, as was the bathroom’s. As she passed the attic she felt a cool breeze and turned to find the door was open. Crude steps made from cheap wood ascended to a blanket of darkness beyond the staircase. Darcy approached and peered in with a quizzical, almost brazen air of displeasure. As her hand reached for the latch to close the door, she caught sight of a willowy form moving across the attic. She was not alarmed by this revelation, and assumed a car had passed outside, the light from the headlamp throwing a wayward shadow across the wall. A small light switch assured her steps as she made her way up to the attic.
Cardboard boxes of various sizes lay strewn across the floor, each labeled for every room in the house. Cobwebs hung from the apex and wooden beams like old rags and the smell in the air was like that of wet shoes and mothballs. A small window confirmed her suspicions that the ghost was only a light passing against the wall. She was about to leave when he noticed in the corner of the room a large object covered under a dust sheet. For years her parents had the habit of hiding gifts and birthday presents in lofts, attics and basements. Her ninth birthday was in three weeks. Darcy crept across the floor and lifted the sheet to reveal the dollhouse. That she had not hinted or requested one mattered little, for upon seeing it in that dimly lit room, she was completely happy to know it was hers.
Her clandestine visits became a nightly routine. Darcy would wait until her parents had gone to bed and then she would visit the attic to see the dollhouse. An increasing number of ornamental furniture and fixtures were being added on each visit that matched perfectly those in the cottage. Her parents must have hired a master craftsman to fashion these items before placing them in the rooms every day. From the sleigh bed in her parent’s bedroom to the antique Wellington chest in the living room, and Georgian oak antique chest of drawers in the dining room, the world she physically lived within had been shrunk to Liliputian size. By the first week, wallpaper had been added, and by the end of the second, the same taupe Saxony carpet covered the living room. The biggest surprise came three days before her birthday. Darcy arrived in the attic to discover three small figurines had been placed in the dollhouse. Each resembled in the most accurate detail Darcy and her parents. She took them out and marvelled at the complexity and proficiency of each. Her father’s figurine had the same Roman nose, designer glasses and widow’s peak. Cheekbones were prominent and neck lacking in muscle. Her mother’s hair was styled into the same bob that flanked a rounded face. Lips like clam shells and eyes of onyx. Darcy’s effigy wore a pretty blue flowery dress, the same she had in her wardrobe and was her favorite of all her clothes. Her auburn hair was tied into a ponytail, much the same way Darcy preferred to wear it. The nose was delicate, its bridge peppered with tiny specks of brown paint. The scar upon her chin that she had gained when she fel
l from a tree when five years old was etched into the wooden face of her counterpart. The house was complete.
On the eve of her birthday Darcy visited the attic to play with the house for the final time. She undid the latch and pulled back the front façade and roof. Everything was there, from the tiny furniture to the bowl of quince in the kitchen. Darcy found her wooden parents lay in their wooden bed, just like her real parents lay sleeping one floor below. To her surprise, Darcy’s figurine was in the attic, knelt before a smaller version of the dollhouse, the most recent addition to the collection. Darcy moved her smaller self out of the way to get a better look. Again, the miniature dollhouse had been crafted with such skill it was almost too perfect. She did not wish to touch it in case it broke. In that moment her eye saw something move in the dollhouse. Using her finger, she gently moved papier-mâché boxes to one side within the attic area, assuming that a spider may be hiding in the balsa eaves. A noise like that of shifting feet presented itself behind her. Darcy turned and for the briefest of moments saw an image of a man. His limbs were extended beyond that of what could be considered normal. He wore no clothes, and while shadows draped him like a veil, Darcy noted deep scars traversing his torso. The fingers of his ribcage pressed against cyanotic skin, and a long, malformed face like that of a gnarled tree trunk remained devoid of emotion. She had enough time to blink twice before the man disappeared. Darcy sprang to her feet and ran to the area the man had occupied. With each step that pulled her toward the shadows, she convinced herself it was a trick of the light. A mix of fatigue and the sickly hue of the bulb. The space where he stood was empty. Darcy reached her hand out to the pool blackness and it found nothing residing there but a coolness that tightened her skin.
Darcy returned to the dollhouse, and as she reached for the small clasp that secured the front of the cottage, she noticed the figurines of her parents were no longer sleeping in their beds. Her father was in the living room, his little wooden effigy lay suspended by a piece of brown twine; one end fixed to the wooden beam fixed to the ceiling, the other end wrapped around his wooden neck. She found her mother’s figurine lying in the roll top bath, a trickle of red paint bleeding from her wrists. Both her parent’s wooden faces of powder pink and cream were warped by fear.
