by Jeff Strand
The dog has the head of an action figure he carries with him. It is the head of the Six Million Dollar Man. He uses the bionic eye in the head of the action figure to read the miniaturized joke books that still smell of decades old Crackerjack.
The dog makes due.
The dog has chewed the heads off every doll or action figure in the attic. He has melted the bodies with his mind. He has used their plastic to make more spiders and scorpions. These are the hard ones. They are not flexible in body or spirit. He has mounted the heads of the action figures awkwardly on the spiders and scorpions.
There is a globe and a world encyclopedia in the attic and the dog has explored it from cover to cover to cover, repeatedly. This way, the dog has seen the world. The world he has seen is from 1955.
The dog worries about the cold war.
The dog wonders if there is anything beyond the attic.
The dog works hard to create a new and better world.
A world without humans. A world with plastic and rubber spiders, some with the heads of the extinct race of man. A world without the evils of VHS. A world where all the jokes are writ large. A world where he alone is the master of fire and the atom, for he alone can be trusted with this mighty burden. A world where a dog can get a thorough brushing and a new battery every so often. An ideal world. A utopia. A dog’s world.
Something to flip over, again.
When Harry Killed Sally
Lisa Morton
Melissa stood in her nine-year-old daughter’s bedroom, staring down at the toy wreckage. “Sharona, what happened here?” She motioned at a headless doll; from its dress, she recognized it as Sally, a strange little patchwork figure that had been one of Sharona’s favorites.
The little girl shrugged and kept playing a loud and annoying videogame on her PlayStation. “She had a fight with Harry. They broke up. He killed her again.”
“Harry? You mean the teddy bear?”
Sharona grunted agreement, and Melissa sighed. Nine years old, and she’s still mutilating dolls, except now it’s after they’ve had a bad break-up. We’ve spent money on every kind of therapy, medications, special schools…
Melissa knelt, found the decapitated doll’s head under the bed, and retrieved it. The head had not only been ripped off, but half the hair had been yanked out, giving the doll the appearance of a cancer patient. What on earth possesses her to DO this? None of my friends have kids who destroy everything.
There was no sign of the marauding teddy. “Where’s Harry?”
“He went to the attic.”
“Sharona…honey, we’ve talked about this before. You know I don’t want you going up to the attic by yourself.” Their house, a 1940s bungalow, had an attic that was little more than a crawlspace and could only be reached by setting up a ladder beneath an opening in the hallway, but somehow Sharona kept finding her way up there. “That ladder’s too big for you, and besides, there are probably all kinds of nasty molds and spiders up there—”
Sharona cut her mother off. “I didn’t say I went up there. I said Harry did.”
“Oh, I see. So how did he get up there, then?”
No answer. Sharona pretended to focus on her game.
Melissa wanted to unplug the goddamn PlayStation right then and there, force her daughter’s attention for once…but all the psychiatrists and specialists had cautioned against displays of anger. “Sharona’s a very special child,” they’d say. The school officials all used that same phrase, whenever they talked about Sharona’s problems with her classmates—how their books had been tampered with, or their pencils snapped. Special child.
But I don’t want this kind of special, Melissa had been tempted to respond.
She decided to check the attic instead, to see if the bear really was there. Maybe she’d have a better handle on how to deal with her temperamental, willful child if she knew whether she was telling the truth.
She found the ladder in the garage (how did a nine-year-old lug this thing back and forth?), carried it into the hallway, unfolded it beneath the trap door and climbed up. The trap pushed up easily, and Melissa stepped up further. The attic was gloomy, late afternoon sunlight slanting in through a few vents, picking out dust motes in the stale air. There was a bare bulb overhead, and Melissa’s groping fingers found the dangling pull chain. Light flooded the space, and she saw boxes of old clothing, Christmas decorations, some broken furniture—
And a pile of toys. Not just Harry, the small stuffed brown bear, but also a Barbie, a plush Tweety, and a little pink toy car she didn’t remember ever seeing before.
Why would she put all of these in the attic? Must’ve been one big doll rumble.
Harry had been a big, sweet-faced, stuffed bear—a custom-made one that’d cost a small fortune—but for some reason looking at the thing now sent a shiver up Melissa’s back. Had it always had that smirk at the corner of the sewn-on mouth? Or maybe it was the way it seemed to have one foot on the Barbie, like a conqueror crushing a villager underfoot.
Forcing her unease aside, Melissa gathered the toys in one arm and climbed down with the other. She was about to pull the trap shut when she heard something: a skittering across the rough boards that made up the attic’s floor.
Oh, great…now we have rats?
She cautiously poked her head up again—and was startled to find herself inches from a grinning, bug-eyed face. Melissa jerked back in shock, banging her neck on the rim of the opening, then she forced her heart to slow down as she realized what she was looking at: it was another of Sharona’s toys, a big green ogre thing.
How did I miss seeing that before? Melissa hesitated—she didn’t like the thought of touching the ogre any more than Teddy—before reaching out and adding the doll to her armload.
Back in Sharona’s room, she set all the retrieved toys down on the floor. Sharona glanced over briefly, then said, “Should’ve left ’em in the attic. There’s gonna be trouble now.”
Melissa thought there already was.
* * * * *
That night, Melissa was still awake at 2 a.m., her husband Nelson snoring softly beside her. She stared into the darkness, her thoughts forever circling back to her daughter.
We did everything right. We followed all the guides. We fed her the right things, bought her every toy, hired nannies and tutors, but nothing worked. She should have been the perfect child. But she’s not even what my sisters all have.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rapid series of creaks from overhead. Something was in the attic.
What…?
A cat. Or maybe a possum. She’d seen one of those ugly rodents out by the trash last week. Were they rabid? Would it attack Sharona if she tried to climb up there again? In the morning she’d set the ladder up and take look.
* * * * *
She found Harry in the attic again.
There was no sign of any animal, no opening she could see where one could have gotten in…but there was Sharona’s bear.
Somehow the bear looked…different. Its glass eyes seemed wild, the brown fake fur somehow puffier, as if an electrical current had run through it. Melissa had to force herself to pick it up, and then she held it away from her body.
She took off from work early so she could pick up Sharona from school; as usual, her child walked alone, away from all the other happy third-graders who strode off in groups of two or three.
“Sharona,” Melissa asked, after their seatbelts were fastened, “did you crawl back up to the attic last night and put Harry there again?”
“Harry attacked Sally again and I told him he was very bad. She’s tired of being killed.”
Melissa forced herself to stay calm. “Honey, that doesn’t answer my question.”
Sharona made an exasperated sound, then said, “He and the ogre keep beating up on the other dolls.”
The shrinks had all warned her that “special children like Sharona” frequently used dolls as stand-ins for their own hostility, but Melissa had to bite
back on her own frustration now. “They’re just toys, Sharona. They don’t attack each other.”
Sharona shrugged. “Try telling them that.”
* * * * *
Melissa locked up the ladder. She found an old bicycle cable and lock in the garage, and used them to secure the ladder to Nelson’s table saw.
Let’s see you get to the attic NOW, Harry.
* * * * *
That night she heard the clattering sound overhead again. The next morning she unlocked the ladder, crawled up into the attic, and saw Harry and the ogre waiting near the opening.
Harry still had a small pink plastic arm clenched in one fluffy fist.
Later that day she found Mrs. Hernandez, the babysitter/housekeeper who came in during the afternoons before Melissa got home, and asked her if she knew anything about someone going up to the attic.
“Attic? No,” answered the nanny in her thick Salvadorean accent. Melissa still wasn’t entirely sure she trusted the woman, but she was the only one they’d found who’d put up with Sharona’s tantrums, and she was affordable, too.
At dinner, Melissa told Nelson something was going on. “Sharona’s putting things in the attic.”
Nelson snorted mashed potatoes, then wiped his mouth. “Is that a euphemism for something?”
“No. She’s mutilating her toys, then she puts them in the attic.”
Nelson grunted. “So?”
Melissa huffed in exasperation, then said, “You don’t find that a little odd?”
“She’s a kid. They do weird shit.”
Nelson excused himself to work on a report that was due in the morning. Melissa checked in on Sharona, and asked if everything was okay.
“God, Mom, stop with the interrogations, okay?!”
* * * * *
Early in the morning, Melissa awoke when she heard not only skittering sounds—like tiny footsteps—from the attic, but a small voice as well. This time she wasn’t going to wait; she flew out of bed and ran down the hallway. There was no sign of the ladder, but she could still hear the overhead noises. She also heard chattering from Sharona’s room.
She didn’t knock, but instead threw back her daughter’s door and flipped on the overhead light.
Sharona sat on the floor by her bed, surrounded by toys…all of which were damaged in some way. Sally was nothing now but a plastic torso with a dress; Barbie had an arm sticking out of her neck-stump. Teddy and the ogre were noticeably missing.
“Sharona, what is going on?!”
When the little girl looked up, Melissa nearly flinched from the sheer viciousness on the small face. “They were very bad this time.”
“How?” Melissa didn’t have to check the attic; she knew she’d find the missing toys there. “How are they getting up there?”
Sharona shouted, “Just leave me alone! I hate you!”
“I’m not leaving you alone, Sharona! Tell me how they get up there NOW!”
Sharona’s features abruptly twisted into a feral grin. “Okay, Mommy.”
Melissa’s vision went black. It took her a few seconds to realize that she was on her knees and couldn’t move. She smelled the dust and mildew of the attic.
The dusty bulb overhead clicked on, and Melissa saw her daughter seated a few feet away, still baring her teeth. And the toys were there—Teddy and the ogre and a few more—and they were walking slowly towards Melissa, on feet made of rubber and plastic and stuffed fur. Melissa struggled, but some force held her in an iron grip.
“Sharona,” Melissa managed through a locked jaw, “are you…?”
The toys advanced. Sharona giggled.
She was a very special child.
Living Doll
Piers Anthony
Tumble was ready to call it a day. His late grandfather’s attic was crowded, stale, and hot, and he had been slowly cleaning it out for hours. His folk were cleaning up the house for sale, and naturally Tumble, the clumsy one, got the wearing but safe job. Which was all right; he knew he wasn’t much of a person, and he was satisfied to do the best he could. It was sad, though, because he had liked the gruff old man, and was sorry for this evidence of his demise.
There was a small stout wooden chest before him. Very well, he would check that out, then get out of the oppressive heat.
He unlatched the lid and lifted it. Inside was a doll. What was Grandpa doing with anything like this? He had been no girly-man, but a tough old buzzard. The only dolls he liked were the living kind.
It certainly was lovely. It looked to be anatomically correct, garbed in a hula skirt and halter that showed a phenomenal shape, with a pretty face and massive dark hair that extended to her plush bottom.
Curious, Tumble lifted the doll out of her case. She was about a foot tall and perfect in every detail. “I wish I had a girl like you,” he breathed. Of course even the wish was foolish. Girls knew him for what he was, an awkward oaf, and stayed well away. Even if he had one like this, she would soon depart for some better man.
The doll shimmered. She expanded rapidly. In a moment she stood before him, his hand on her petite waist, her hand cupping his. “Your wish is my command,” she said.
Amazed and embarrassed, he sought to jerk away his too-familiar hand. But she held on to it. “Don’t do that! You have to keep touching me, or I will revert to doll status. Do you understand?”
“No,” he said candidly. Then, so she would know he wasn’t trying to insult her, he explained: “I’m not the brightest candle on the chandelier. I don’t know who you are or why you came here or how you relate to the doll.”
She smiled, and he could have sworn the dark attic brightened. “Tell me your name, and I will tell you mine, and clarify things for you.”
“I’m Tumble, because—”
“I get it, Tumble. You must have fallen a few times as a child, so they hung a cruel nickname on you, and it stuck.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I am Epiphany. I am a woman enchanted to become a doll in my own image. I can resume my natural aspect only when being touched by a man. When he stops touching me, I revert, and am dead to the world. So I am holding your hand not from excess of passion, though I can provide that when requested, but to be sure we can have a dialogue long enough to clarify my nature.”
“Uh, yeah,” he repeated uncertainly.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yeah, I do. What are you doing here in Grandpa’s attic? He wasn’t exactly a doll man.”
“Ah, you are Trevor’s grandson. There is a family resemblance.”
“Yeah. Except he was ten times as smart as me, for one thing.”
“To answer your question, I was servicing your grandfather. He took me out when he was horny, and put me back when sated.”
Tumble was appalled. “He treated you like a—a—”
“Exactly. I must obey the man who touches me, and that was his interest, especially when he became a widower.”
Tumble realized he was blushing. “I’m sorry, Miss Epiphany. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t be concerned. I was enchanted in significant part for this purpose, and I’m good at it. I am the ultimate sex toy. It’s not a burden to me. I have known many men over the course of decades, and Trevor was by no means the worst of them. But now you must do what he did not: return me to my mistress.”
“Oh sure, Miss Epiphany. Who is she?”
“Call me Pip for short. She is the Sorceress of Bleak Mountain. Surely you know of her.”
“Oh, yeah, Miss—Pip. She does our village a lot of good, but we are careful not to trespass on her mountain. Only the folk with regular business go there, like the ones bringing vegetables, meats, leather, and the housemaids, who never see her, but they do their jobs and get away quickly. In return she gives us good rains and good crops, and we don’t want to mess with her.”
“That is a good attitude. Had she known that I was being used by your grandfather, she might not have been so kind to your village. But I’m sure s
he’ll forgive all, if you take me promptly back.”
“Right away,” Tumble agreed. But privately he wondered what the Sorceress would want with a sex toy.
She gazed at him a moment. “Perhaps tomorrow will do. It seems to be late in the day.”
“Yeah. What should I do, put you back in your box, then fetch it in the morning?”
“Tumble, I am just a bit tired of the box. Take me with you downstairs.”
“But then everyone will see you, and maybe not let you go, because you must be pretty valuable.”
“More than you know,” she agreed, smiling. “But do not be concerned. Only you can see or hear or feel me, when I am animate, and when I am not, I am just an inert doll. Just hold my hand and go down.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess, if that’s the way you want it.”
“That’s the way it is.”
They went downstairs. She was so light and balanced that her dainty feet hardly seemed to touch the steps.
“’Bout time you came down, Tumble,” his mother said, spotting him. “Wash your hands; supper’s almost ready.”
“Sure, Ma,” he agreed, as he always did. Epiphany was right beside him, holding his hand, but his mother seemed not to see her.
“I told you there would be no trouble,” Epiphany said.
Or hear her. “Yeah.”
But his mother heard that. “What’s that, Tumble?”
“Nothing, Ma. I was just talking to myself.”
“Don’t do that. It makes a bad impression.”
“She’s right,” Epiphany said as he walked toward the bathroom. “Do not speak aloud to me when you are in company. Just ignore me.”
He glanced at her beside him, and accidentally saw down inside her halter. He blushed as he snapped his eyes away. “That’s sort of hard to do.”
She laughed. “You’ll learn. No need to sneak peeks, either; just tell me to take off my clothes, and I will.” She drew down her halter, exposing her breasts completely. They were phenomenal.
“No!” he exclaimed. “I’m not supposed to look! Girls don’t like to be goggled.”
