The Doll

by Elizabeth Andrews

  Hesitating for just a second she reluctantly scooped it up and carried it back inside. The door was slammed behind her and the bolt slid home.

  ‘As much as I hate to have you in my house, you disgusting thing,’ she said grimly, staring down at the doll, ‘I think it would be better to have you inside.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘What was I thinking?’ she muttered to herself. ‘I must have had bats in my belfry to put you out there!’’

  With the doll tucked beneath her arm and taking one last weary look around the tiny kitchen she headed for the stairs, the steps creaking beneath her feet as she struggled up to her bedroom. She clutched at the banister for support as the migraine intensified, the flashing lights behind her eyes almost blinding her. Fumbling for the handle of her bedroom door she pushed it open, inside was cool and dark. The breeze from the open window stirred the bunch of dried lavender on the dressing table filling the room with its soothing fragrance and just for a second the pain behind her eyes eased. Queenie sighed and rubbed the back of her neck trying to soothe the knotted muscles; as she stood there in the darkness the rough call of a crow echoed around the graveyard. Her mouth tightened. Two crows, she thought, that was no coincidence, and peered out of the window. The sliver of a crescent moon did little to light the dark night but it was enough to see the pair of birds crouching on the wall outside. Queenie glared down at the now silent birds and picking up one of her shoes she hurled it out of the window.

  ‘Take that, you mangy birds!’

  Even though it fell short of its target it was enough to dislodge the birds from their perch and they fluttered off across the graveyard then came to rest on an old headstone. They peered at Queenie from a safe distance.

  ‘I’ll have none of your bad luck, thank you. So be off or I will put you in a pie!’

  She slammed the window and pulled the curtains. ‘There,’ she muttered to herself. ‘No bird is going to spook me.’ Queenie gave the doll an angry shake. ‘And I’m guessing this has something to do with you!’

  Its head lolled back and she stared in distaste as a dirty wisp of hair came loose and floated down onto the floor. She threw the doll onto the bed and strode over to the wardrobe. An old shoe box lay in the bottom; it contained a pair of patent leather shoes, never worn, which were unceremoniously dumped onto the floor and the doll thrown in.

  Queenie quickly tucked the yellowing tissue paper around the doll before replacing the box in the bottom of the wardrobe, locked the door and pocketed the key.

  Her shoulders sagged and she briefly closed her eyes against the pounding before undressing quickly. Wrapping her dressing gown around her shoulders she pushed her feet into a pair of old slippers and padded down the hall to the bathroom. As Queenie reached the head of the stairs a slight noise below made her hesitate.

  ‘Sister.’

  ‘Who’s there?’ demanded Queenie.

  ‘Sister.’

  ‘Sybil? Is that you?’ she asked in surprise and as she peered down into the dark stairwell a cold draught whistled around her bare ankles. ‘Sybil?’ Putting on the light she slowly descended to the hall. The front door was locked and there was no sign that her sister or anybody had entered the house.

  The cold air was coming from the kitchen.

  The back door was wide open, a fine rain had begun to fall and was puddling on the mat inside the door.

  ‘Sister, come,’ the faint voice called from the yard.

  Queenie flicked on the outside light and peered out into the enclosed small space. It was empty apart from the carrier bag.

  ‘I don’t care who you are, but you are definitely not my sister,’ she said firmly, stepping back in out of the rain and slamming the door. ‘And you’re not welcome, so you had better not bother me again tonight, I have a headache!’ she shouted and tightened the belt of the dressing gown. With a glare at the back door she strode out of the room.

  The light bulb flickered over her head as she entered the small bathroom, the porcelain basin was cracked and stained from the dripping tap and a single worn toothbrush sat on the side in a glass jam jar.

  A pair of Queenie’s thick stockings were soaking in an enamel bowl in the basin; she poked at them thoughtfully then let them drop back into the cold soapy water.

  ‘Darn, I had forgotten about them,’ she muttered. ‘Perhaps I can persuade Sybil to deal will them tomorrow.’

  She smiled slightly imagining Sybil’s reaction then cheerfully squeezed some toothpaste onto the brush and began to clean her teeth. Examining her pale face in the mirror she absently smoothed down her pink hair, but paused as she noticed tiny fingers of frost snaking their way over the glass and crackle across the basin towards her fingers.

  Below in the kitchen, the bolts on the door slowly drew back and it swung open, filling the darkened room with cold damp air. A figure appeared in the doorway, hesitated on the threshold for a second then stepped inside.

  A familiar prickling spread along her fingers as Queenie slowly replaced the toothbrush but was quickly numbed as her hands froze under the touch of the frost.

  She was so mesmerised by the appearance of the icy tendrils spreading throughout the bathroom that she didn’t notice the sounds below as the dark figure passed up the stairs and headed along the corridor towards the bathroom.

  It hesitated outside the door then peered in at the old woman standing in front of the mirror.

  The light flickered again and Queenie glanced quickly up at the bulb before turning back to the mirror as a strange feeling that she was not alone crept over her. Her eyes widened as she saw the figure that had appeared in the doorway behind her.

  Queenie turned, her startled gaze travelling slowly over the apparition’s gaunt appearance. Long dishevelled hair hung across her shoulders covering most of the tatty lace collar and filthy dress. The most striking thing about her appearance was the hare lip that disfigured what could have been an attractive face. Seeing Queenie’s eyes linger upon the disfigurement her dark eyes began to burn as she stared at the old woman.

  Queenie frowned. ‘I did not give you permission to enter my house.’

  Her mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. ‘Your permission?’ she murmured. ‘I do not need that.’

  ‘Really?’ said Queenie grimly. ‘You are mistaken and you are not welcome, so go!’

  ‘Come now sister,’ she said, moving closer. ‘We are the same, you and I.’ Freezing breath wafted across Queenie’s cheek making her shudder. She smiled slightly. ‘You see, it’s useless to pit yourself against me. Stand with us, rejoin your sisters.’

  ‘No, I have enough sisters and I don’t need any more, thank you!’

  ‘Take your place in the circle and let me teach you how to harness the dark powers, there is nothing we could not accomplish!’

  ‘I have no interest in that sort of power. It only leads to misery.’

  ‘Think of what we could achieve together!’

  ‘I gave up playing with dolls many years ago.’

  ‘This is no game!’

  ‘You’re right, it isn’t,’ Queenie said. ‘And I know you are only here because of that doll or poppet as you would call it.’

  ‘Indeed you are right. So return it,’ she demanded. ‘It belongs to me.’

  ‘Why? So that you can wreak more havoc in this town?’

  The woman laughed. ‘You have seen nothing yet.’

  ‘I have seen enough of your work; you are evil and have caused nothing but harm with that poppet.’

  She smiled.

  ‘And Emma? What about her? She was innocent and those children at the vicarage? Why would you want to harm those young girls?’

  An expression of fury crossed her face. ‘Children! They think of nothing but themselves and have little regard for their parents, see how they turned so quickly against their mother and father, all that was needed was just a little suggestion put into their heads. No,’ she said, struggling to control her anger. ‘The craft is all that matters and the s
isters of the coven; that is true loyalty. So join with us, become what you should be and stand by my side.’

  Queenie snorted. ‘Of course, I should have realised! What little power you have left is tied up in that doll, so you need my help!’ she glared at the apparition. ‘Well, you’re not getting it!’

  The apparition frowned and leant forward until they were almost touching; her glassy eyes stared into Queenie’s. ‘Although my mortal form has passed from this earth my power still exists and I can harm any that I choose.’

  ‘Not here you can’t!’ Queenie cut her off, ‘Go away!’

  She smiled and lightly stroked her icy fingers across Queenie’s wrinkled cheek. ‘But you are just an old woman and so helpless.’ Her fingers trailed down to encircle Queenie’s throat, her freezing touch beginning to burn as her grip tightened.

  ‘I have never been helpless!’ Queenie choked, trying to prise the iron grip from her neck, her hand made contact not with flesh but with a cold vapour that parted beneath her touch.

  ‘You see?’ she laughed. ‘Nothing you can do will stop me.’ Her fingers tightened on Queenie’s throat and she thrust her face even closer. ‘Do not interfere, old woman or you will feel my wrath!’

  Their eyes met and Queenie could feel the strength slowly ebbing from her body. Her knees started to tremble and it was all she could do to stay upright, gasping for breath she glared at the woman.

  ‘I’ll give you wrath!’ she growled and continued ‘If you send me strife and cause me pain, I will reflect it back again.’ The burning pain intensified and her knees began to buckle. ‘Begone! You are not welcome,’ she gasped, holding tightly to the edge of the basin. ‘I did not give you leave to enter my home! So go!’

  The woman tightened her grip and her sharp fingernails dug deeper into the old woman’s throat. Queenie struggled to draw breath and the woman, as though sensing the old woman’s imminent collapse, smiled. The look of triumph soon faded however as Queenie raised a trembling hand to the mirror and began quickly tracing on the smeary glass the warrior image of the circle and spear, the sign of Mars.

  The woman’s fingers dropped from her neck as though they had been stung; and as a surge of welcome air filled Queenie’s lungs she drew on her last bit of strength and continued, ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend me in battle, be my protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. Thrust in to hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls!’ Queenie finished her appeal for protection and glared at the woman in triumph as the creature flinched and staggered back.

  Her face twisted with frustration and a faint hiss left her mouth. ‘Ego te criminis reus erit!’

  With a last malevolent look that made Queenie’s knees shake, she melted back into the dark of the hall and disappeared in a swirl of freezing mist.

  Gripping the basin with shaking hands Queenie fought to regain her balance, still feeling the icy fingers clutching at her throat she gazed in amazement as a line of blisters slowly appeared circling her neck.

  ‘Hells bells,’ Queenie muttered and pushing herself upright staggered along the corridor to the top of the staircase. Below a door slammed and with reluctance Queenie began to descend the stairs.

  The kitchen was freezing, the door was wide open again and banging in the wind, with each thump Queenie flinched.

  She clutched at her dressing gown, pulling it close around her stinging neck and with her heart thundering in her chest she hastened forward and slammed the door. Turning the key she slid both the bolts home and stood there for a minute, her forehead resting against the door. Her mind was so confused that she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to protect the threshold or herself against further spiritual attack. Her neck was throbbing and the pain behind her eyes had intensified so much that she was almost close to tears, feeling desperate she stared around the small kitchen looking for anything that would help.

  A jar on the glass shelf in front of the window caught her eye, a few forgotten sprigs of sage from a neighbour’s garden lay wilting inside. She pushed the other jars out of the way, snatched at the herb and stumbled over to the cooker. Fumbling with one of the knobs she lit the front gas ring with a match and held the sage over the flames. The aroma of the burning herb quickly began to fill the kitchen and with each breath of the cleansing smoke the overwhelming feeling of oppression began to lift. With her mind clearing Queenie began to regain her old fighting spirit and she glared at the back door, furious that this creature had dared to enter her home.

  ‘Damn it!’ she muttered. ‘I might not be up to much at the moment but at least I can stop that thing entering my home again.’ She placed her hand on the back door. ‘By the power of my might, I call thee to give me your strength, by the power of three, to protect all that surround me. So mote it be!’ she added firmly.

  Even this simple charm drained her, normally she would have dealt with the troublesome spirit immediately but she felt so unlike her usual self that she realised she would be unable to invoke the correct spell. One thought that comforted her was the knowledge that Sybil would be arriving the next day and she knew that together they could sort out the problem of the poppet and her unwanted visitor.

  Although Queenie felt confident that the ghost could not enter again she took precautions before retiring to bed by drawing a pair of crossed spears on the back of the bedroom door with one of Sybil’s old lipsticks; this she hoped would create a strong enough psychic barrier to prevent the entity from entering her room. Even with this protection she slept badly, the blistering welt upon her neck causing a great deal of discomfort during the night.

  Her headache had abated somewhat by the next morning but she lacked the energy to get dressed. She was hunched over the kitchen table still wrapped in her dressing gown at midday and staring at the back door when the phone rang.

  ‘Put the kettle on, and set the table,’ Sybil ordered, ‘I’m stuck at the traffic lights in the High Street at the moment but don’t worry I will be with you in about five minutes.’

  Queenie smiled to herself; the thought that Sybil would soon be there filled her with relief. She straightened her shoulders and hurried back to the kitchen where the kettle was just beginning to sing on the hob.

  Two places were set, the teapot, carefully ensconced in a hideous knitted cosy, sat on the table. Queenie had just placed the salt and pepper next to the plates when the front door opened and Sybil struggled in with a large shopping bag in her arms.

  Queenie?’ she called, kicking the door shut with her foot.

  ‘Mind the paintwork!’

  ‘What paintwork? This hovel hasn’t been decorated since the dark ages.’

  She hurried down the hallway to greet her sister and seeing Sybil’s calm face Queenie immediately felt better. She reached out to give her sister a hug. ‘Patina,’ she muttered. ‘It has patina.’

  ‘Dirt; that is what it’s got,’ Sybil replied, looking searchingly into her sister’s pale face. ‘You look awful,’ she added bluntly.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Queenie weakly. ‘So not only are you insulting my home now you have started on my appearance.’

  ‘Yes, but I have a chicken pie,’ she replied smugly.

  The smell of the chicken and rich gravy filled the narrow hall and Queenie sniffed. ‘You’re forgiven.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  She led the way back to the small kitchen and pushed the teapot to one side so that Sybil could lay the plump golden pastried pie on the table.

  ‘Oooh, that looks so good,’ Queenie said. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘Go on, tuck in,’ said Sybil calmly, while she unbuttoned her coat and hung it up on the back of the kitchen door. ‘And then you can tell me what you have been doing.’ She pulled out one of the rickety chairs and sat down opposite her sister who was busy cutting the pie into two big pieces. ‘Really Queenie you can’t eat that much!’ she said incredulously.

  ‘Watch me,’ she replied defiantly a
nd slid the piece onto her plate; she gestured to Sybil’s plate.

  ‘Not that much. And I have salad to go with it.’

  ‘Salad! Ha...rabbit food!’ Queenie said rudely and quickly cut off a forkful of pie and pushed it into her mouth. Her eyes rolled with delight as the buttery pastry melted in her mouth, she groaned in pleasure, ‘This is delicious, Sybil. Your pies are the best.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And ignoring her sister’s protest she placed a spoonful of salad onto her plate. ‘Now eat your greens.’

  Gesturing to the remaining half in the dish Queenie mumbled around a mouthful, ‘Are you going to eat that?’

  She smiled wryly and cut it into two, placing one piece on her plate and the other onto Queenie’s then poured out the strong stewed tea. She stirred three lumps of sugar into her sister’s cup and handed it to her. ‘Feeling better now?’

  ‘Much,’ she replied, spearing a piece of chicken. Queenie looked hopefully at her sister who was slowly eating her portion. ‘Did you bring any cake?’

  ‘That’s for later,’ said Sybil, laying down her fork. ‘First tell me what you have been up to. I was ringing yesterday as I had the strangest feeling that you were in trouble.’

  ‘I was out.’

  ‘Yes dear, I realised that,’ said Sybil pointedly. ‘But where?’

  Holding the cup in both hands Queenie stared across the table at her sister. ‘Guess,’ she said with a roguish look in her eye.

  ‘No,’ said Sybil in exasperation. ‘Just tell me or no cake!’

  ‘The local Vicar came to see me,’ she chuckled then her smile faded. ‘Although it wasn’t funny at all, he has acquired a poppet.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Sybil. ‘What is a Vicar doing with one of those?’

  ‘It’s from a woman who lives on the Green, a Mrs Cochrane. Her daughter died and she is blaming the doll.’

  ‘Patricia? You mean Patricia Cochrane?’

  ‘You know her?’ asked Queenie in surprise.