The Doll

by Elizabeth Andrews

  ‘Of course and so do you.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ stated Queenie.

  ‘Yes you do, Patricia works in your bank,’ she said helpfully. Queenie looked at her blankly and Sybil sighed, ‘Just take it from me, you know her. Anyway, carry on.’

  ‘You have made me lose my train of thought,’ Queenie complained.

  ‘That’s not difficult, dear. You were saying that Patricia was blaming a doll for her daughter’s death.’

  ‘That’s right. Now stop interrupting and just let me finish!’

  Folding her arms Sybil sat back. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right...Paul the Vicar...’

  ‘Paul eh? Is he nice?’

  ‘Shut up and yes, he’s nice. Young and cute with big brown eyes but that’s not important. He took the doll from Mrs Cochrane and locked it in his desk then it went missing.’

  Sybil remained silent but raised her eyebrows.

  ‘His three daughters took it.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sybil.

  ‘They were playing with it in the garden.’ Queenie sighed and wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘Paul found the children dancing around it and chanting in Latin.’

  ‘That sounds alarming,’ said Sybil slowly. ‘Is he sure it was Latin?’

  ‘He should know, he’s a Vicar for goodness sake Sybil!’

  ‘True.’ Sybil frowned and then asked slowly, ‘And where is it now?’

  ‘In the bottom of my wardrobe. In a shoe box.’

  Sybil’s mouth dropped open and she swivelled to look down the hall. ‘Here? You have it in the house?’

  ‘Yes, what else could I have done with it?’ she said, reaching out for her sister’s uneaten pie. ‘Have you finished with that?’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘But it’s a shame to waste it.’

  ‘Not the damned pie, you silly old bat!’ She glared at her sister. ‘You know better than that, you can’t leave these things lying around. Poppets have to be dealt with properly!’

  Queenie sulkily speared a piece of chicken. ‘I was too tired last night and I had a headache.’

  ‘And doesn’t that tell you anything?’ Sybil leant over the table towards her sister. ‘You never, ever have headaches!’ she stated. ‘So it’s affecting you as well. Whatever power this poppet has needs to be dealt with, and the sooner the better.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it Sybil! There was a spirit here last night. It was a real struggle to deal with it and I’m sure it’s connected to the doll.’

  ‘Is it that making you feel ill?

  Queenie nodded and pulled down the collar of her dressing gown. A thick red welt circled the old woman’s neck.

  ‘Damn!’ Sybil said, looking shocked. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘I told you, there was somebody here last night. It...she grabbed me by the throat. Her hands were so icy that it burned my skin. The funny thing is...’ she continued slowly, ‘she said something in Latin just before she disappeared.’

  ‘Can you remember what she said?’

  Queenie shrugged, ‘It sounded like ego et criminal or something, not that I would know. I never studied Latin at school.’

  ‘So we need to find somebody who does know Latin. It might be important.’

  ‘Perhaps we could ask Paul.’

  ‘Good idea and I will deal with that after lunch,’ said Sybil, reaching out and gently touching the angry mark on her sister’s neck. ‘And then we will tackle that doll!’

  Her sister nodded and pulled up the collar. ‘Paul was hurt as well.’

  ‘By the doll?’ asked Sybil incredulously.

  ‘It was under a bed; he reached in for it and came out with three nasty scratches on his hand.’

  ‘And the children, are they alright?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘They are fine,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Good.’ Sybil nodded. ‘Right, finish your pie and then we’ll get ready.’

  ‘Can’t we have the cake first?’

  ‘No,’ said Sybil, piling the dirty plates into the sink. She frowned as her sister poured a third cup of tea. ‘We should get started, Queenie.’

  ‘We have time, don’t worry,’ she replied calmly, ladling in the sugar.

  ‘But I am worried.’ She fidgeted with the dishcloth for a second before bursting out, ‘Shall I get the doll?’

  Her sister nodded and held out the small brass key. ‘What a good idea, it will save my poor old legs but you will need this as the wardrobe is locked.’

  Without another word Sybil hurried up the stairs to Queenie’s bedroom; she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The room was freezing and the door to the wardrobe was wide open although the key was in Sybil’s hand. The empty shoe box was on the carpet in front of it. Her foot caught one of the discarded shoes as she entered the room and she glanced quickly down at the shiny blue shoes before something caught her eye. The ugly wooden doll was on the bed, propped up against Queenie’s pillows, its face turned towards the door. Meeting the blank gaze Sybil shuddered.

  ‘Did you find it?’ Queenie shouted from the kitchen. ‘Sybil, what is it?’ she continued, worried by her sister’s silence.

  ‘It’s on the bed,’ Sybil shouted.

  A chair crashed to the floor down below in the kitchen and Sybil could hear her sister’s heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  Queenie appeared at her elbow. ‘What in hell is it doing there?’ she asked in a stunned voice. She nervously rubbed her chin. ‘You were right, who ever made this poppet was an expert in the craft. I should have dealt with it immediately.’

  Sybil forced a smile onto her face and tried to sound reassuring. ‘Don’t forget, we are experts as well.’

  Queenie didn’t answer; she just gingerly picked up the surprisingly heavy doll. Grimacing, she held it out to her sister. ‘Here, you can carry it,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered and carrying it reluctantly Sybil led the way back to the kitchen where she examined the grotesque features in the light from the window. ‘What an ugly little beast, isn’t it?’ Pushing the cups out of the way she placed it on the table. ‘And it’s filthy.’ She ran her fingers lightly over the carved body and feeling something beneath the rotten cloth she pulled the shirt to one side. ‘Look at this!’ A piece of tattered paper had been tacked to the chest of the doll with three nails; a fourth hole in the wooden body was empty. ‘And one empty space!’ she said, fingering the piece of paper. ‘This nail was pulled out. I wonder why?’ Under her fingers the torn piece of paper came loose and fell to the table revealing a scrawl of faint writing on it. Sybil, with her eyes sparkling, looked at her sister. ‘Have you got a magnifying glass?’

  ‘ I believe so,’ said Queenie and headed to the cupboard under the stairs. A few crashes and muttered expletives followed until she re-merged flushed but triumphant. ‘Here,’ she said, flourishing a small magnifying glass, ‘I bought this to do some darning; never used it of course.’

  ‘The thought of you mending anything...’ said Sybil, ‘is beyond belief.’ She took it from her indignant sister and leant over the scrap of paper. ‘Look,’ she said, trying to decipher the faint marks, ‘I think that’s an M.’

  ‘I do mend things,’ said Queenie sulkily, peering over her shoulder, ‘and it’s an N, smarty pants!’

  ‘N...You’re right,’ Sybil frowned and adjusted the glass, ‘so capital N, then something and a capital S.

  ‘Maybe a name,’ Queenie drew in a sharp breath. ‘Well, whoever she was, she really wanted to hurt this person.’

  ‘They did,’ pointed out Sybil. ‘There’s more than one nail.’

  ‘A coven maybe?’

  Sybil nodded. ‘It makes sense. This is an old doll Queenie, and to have this much power still imbued in it shows it must have been the work of a very powerful witch or coven.’

  ‘I have never heard of such a coven around here,’ said Queenie frowning.

  ‘I’m sure it was before your time, you are not that old!�
��

  ‘Ha! Very funny,’ replied Queenie.

  Sybil smiled and then ran a finger over its rough face. ‘Well whoever it was, she was really angry. Look at the way the eyes have been gouged out of its face. Poor man,’ she said slowly, ‘She really hated him.’

  ‘I suppose we could ask...’

  ‘No!’ said Sybil quickly. ‘I told you last time that we were not going near that woman ever again!

  ‘But she might be able to help.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Sybil stubbornly.

  Queenie sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am. I’m sure we can figure it out by ourselves, we usually do.’

  ‘Perhaps I should contact the Vicar. He might know the meaning of that Latin phrase.’

  ‘Good idea, but first let me deal with you.’ Sybil looked critically at her sister’s chalk white face. ‘It’s obvious you’re still being affected by this spirit, and,’ she added, ‘that would never do! So I will fix you a cleansing bath; that should do the trick.’

  ‘A bath?’ said Queenie in disgust. ‘But it’s only Monday!’

  Sybil paused in the doorway and gave her a frosty look. ‘I’ll pretend that I didn’t hear that, Queenie Beresford!’ The stairs creaked under her heavy tread and then silence. ‘Queenie! Your bathroom is disgusting! Don’t you ever clean it? And what’s this washing doing in the basin? How can you leave it like this?’ She continued grumbling as the bath filled with water and then another louder shriek reached Queenies ears. ‘What is that doing there?’ Heavy steps came to the top of the stairs. ‘Well?’ she called down.

  ‘What is the matter dear?’ she asked sweetly, realising that Sybil had spotted the symbol on the mirror.

  ‘Why did you use such an aggressive symbol? Mars! For goodness sake!’

  ‘I felt the situation called for it,’ replied Queenie. ‘And it’s all I could think of at the time, I was feeling a bit pressured dear! And it showed her I wasn’t to be trifled with!’

  ‘Oh yes...’ Sybil said drily. ‘You really showed her...you idiot.’

  Queenie’s fingers gingerly touched the painful skin on her neck and grimaced. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said to herself. She heaved herself up from the chair and tottered towards the stairs. ‘What exactly are you putting in that bath, Sybil?’

  ‘The usual,’ she answered over the sound of running water. ‘Come on, it’s time to cleanse yourself of all this negative energy, even if it is only Monday!’

  Queenie looked distrustfully at the steaming bath, the overpowering fragrance of lavender and rosemary filled the small room and she sneezed. Sybil had just added a handful of salt to the water when she heard Queenie in the doorway behind her.

  ‘Come along, don’t dilly dally,’ she chided, as she began to stir the water.

  ‘Sybil! It’s anti clockwise to take away negative spirits!’

  Her sister chuckled. ‘Oh that’s right! Clockwise to attract love!’

  ‘And I don’t want any of that nonsense at my age,’ Queenie snapped.

  ‘Heaven forbid!’

  ‘Talking of romance,’ said Queenie sweetly. ‘How is William? Still bringing you flowers?’

  ‘Yes, he is as thoughtful as ever,’ replied Sybil coolly. She folded her arms and stared at her sister. ‘Now...can you manage to get into the bath yourself or do you need help?’

  ‘No, I don’t!’ spluttered Queenie. ‘Do I look like a helpless old woman?’

  ‘Hopeless maybe,’ she muttered and left the room, closing the door with a snap and resisting the urge to lock her sister in. ‘And don’t come out until you’re clean.’

  Ignoring the muffled retort, Sybil, with a smirk playing about her lips, strolled down the stairs and headed for the kitchen. With Queenie out of the way she was determined to start dealing with the doll. The smile faded as she entered the room.

  The doll lay on the table where they had left it, but its blank eyes were now turned towards the door. A chill ran up her back and just as she met its sightless gaze something crashed into the back door making her start.

  A crow lay stunned on the worn flags of the yard, its beady black eye fixed on Sybil suspiciously as she bent over it. A small bead of blood trickled from its beak.

  ‘Oh... you poor thing,’ she began softly and was just about to pick it up when a strange feeling of foreboding came over her. She withdrew her hand quickly and stepped back. Two more crows had silently swooped down and were perched on the small brick outhouse at the rear of the yard. The largest was watching Sybil intently, its head on one side. As she stared at the trio of birds she had the unsettling feeling of the ground suddenly shifting beneath her feet and a shadowy image appeared in her mind of four women gathered in front of a standing stone. Distant voices were chanting and for a minute she felt an overwhelming urge to join them.

  ‘Come,’ a voice whispered. ‘Belong to the sisterhood once more.’

  The usual comforting noises of the town faded away and all Sybil could hear was the compelling voices of the women.

  ‘No,’ Sybil replied, struggling against the strong will that was trying to subdue her. ‘I have my own sisterhood and she’s upstairs. Go away, you’re not welcome here.’

  The crow stretched out its wings as though to encompass the old woman. ‘Take your place with us and become what you were meant to be. Powerful!’ The last word was hissed through its beak as it fixed its beady eye on her, willing Sybil to submit.

  A wild laugh sprang from Sybil’s lips. ‘Powerful? You’re talking to the wrong sister! You just wait until she gets here and she will finish what she started last night!’

  Her defiant words echoed around the small yard and all three birds opened their beaks wide as though silently screaming at her. The atmosphere became so oppressive that Sybil began to feel dizzy and she tried to retreat to the door but the birds launched themselves at her before she could reach the safety of the kitchen. Swirling around her cowering body their wings beat against her face and she threw up her hands to protect herself as the birds began to claw at her. Retreating from the furious creatures she fell back with a crash against the kitchen door.

  ‘Sybil?’ a muffled voice called from the bathroom. ‘What are you doing down there?’

  ‘Queenie!’

  ‘Are you wrecking my kitchen?’

  ‘No!’ she squealed, trying to fend off the vicious birds. ‘I need some help down here! We have visitors.’

  ‘If it’s the Vicar, tell him to go away.’

  ‘It’s not the blasted Vicar! Queenie!’ she shouted, scrabbling on all fours into the kitchen and slamming the door on the remorseless birds. ‘Really... you should hurry!’

  A loud thump echoed through the house and the bathroom door slammed followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  Sybil had managed to regain her feet and was gripping the back of the chair for support as Queenie burst into the kitchen clad in just a towel.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked sharply.

  Her sister nodded towards the door. ‘Out there.’

  Queenie slowly opened the door and peered out.

  The injured bird had rejoined the others on the outhouse and all three were silently watching the women.

  ‘I see, I didn’t think crows appearing outside the house was a coincidence,’ said Queenie coldly. She eyed her sister. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, not really, just a few scratches. Apparently,’ she said with a weak laugh and wiping a drop of blood from her forehead, ‘I could be a powerful witch if I joined with them.’

  ‘Hah! That’s the tactic she tried to use on me last night!’ She turned back to the birds and glared at them. ‘I thought I saw you off last night,’ she said, addressing the larger of the birds. ‘You shouldn’t have come back. You may have caught me off guard last time but that’s not going to happen again!’ With that parting shot Queenie slammed the door.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Sybil sank into a chair and blinked as a trickle of
blood ran down her face.

  Her sister handed her a tea towel. ‘Here, mop up that blood and I will deal with this.’ Queenie hitched up the bath towel and headed for the cupboard under the stairs where she stored all her tools and supplies that she needed for practising her craft. In amongst the clutter Queenie quickly found what she needed, a large bundle of ribbons and a packet of pins.

  Three lengths of ribbon, blue, black and white were plaited together, one end she pinned to the doll’s chest. As she began to wind the length around the doll’s body she recited, ‘By silken threads, I do bind the power within, and with my will I subdue, so now all evil depart and with my final touch I take power from this doll.’ With a pucker of distaste Queenie planted a kiss of the dirty face of the poppet and tucked in the loose end of the braid. ‘I unmake this poppet! So mote it be!’

  ‘Will that be enough?’ asked Sybil anxiously.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet.’ She glanced at her sister who was nervously watching the back door. ‘Don’t worry, Sybil. I can deal with them. Yes I can,’ she reassured Sybil seeing her sister glance at the angry blisters on her neck. ‘I was just unprepared, that’s all.’ She smiled confidently then began gathering a few of the herbs from the pots in the window. Small handfuls of rue, hyssop and sage were mixed with a little salt and with a sprinkle of frankincense; all were thrown into a small saucepan.

  ‘Where’s your cauldron?’ asked Sybil.

  ‘Oh, I don’t use that anymore, it’s far too heavy.’

  ‘So a smaller cauldron could be this year’s Christmas present,’ said Sybil, trying to smile, ‘as you are getting so frail.’

  Queenie pulled a face at her sister. ‘Bring over the doll,’ she ordered, placed the pan on the draining board and pulled out her lighter.

  A shadow fluttered across the window and she looked up quickly as wings began beating against the glass, a rough warning call made her frown and she glanced at her sister who had hesitated, doll in hand.

  ‘Now, Sybil!’

  The bird’s screaming calls echoed around the small yard as one after another they threw themselves frantically at the door. The glass shook in the frame but it held against the angry birds.