The Doll

by Elizabeth Andrews

‘Hurry,’ she urged. ‘They are not happy about this!’

  Keeping one wary eye on the door, Sybil held the doll over the pan as the smoke began to wreathe up from the burning herbs; the room was soon thick with the pungent smoke.

  ‘Banish all evil from this doll, Fight water by water and fire by fire, Banish this evil into nothingness and remove its power until the last trace, Let evil flee through time and space.’

  After the words were spoken over the doll and with each minute that it was enveloped in the smoke the furious bird calls became fainter and fainter until all activity and noise stopped outside.

  The flames had reduced the leaves to ash and the smoke slowly began to dissipate. With the air clearing, Queenie, feeling satisfied, threw the doll onto the draining board.

  ‘That seems to have quietened them down! Now we need a box.’

  A cereal box stood on the counter next to the toaster and Sybil pounced on it. ‘This will do,’ she said quickly and upended the contents into the sink.

  ‘That’s my breakfast,’ protested Queenie.

  ‘It’s in a good cause and anyway,’ she said, peering at the top of the box, ‘it’s three years out of date!’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it!’ replied Queenie defensively. ‘It tastes fine!’

  Her sister pointed at the insect crawling in amongst the flakes of cereal in the sink. ‘Yes and I think the spider would agree with you.’

  ‘The spider is extra protein.’

  Sybil snorted and thrust the doll head first into the cereal packet. ‘Now what shall we do with it?’

  ‘Throw it in the river?’ suggested Queenie

  ‘No, somebody might fish it out.’

  ‘Bury it in the garden?’

  ‘Definitely not! I know, we’ll bury it in the churchyard.’

  ‘Great,’ said Queenie sarcastically. ‘I can just see us, climbing over the wall in the dead of night and digging in sacred ground. I hope we won’t unearth any corpses!’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic Queenie! We’ll use the gate like normal people.’

  ‘We are not normal.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. We will go in the gate and bury it under one of the bushes near the path. And if anybody comes along we will be just two harmless old ladies tending a grave.’

  Queenie sniffed. ‘Not a bad plan, I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you, now go and call the vicar. And for goodness sake put some clothes on!’

  chapter Four

  ‘What did you do with that scrap of paper?’ a fully dressed Queenie asked, bustling back into the kitchen.

  Sybil silently pointed to the table and continued scrubbing the saucepan.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Queenie. ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘Just fine,’ she looked up. ‘Did you speak to the Vicar?’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘In that case,’ replied Sybil, throwing down the dishcloth. ‘I will make some tea.’

  The kettle was boiling furiously on the hob by the time Paul arrived; he stood at the front door and held up a heavy brown brogue.

  ‘Is this yours by any chance?’

  ‘My shoe,’ exclaimed Queenie. ‘I had completely forgotten about that! How clever of you to realise it was mine.’

  He smiled sheepishly. ‘I recognised the style and you are the only woman I know who would leave a shoe outside.’

  ‘I didn’t leave it, I threw it!’

  He raised his eyebrows but forbore to ask more until he had entered the house.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, spotting Sybil standing behind Queenie. The resemblance to her sister was uncanny even down to the extraordinary pale eyes, but there he noted the resemblance ended; Sybil was dressed in pair of smart navy slacks and pink twinset, greying hair neatly curled.

  ‘I’m Queenie’s sister, Sybil.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he said politely, holding out his hand, ‘and are you a witch as well?’

  ‘Come in and have some tea Paul,’ interrupted Queenie, giving him a push in the small of his back. ‘In there,’ and gestured to the front room.

  Sybil smiled as he grinned ruefully and obediently followed her into the front room.

  ‘In answer to your question, yes,’ she replied calmly.

  Settling himself in the chair near the fire he took the proffered cup. ‘Does it run in the family?’ he asked jokingly.

  ‘Of course,’ Sybil replied.

  ‘Oh,’ he hesitated, ‘is that normal?’

  ‘There’s nothing normal about us, Vicar,’ interrupted Queenie, sitting down in the chair opposite the young man.

  ‘Well, as I told you before I know little about this sort of thing.’ Paul said then stared curiously at their expressions. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Queenie, taking a handful of biscuits from the plate. ‘Did you find out what the Latin phrase was?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, stirring his tea absently. ‘I’m a bit rusty so I had to get my Latin phrase book out but I think it might be “Ego te criminis reus erit!’ He looked hopefully at Queenie. ‘Does that sound familiar?’

  ‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘It sounds close enough.’

  ‘It means ‘I will be avenged’.’

  For a while the ticking mantel clock was the only sound in the room until Queenie finally broke the silence.

  ‘So, revenge against whom and after all this time?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I have heard of bearing a grudge but this is ridiculous.’

  ‘Is the doll really old?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Oh yes, much older than I first thought.’

  ‘But what would it have been used for and more importantly, why did it have such an effect on my daughters?’

  ‘The magic used to create that thing, or did up until this morning, stayed within the doll.’

  ‘There was a name pinned to its chest,’ volunteered Sybil. ‘But it is very faint and difficult to read.’

  ‘A name? Would that have been the intended victim of this curse?’ Paul looked shocked.

  The sisters nodded.

  ‘And you can’t read it?’

  Sybil shook her head. ‘It’s very faded.’

  He thoughtfully rubbed a finger across his mouth. ‘There may be a way to read it but it would eventually destroy the paper, would that be okay?’

  With an agility that belied her age Queenie sprang to her feet and without a word scampered down the hall to the kitchen.

  ‘Where is she going?’

  ‘She’s getting the piece of paper,’ Sybil replied, with a slight smile.

  ‘I see,’ he replied slowly. ‘By the way, where is the doll now?

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  His chin dropped and he looked blankly at the old woman.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Vicar, you are looking shocked, is everything okay?’ asked Queenie, as she came back into the room.

  ‘Fine,’ he replied quickly. ‘Just fine.’

  She held the fragile piece of paper out to him.

  ‘Is it safe for me to touch?’ he asked.

  ‘Trust me, it’s perfectly safe.’ She plumped back down into her favourite chair. ‘Well?’

  ‘I will need a candle,’ he asked, gingerly holding the paper. ‘Do you have one? Of course you do,’ he added ruefully, spotting the numerous candles dotted about the room, some in holders and some just fixed in a pool of solidified wax.

  Sybil silently took one from the mantelpiece and offered it to him.

  ‘Thank you. Are you sure about this?’ he asked nervously. ‘There is another method but it would involve the use of fresh lemon juice. Would you have...? No,’ he said lamely, seeing Queenie raise an eyebrow. ‘We’ll try this method then. A match?’

  Queenie dug into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out her old silver lighter.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, quickly lighting the wick of the candle and then glanced down at the lighter.

  ‘You smoke?�
� he questioned, a slight tone of disapproval in his voice.

  ‘Paul,’ Queenie said, an edge to her voice. ‘Can you just keep your mind on the task in hand!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised, and carefully held the flame to the paper; not close enough to burn it but close enough that the heat would reveal the faded writing. ‘Quick,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s getting clearer.’

  The sisters crowded around him and peered at the slowly blackening scrap.

  ‘What does it say?’ Queenie said impatiently. ‘What does it say?’

  A faint brown spidery scrawl slowly appeared on the paper and the long forgotten name was revealed.

  ‘Nicholas... Spicer,’ he slowly read out.

  Small flames started licking at the paper and he dropped it quickly into a nearby ashtray, with one last flare it crumbled into blackened dust.

  ‘Well done,’ said Queenie, giving Paul a pat on the shoulder. ‘Now we have the name.’

  He looked pleased and said eagerly, ‘I could go through the parish registers, if he was from the area there would be a record somewhere.’

  ‘That would be difficult as we don’t know when he was alive or indeed where he lived. One of our friends used a website to do some research for us. Perhaps you could do the same?’ suggested Sybil.

  ‘Of course. Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Queenie. ‘I would like to see Mrs Cochrane and find out where the doll came from. Do you have her address?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied slowly. ‘But I think I should come.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She knows me.’

  ‘But Paul, she knows Queenie and myself and she might be more comfortable talking to us alone,’ Sybil pointed out.

  ‘I suppose so,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but I would like to come anyway.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘My blood is up,’ he confessed. ‘And after all, this is my parish and I am responsible for the spiritual welfare of the inhabitants. So please let me come,’ he appealed to Queenie.

  ‘Oh very well! But I am asking the questions so don’t interrupt!’

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised.

  A light shone in one of the windows of the small terraced house just across the green from the church. A full milk bottle still stood on the doorstep which Paul picked up before knocking gently on the door.

  ‘I hope she is in,’ he muttered to the sisters who were hovering behind him.

  ‘She is,’ replied Queenie.

  ‘Shall I explain first why we are here?’

  ‘If you like,’ replied Queenie, giving a quick shrug of her shoulder.

  The sound of the key being turned in the lock silenced the conversation and they waited expectantly as the door swung open.

  ‘Mrs Cochrane, good evening,’ Paul greeted her. ‘Can you spare us a few minutes of your time?’

  The small room was immaculate, a television, the sound turned down, flickered in the corner and a solitary book lay open on the sofa. A photo of a young smiling woman sat on a small table near the window, a spray of flowers lay in front of it.

  ‘Is this your daughter?’ asked Queenie, walking over to the table.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘That’s Emma.’ Her mournful expression deepened. ‘Did you know she was dead?’

  Queenie hardly recognised the usual cheerful bank assistant in the careworn woman in front of her, she had changed dramatically since the last time they had seen her.

  ‘Yes my dear,’ she said and placed a comforting hand on Patricia’s arm. ‘That’s why we are here.’

  ‘Where’s that awful doll?’ she suddenly burst out looking at Paul. ‘I hope you destroyed it!’ Her lower lip trembled and she slowly slumped into one of the armchairs. ‘I wish she had never bought the damn thing!’

  ‘That’s what we wanted to ask you, do you have any idea where she got it?’

  Patricia shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know. She just came back with it one Saturday, she was so pleased, said it was real find,’ she laughed weakly. ‘She likes...liked,’ she corrected herself, ‘ collecting old dolls and she has quite a few.’ Patricia looked appealingly at Queenie, ‘You don’t think I am mad, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Queenie. ‘We have seen enough to realise that. That’s why it’s important for us to know where she purchased the doll.’

  Wiping a tear from her cheek Patricia stood up. ‘There might be something in her room, a receipt maybe. She did sell some of the dolls on the internet so she kept things like that.’

  She led them up the stairs to a bedroom at the front of the house then paused in front of the closed door.

  ‘Here,’ she said and reluctantly opened the door. Patricia stood to one side and gestured for them to enter. ‘I won’t come in,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear to go in there now.’

  ‘We understand,’ said Queenie quietly and gave the grieving woman’s hand a squeeze as she walked past. The cold hit them as soon as they entered the room and she paused to tighten the scarf around her neck.

  Their footsteps sounded hollow on the bare floorboards. The pink carpet had been rolled up and pushed to one side revealing the dark stain on the wood beneath.

  The walls, painted in a delicate pink, were still covered in old posters and mementoes from Emma’s childhood. Her collection of antique dolls were proudly displayed on the set of shelves near the bed and a small wicker chair placed in front of the dressing table held a further collection of old bears. Sybil picked one up and absently stroked its fur while she gazed around the room.

  ‘I was going to sort out her things but I just haven’t had the heart to do it yet. It was so awful,’ Patricia said, hovering nervously in the doorway. She started to cry. ‘Why? Why did she do that to herself?’ she appealed to Paul.

  ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Cochrane,’ he said. ‘It is difficult to understand what drives somebody to do these things but we have to trust in the Lord...’

  Queenie snorted. ‘The Lord had nothing to do with this!’

  ‘Queenie shush!’ said Sybil quickly. ‘Patricia is upset enough.’ She smiled at them both. ‘Paul, why don’t you take Patricia downstairs and make her a cup of tea, while we have a quick look around.’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t want to be in here, the memory of finding her like that is too much. I can’t get it out of my mind,’ she continued, ‘I had to cover the mirror,’ staring at the draped shape on the wall. ‘I couldn’t bear to look at it.’

  ‘I think a cup of tea would be good idea,’ said Queenie quickly, glancing at the stain on the floor in front of the mirror, ‘and perhaps some biscuits?’ She absently swatted away a fly that was buzzing around her head. ‘We won’t be long.’

  ‘Of course,’ Paul agreed. ‘Call if you need me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we will,’ Queenie replied calmly and closed the door. She looked thoughtfully at the covered mirror and walking over twitched the material to one side. It had been reframed at some point but the mirror itself was old, black and spotted with age. ‘I wonder if this was another of Emma’s finds.’

  Sybil appeared at her side and stared at their distorted reflections in the glass. ‘That’s old,’ she muttered. ‘Do you think she used this as a portal to re-enter the physical world?’

  Queenie nodded. ‘I think so. She must have been waiting for an opportunity to get back and for some reason picked on Emma. But why did Emma have to die? That’s what I don’t understand.’

  ‘The spilling of blood is a powerful thing,’ said Sybil. ‘Perhaps she needed an extra burst of power to enable her to come back.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense, Sybil! She is or was a very powerful witch; passing through a portal should have been child’s play for her.’

  ‘Unless most of her power is tied up in that doll,’ suggested Sybil. ‘Maybe the coven poured so much of their essence into this curse that when it didn’t happen they were left in limbo.’

  ‘Yes,’ Queenie said slowly. ‘Maybe that’s it. She drew stre
ngth from Emma’s blood sacrifice. It also may have released some of their power from the doll.’

  ‘Sacrifice? That’s a horrible way to explain that poor girl’s death,’ said Sybil, looking troubled.

  ‘I know it is, but I think we can safely assume that the witch was exerting a great amount of pressure upon the young woman to do the deed.’

  ‘That’s worrying,’ said Sybil slowly. ‘We must be careful how we handle this. We can’t allow that woman to control us, goodness knows what might happen!

  ‘Oh piffle! I have no intention of ever doing that.’

  ‘Yes dear, I know you mean well but you do get carried away sometimes.’

  Her sister sniffed and dropped the fabric back over the mirror. ‘Let’s just search the room, shall we?’

  Sybil started on the chest of drawers which was full of clothes, all neatly folded. She let her hand rest on a soft woollen jumper. ‘Poor girl,’ she said, momentarily connecting with the spirit of the young woman. ‘Such confusion. She really lost herself in the last few weeks of her life.’

  ‘Emma had no chance against that woman,’ Queenie replied shortly, pulling a box file from the bookcase. ‘Ahah! I think I might have found something.’ A neat pile of receipts and invoices were clipped together with photographs of various dolls. On the back of each was a hand written description and a price. ‘Patricia was right; she was selling some of them.’

  ‘Thank goodness she was organised and kept records of everything,’ said Sybil.

  They sat side by side on the bed and began searching through the pile of paperwork. A fly settled on the file and Sybil absently brushed it aside.

  ‘Here’s a receipt for the mirror,’ she pointed out. ‘She bought that over a year ago.’

  The shuffling of paper was the only sound in the room as they continued sifting through the file until Queenie suddenly put her head to one side and looked at her sister.

  ‘Can you hear that?’

  ‘What?’ asked Sybil vaguely, concentrating on reading Emma’s untidy scrawl.

  ‘Sybil,’ hissed Queenie. ‘Listen!’

  ‘To what?’ she asked, looking around the room.

  ‘There’s a strange noise coming from it.’ Queenie nodded towards the mirror.