Deadlocked Dollhouse

by Mixi J Applebottom

  But he couldn't just let her stay at home and play with the kids. That wasn't good for either of them. Especially not their finances, and he wasn't kidding when he thought that that truck was going to be undrivable soon. Sure he could drive Kelly's minivan around a little bit – but they were still making payments on the minivan, and it was a piece of shit too. What were they going to do?

  He didn't know; he didn't know at all. But he was definitely going to drive down and see if he could get Mr. Vladimir to give them the correct table leaf. Then at least that horrible feeling of a splinter stuck in his hand would go away.

  Chapter Ten

  Even though Mark was really determined to drive down and fix the annoying splinter – the table leaf problem – right away, it turned out that he just couldn't get it done. He ended up being asked to stay late at work, to help make up for having left early the day before. They also received their next large delivery, and he was going to be hanging the siding on the house soon. Framing was wrapping up, and the next step was waterproofing. It was boring; he had done this so many times, it barely felt like work anymore. It was the kind of thing a zombie could do, no brains needed.

  Since he was working so late, he ended up driving straight home so he could have dinner with his kids. He wondered for the millionth time if they noticed his efforts to be a good father. He joined them at the table, but both girls were just finishing up their bowls of cheap soup. They giggled together and ran off to play with the dollhouse, long before he even got started on his own soup.

  "How many jobs did you apply for today?" he asked while eating his chicken Ramen soup.

  Kelly wrinkled her nose. "About that, none."

  Mark paused mid-bite with the noodles hanging off his spoon in a big splattery mess. And he glared at his wife. "What?"

  "I was thinking I'd take a day or two to myself before I started applying for shit jobs again. You know how it is – I just... I just don't..." She paused midsentence and ended up looking at her fingertips. She did never did intend to finish that sentence. Mark stared at her uncomfortably.

  "Take a few days? Like a gap year? We can't let you take a few days. You're not a kid. We have bills," Mark said and then he shoved a bunch of hot noodles in his mouth, chewing them down with frustrated, tasteless enthusiasm. It was like they were falling apart at the seams, like his truck.

  Beth came running over, her little six-year-old eyes looking bright as sunshine. She tugged on his sleeve. "Did you get the dollhouse table?" she asked. A full sentence, his nearly mute child asked a full sentence. And the question was about his utter and unrelenting failure. The splinter in his hand.

  Mark bit his tongue so hard he thought it might slice it into two pieces. It was threatening to bleed even as he sat there. "Sorry, baby, probably tomorrow." His stomach flipped over. That was the kind of shit his dad would do – promise to do stuff and then never get around to it. He just couldn't live like that. He didn't want to be a bad father; he was trying to break the cycle. He was trying so hard, but it wasn't working.

  "Okay," said Beth, seemingly completely unfazed by his failure to solve her problem. And she skipped her little blonde hair back to the dollhouse and continued to play with her sister, Coralina.

  But Mark was hurt and sick to his stomach. It really pissed him off to let her down. He'd have to fix it tomorrow. He turned and stared angrily at his wife, letting his emotion poor out in one single, angry sentence. "Get a job."

  And they both went to bed silently again.

  Chapter Eleven

  That night, Mark had another nightmare. This time, he dreamt that he was stuck in the dollhouse as a strange little wooden doll. He was locked inside the secret room behind the bookcase. He was waiting indefinitely for someone to notice the little book that was sticking out and pull it so he could escape, so he could take care of Beth and Coralina. And maybe, just maybe take care of Kelly too.

  But he was still angry with Kelly for losing her job, for putting more financial stress on the family. He didn't like it; he wanted to have good things happen to them. And here he would spend his life trying, and she... she would just sit there and do nothing! Is that what they had come to? The dark little room around him was closing in, and the panic about money started to swallow him.

  He waited in the dark and hoped that someone would pull that little book so he could get out of this little dark tiny room. He could feel the panic rising in his throat, the need to scream. He started to reach out his hands in all directions, tapping things; maybe he could find the latch from the inside? Why hadn't he thought of it earlier! But his wooden stick hands wouldn't behave themselves.

  A long, sharp needle dug into his eye. He almost screamed, but he realized it didn't hurt. He was made of wood. But it was sticking out from his eyes so far it bumped the wall across the little room. No wonder he couldn't see in the dark with the giant metal needle stabbing through his vision. He tried to pull on it with both of his wooden hands, but he had no grip. It didn't budge. Carefully, he used his thick wooden hands to tap around the room in every direction. He had to keep swinging his head toward the center of the room to prevent the needle from bumping into a wall. It was like a coffin, four sides with a short ceiling. He knew he was standing up, but he didn't even have the room to sit. His wooden legs didn't bend anyway, so what could he do?

  Finally, he resorted to screaming for Kelly, to no avail, then screaming for Coralina, and then finally screaming for little Beth. "Please, please, let me out! I'll be a good boy. I promise." He said the words on foreign lips. But the words – they felt familiar. As if they were words he had said and screamed a thousand times. How long had he been stuck in here?

  The door cracked open just slightly, and then it swung open in a big whoosh. The outside was cold, like the air from a refrigerator. And it was bright out; his eyes could not get accustomed to it. In fact, his eye was hurting badly. He reached up to touch it and he felt the giant needle once more. He tried to pull and pull, and then suddenly—pop—it came out.

  He blinked twice and opened his eyes.

  He was standing in front of his truck. The lights from the truck were on and shining in his face. The truck was very slowly rolling towards him. It scared him so badly. His eyes were burning from the bright lights. He pushed on the truck with his hands and tried to slow it down, and then he turned and ran around the side, hopping into the truck and popping it into park. The keys were in the ignition, but the engine wasn't turned on. How had he come outside, gotten in the truck, put in the key, popped it into neutral, and turned on the lights—how had he done this in his sleep?

  And then stood in front of it, so that it would have run him over.

  What kind of sick and twisted brain did he have? With a shudder, he went back to bed. It was only two in the morning.

  He almost woke up Kelly and asked her to hold him because the fear was brewing inside his belly and marinating in his mind. But he was still so angry with her for not even trying to get a job, that instead he rolled his back to her and fell asleep.

  Mark was so furious in the morning that he decided not to go to work. After all, if she didn't have to go, why did he?

  Instead he went out and had a cup of coffee, then walked around the hardware store. No, he didn't stay home. He didn't hang out with his family, even though that was what he wanted to do. Because he didn't want her to know that he was that angry. It might be confusing to some, but to him, he was making perfect sense. She didn't have to work; he didn't work.

  After he wandered along through the lumber aisle for a while, he decided he would go and talk to the dollhouse guy again. He had been waiting until it was a respectable time to stop by. This time, he didn't call first, and maybe that was poor idea. He drove up to the giant perfect house; again, he felt out of place with his ratty old truck grumbling from every direction. His brakes let out a particularly loud cry of complaint, just to make him feel like an idiot. He almost turned around and drove back home to talk to Kelly and to apo
logize for their fight. He knew that she didn't like cleaning hotel rooms, that it was disgusting. She did deserve a break. She'd been working so hard.... it was just that he had been working hard too. And his job sucked too.

  But then he thought about his father destroying his favorite toy. Beth and Coralina had it just as bad; that dumb little table wouldn't even click shut without the table leaf in place. That was his fault, and his responsibility to fix it. He wasn’t going to let them down. So he got out of the truck to talk to the crazy man and knocked on the door. Mr. Vladimir opened the door not two minutes later. "Hello."

  "Hello, this table leaf didn't fit. Remember? You gave me one a few days ago. This time, I brought the broken one so we can get the right one," Mark said nervously.

  Mr. Vladimir frowned. "Okay." He gestured and they both walked down the hallway to the large room that he had stored all the parts in. He pulled out two thin long boxes again. Mark handed him the perfect brand-new table leaf, and he carefully filed it back into place. "Let me see the broken one."

  "Here," said Mark. "It split in half. I barely even touched it."

  The man took the splintered piece of table and looked at it. The room seemed to grow instantly cold as his eyes grew wide with surprise and a lingering hint of uncomfortable fear. "You've got to be kidding me," said Mr. Vladimir. "Where did you get this dollhouse?"

  "The thrift store," said Mark. He was almost embarrassed to utter those words aloud, because he didn't want Mr. Vladimir to realize just how desperate his times were. He couldn't imagine that Mr. Vladimir had ever been inside a thrift store. Ever.

  Mr. Vladimir froze with fear as he stared at the table leaf in his hand. He slowly closed both boxes of table leaves and slid them back into place. And then he turned and went into the back. His movements were stiff, like a man experiencing great shock. Then he came back with the box that was about as large as a shoebox. He carefully opened it. There was a bad energy in the room that had not been there before. "Have you been sleepwalking? Did the nightmares already start?"

  "Sleepwalking? How did you know I was sleepwalking?" said Mark, totally surprised.

  Mr. Vladimir didn't say anything further but opened a shoebox. Inside were exact replica pieces of Mark's dollhouse. The same tiny little figurines made out of wood, a few pieces for the stairs, and even tiny books. He quietly sorted through the pieces with a grim look on his face. Not a few minutes later, he handed Mark a table leaf that perfectly match the splintered one in his hand. "I'll have to keep this broken one so I can make another." He was hoarse when he said it. "I'll have to make another," he muttered to himself and made the sign of the cross.

  Then Mr. Vladimir closed the shoebox. He turned and he put it back on the tall shelf in the back. When he came back, he was holding a folded piece of paper. "You have it. The cursed dollhouse. And I'm sure you don't want to hear anything more, but... this paper will explain how long it will take. I'm afraid I can't let you stand in my home any longer, lest it happen here. Never come back." And with a coldness, Mr. Vladimir walked Mark out and locked the door behind him.

  Mark was completely baffled, holding the table leaf in one hand and a folded piece of paper in the other. He got into his truck and put the table leaf in his coat jacket. And then he slowly unfolded the note.

  At the top, it said, “The Seven Stages of Abel's Curse.”

  Night walk

  Bone snap

  Blood cry

  Fury

  Elation

  Fear

  The slaughter

  Chapter Twelve

  He drove to a park and opened his lunch box. It was just a sad-looking peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Mark stared at the kids playing in the park and thought to himself that he should be either at work or playing with his own children in the park. He was an idiot, sitting here by himself. And yet he kept looking at this note. It was strange that he was sleepwalking. He had never sleepwalked before, not in his entire life.

  But strange didn't mean dangerous. Coincidence did not equal being haunted, or cursed or whatever this was. It just wasn't the same thing.

  There was a young girl playing on the monkey bars. But otherwise, the park was now empty. It looked like she must've walked there by herself. She had absent parents, and he knew the feeling. He knew what it was like to take yourself to the park because your parents wouldn't do it. And how you go to the park, because there was nothing else to do. Because leaving the house was better than staying home. Safer than staying home.

  He thought about one of the times he had gone out hunting with his father. And his dad got drunk, like he always did. They would sit in the quiet. It was one of the few times he and his dad really got along because they didn't say anything; they just sat and waited for something to come along so they could kill it. Anyway, this time, since his dad was too drunk to aim anymore, so he told Mark to shoot the buck. He vividly remembered lining up the gun while his dad dozed. A large buck wandered into view, and he took his time, holding the gun exactly straight, sweat pouring down his face. The intense desire to chicken out was running through his frightened little five-year-old body. But then, with a snort, his dad awoke and gently clapped his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Pull the trigger," he hissed in a slow, slurred, drunken noise.

  The gun fired loud. He'd never forget the way the gun pounded into his shoulder. He got it. The buck fell. And for a rare, special moment, both son and father were happy together. He still liked hunting. It was one of the few delightful memories that he and his dad shared. He had already taken Beth and Coralina many times, trying to recreate his happiest childhood memory with his own kids.

  He mindlessly munched his sandwich as he remembered, and a big black form caught his eye. He looked up, and a big black dog was running toward the playground. It looked like a pitbull, and it was running like its tail was on fire. His teeth were bared and he was barking. And that little kid, the one who had nobody, was climbing across the monkey bars. The dog was going for her. Mark hopped out of his truck quickly and started to run forwards towards the girl on the monkey bars. She was struggling to hold herself in the air as the dog came closer, and he was about to see her get mauled. Mark let out a scream of terror. "Look out!" he said. And he tried to jump over a little park bench.

  But he floundered, his toe catching on the back of the bench and he collided into the ground. He was back on his feet in a heartbeat, trying to race for the girl. He was too late. She looked at Mark, then dropped, landing on her feet. The enormous black dog immediately knocked her down. She let out a squeal, screaming. And Mark charged towards her, but the dog just licked her face.

  Mark's heart was pounding as he absorbed the scene. He wasn't hurting her. Fuck, that was scary. Mark turned and limped back to his truck. He'd skinned both his knees when he fell and his leg was hurting. But when he turned to open the car door, he realized his middle finger on his right hand was twisted at the wrong angle. It was only then that he realized he had broken it.

  Frantically, he checked the note:

  Bone Snap: The second stage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bone Snap

  He drove himself to the nearby grocery store. He was definitely not going to go to the ER, or even the doctor. It was just a broken finger after all. It hurt like fuck, but the bone wasn't jammed through the skin. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," Mark muttered as he carefully pulled on his finger. A loud cracking pop happened, and then it straightened. The pain lessened immediately, even as the swelling increased.

  He couldn't decide if this was coincidence – or if something else was going on. That crazy old man had messed with his head. Could this dollhouse have a fucking curse? Mark swallowed his disgust. What kind of father would bring home a fucking cursed object? At the grocery store, he got a finger splint and wrapped his finger tightly to prevent it swelling further. He'd broken a finger before, so he had a pretty good idea how to take care of it. Now he was perpetually flipping people off with his right hand. Good, he was pissed anyway an
d subtly flipping off the entire world seemed fitting. When he climbed back into the car, he considered where to go next. He couldn't quite go home yet since it was still a little too early.

  Curiosity got the best of him and he decided to stop by the library before he went home. He threw back a painkiller. Maybe he could find out if there was any book about this curse, and the weird fucking note. His mood was sour, and he wasn't even sure he believed any of it anymore. Sleepwalking and a broken finger could be one hell of a coincidence. Plus, his finger hurt, and he didn't really give a shit. He looked at the little scrap of paper in his hand: Abel's curse. Sounded like the world's dumbest prank was being pulled on him.

  He went into the library and he almost went to the computer to try to figure it out himself, but he barely knew how to use those things. So instead, he asked the librarian who was sitting at her desk, annoyed. "I'm trying to look up something called Abel's Curse. Do you have a book on it or anything?"

  She frowned. "It seems like every few months, someone's asking me about Abel's Curse."

  "What?" he said, completely embarrassed. Did she know about the dollhouse? Or was this just a coincidence thing? Did Vladimir tell all his customers they had the curse? Maybe he just liked to freak people out. Mark coughed and then said, "Do you have any books about it or not?"

  The librarian rolled her eyes. She came back with a stack of books ten minutes later. "Good luck," she said.

  He took the books to the nearby table. They were already bookmarked, which made flipping to each section easy. Four books, four sections about Abel's Curse. Two of these books were almost exactly restated from one another, and they didn't include much information at all. "Abel's Curse is a curse upon an object that contains seven stages, ending in death. Typically, the death includes murder and suicide."