Deadlocked Dollhouse

by Mixi J Applebottom

  The text between the two books was nearly identical. It seemed strange to him the two books would even bother mentioning Abel's Curse. It was virtually no information, useless. He flipped open the third book, and it didn't particularly have much more information. But there was a handwritten scrawl next to the section. "I already have sleepwalking, a broken leg, and the bloody nose. Is there any way to stop it?"

  The handwriting was in young girlish scrawl. It looked like the kind of thing that should be covered with hearts and funny little notes to a boy. There was a drop of blood directly below the note. Possibly from a nosebleed?

  Underneath her note was a second note in tight, tiny capital letters. "I have sleepwalking and a broken toe." This one had a name written directly underneath it. Kevin.

  His phone buzzed, and his pocket. He realized time had been flying. He was late now, and Kelly was surely getting frustrated. "I want to check these two books out," he said, indicating the one he hadn't even looked at yet and the one with the handwritten notes.

  "Do you even have a library card?" she said, sighing. Despite being a librarian, she seemed to dislike having to do any librarian work.

  "I... I guess I'll need one," he said. He filled out the forms, his broken finger causing his writing to look even more terrible than normal. Subtly, he checked his nose to see if it was bleeding, but it was not. Eventually, he managed to check out the two books.

  "Look, I don't know what your little cult is getting into. But make sure you return these books on time." She glared at him.

  No wonder why she was so annoyed. She thought he was trying to perform the Abel’s Curse. Mark grabbed the two books, threw them in his truck, and drove home. By the time he arrived, Kelly was in the middle of making dinner. She had made his favorite, spaghetti with actual meatballs. And the whole loaf of garlic bread, fresh bread that she had baked herself. And a side salad. It was a feast.

  "No chicken nuggets?" he said.

  "I just want to give you a taste of what life would be like if you let me stay home. I want to stay home. I don't want to go get another crappy job," she said.

  He felt a longing inside his soul to give his wife exactly what she wanted. But the reality was that they couldn't even eat like this now. Much less when she stayed home; there would be less money, less food, more Ramen. But he tried to enjoy the feast. But in the back of his mind; he was wondering when he could look at those two library books more closely. Abel's Curse; had he caught it?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Maybe she was tired after cooking all that food, but his wife went to sleep, sound and steady. Mark was wide awake, though, his mind buzzing with the idea of a curse. He crawled out of bed and sat at the dining room table. The dollhouse was sitting in the living room just on the other side of him.

  He looked at the two books he had checked out. One was titled Comprehending Curses. The Comprehending Curses book was the one with Kevin's tight scrawl and the girly writing of a teenage girl wildly in love.

  The other was a thin yellow paperback entitled Modern Witchcraft. The yellow book was particularly faded and discolored. If this book was modern, it had been modern eight or more years ago. As he thumbed through the pages, he noticed a bookmark. It said, "Owl always read" and had a picture of an owl on it. Standard library bookmarks.

  He flipped through it again, pausing at the bookmark. There was Kevin's weird scrawl, and the perfect neat handwriting from the teenage girl on the side of the page. He looked at the passage, and it was written about like a dictionary. It said Abel's Curse: this curse tends to be attached to an object. It requires the blood of a witch and a passionate incantation. This incantation is not available at this time. This results in a cursed object. Anyone who invites the object into their home and activates it will receive the seven symptoms of the curse.

  Sleepwalking

  broken bone

  crying blood

  fury

  pleasure

  fear

  execution

  Mark compared to the seven symptoms on the list to the one that were written on the slip of paper. They were similar, nearly the same – somehow this felt more ominous than if they had been totally unrelated to each other. Bone snap - broken bone. Crying blood - Blood cry. That was next. What would it mean?

  Underneath the symptom list was a small notation in italics. This curse has no known cure at this time. To destroy a cursed object, see page 98.

  The girl's writing on the side said, "All is lost."

  And Kevin's reply: Fuck you.

  Quickly, Mark flipped to page 98. The book was terse and useless. Destruction of accursed object: destroying a curse on that object is not known at this time. It appears to be more difficult than anticipated.

  And in Kevin's scrawl, he wrote: things that do not work; fire, dismantling, eating, hitting with the car, leaving at a thrift store, leaving on the porch, no known way to get rid of the dollhouse.

  And in the perfect, girly font, she wrote: I have tried, I have failed.

  Mark wondered if he should add anything to this book.

  The second book, entitled Comprehending Curses, was hard back, leather, and worn. One of the pages fell out when he turned it. He carefully slid it back in place and flipped forward. There was a bookmark in place. This one said, "I love books" and had a picture of glasses. The first thing he saw was Kevin's script on the side. "Tried it. Don't bother" with a small, neat arrow pointing at a sentence. This book was written in big solid paragraphs, not in easy dictionary format like the other book. It would be easy to lose his place in the sea of words on the page. Mark had never been a good reader anyway, so he would have never found what he was looking for without Kevin's helpful note.

  To get rid of a curse, you must cleanse your soul. You will need the branch of a young sapling oak, a virgin’s blood. Place the blood on the branch and whip your skin until the blood between the virgin and the cursed has mixed. Incantation: “I'm not worthy. I deserve to be cursed. So I beg for mercy." This must be recited twelve times while facing the equator.

  The girl wrote: “I am a virgin. This sounds idiotic. If my blood could save me, I wouldn't be so filled with fury right now. Three stages left for me. But I'll kill myself before I ever get to the last one. I can't risk it."

  There was no way Mark was going to hit himself with a branch.

  He wasn’t sure if he was just getting spooked and freaked out – or if something real was happening. Something... otherworldly. He didn't believe in God or demons or ghosts. So strange to sit here and read a book about a witch and spells. The closest he had ever felt to something godly was when he pulled that trigger and dropped the buck while his father cheered. There was something magical about standing in the forest, becoming one with nature. Then waiting, and righteously taking the life of something delicious. It was the most feral, human thing he could think of. The most godly.

  Reading about curses made no sense. His broken finger and his violent nightmares, even the terrifying sleepwalking; it still seemed unreal. Like he was staring into a fantasy world. How could Mark come to terms with the idea that he was truly cursed? Maybe if he got to the next stage. But then he'd only be one stage before the girl, and she would rather kill herself than get to the final stage.

  He turned and looked at the dollhouse, and it just looked like a toy. It didn't feel ominous or real or scary. Mark turned back and looked at the book. He wondered if it was hogwash. He flipped through Comprehending Curses and he found Abel's Curse.

  It took him a while as he was flipping through pages kind of mindlessly, not totally sure what he was looking for. There it was, on one of the pages that was slightly loose. Abel's Curse. He wasn't sure if there had been a bookmark here at some point, but what stopped him was he saw Kevin's scrawl. Here is the curse. Don't curse any other objects!

  The girl’s handwriting was suspiciously missing. Had she killed herself? And there was the curse, written out with explicit instructions on how to create a cursed object
that caused someone to go through the seven stages. As soon as he stared at it, he felt the urge to test it, but he didn't have the blood of a witch. Unless he was a witch and never knew. But as he stared at it, his stomach started to drop harder and harder. Until he was sure, just absolutely sure it was hanging outside of him between his legs.

  He didn't look down because he didn't want to know. What if it was true? What if he was going mad?

  What if he ripped up this page and then no one would ever be able to make Abel's Curse again? He stared at the curse and felt almost compelled. And with a quick terrified motion, he slammed the book shut. He grabbed both books and shoved them under the couch. He ran up the stairs and climbed into bed, curling up tight to his warm wife. He closed his eyes and desperately prayed for sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mark awoke in a cold sweat; he knew he had been dreaming, but he wasn't sure of what.

  He was certain he wasn't in his bed.

  In his hands was something cold, slowly growing warm with the warmth of his own fingers. It was familiar.

  He felt foggy, like he wasn't fully awake, but he wasn't fully sleep.

  He swallowed twice and fidgeted. There was something pressed tight against his eye, and he could see Kelly lying in bed in front of them. For a moment, he thought to himself he had just gotten out of bed and was standing at the end of the bed staring at her. His finger felt strange, itchy or something. There was tension all through his body, and he was almost trembling with the effort.

  He sniffed, slightly wondering if he had a cold. And then he blinked, sweat rolling into his eyelid. He adjusted the rifle against his eyes again, aiming it at his wife.

  His finger was resting, but he had this feeling that if he shot now, she would never even wake up. At least he thought that was what he was waiting for... her to wake up.

  She fidgeted slightly, and he was reminded instantly of a fawn in the forest. And how he wouldn't shoot the mothers and babies, but if a male walked by, just pull that trigger like it was nothing. She turned slightly, and her exposed breast was pointing at him. One pull of the trigger and then she'd be gone.

  He could almost envision the bullet piercing her ribs. There was something amazing about hunting, something carnal and human about it. Sweat was dripping as he blinked a couple of times and reached up with one hand rubbing his face. He opened his eyes and he realized he was pointing a gun at his wife.

  Terror shuddered in his heart. He dry-heaved twice, but at least it couldn't have been loaded. He never left guns loaded. How did he even get it out of the gun safe in his sleep? He turned the combination lock in his sleep? His mind was buzzing. He quickly checked the gun, and two fat bullets were in it.

  And he nearly shit himself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was only 4 AM, but he got into his red truck and turned the key.

  The engine screamed, reluctant to start up at such an early hour. But eventually it rumbled to life. He drove immediately to Mr. Vladimir's house. There were so many coincidences happening, he couldn't deny that something was going on, and he wanted a better explanation. If this dollhouse was cursed, and Mr. Vladimir made it, then he should know how to stop it. So he drove and he sat in the perfect driveway of the expensive house. Then he turned off the truck and wondered what the hell he was doing there. He had questions, but it was more than just he had questions; he had problems. How many stages until he started killing?

  He had broken a bone, he was having nightmares and sleepwalking – but there were more stages before he murdered anyone. Wasn't crying blood next, then fury or something?

  If this dollhouse was cursed by a witch, then where was the witch? He didn't particularly believe in the paranormal, but he didn't have to. If he could convince the witch to fix the damn problem for him, then this would be over.

  While he sat, trying to make sense of this situation, he heard shouting from inside of the house. And he stood and waited, rolling down his window and straining to hear the words.

  "How many families must you ruin, Mother! I know you are mad, but innocent people are caught up. It's disgusting! You can't stay here any longer." Mark could hear Mr. Vladimir's voice carrying out into the night. He saw some lights flicker, as the two of them were striding through the house turning lights on and off as they walked. He didn't hear the lady reply, not with words, but with a painful screech. The front door clattered open, and out snarled an old lady. She was carrying a bag that looked awfully like Mary Poppins’ bag, a cloth carpetbag. Her hair was silver and chaotically sticking out everywhere. His eyes were wide as he stared at her. She didn't even seem to notice him, hopping into her own yellow car and squealing down the road. Mr. Vladimir never came outside.

  After she squealed away, he turned his truck back on. And he followed her down the road. Surely if there was a witch, it was her. He wasn't following very closely because he wasn't totally sure what he was doing. Was he about to confront her? He kept her in his sight the entire time. It was an easy task because at four in the morning, there were not many cars on the road. He followed at a leisurely pace so as not to be too suspicious. She was driving out to the woods, a place he had been many times with his wife, with his children, and with his own father. It was one of his favorite places to hunt. The woods were thick and full of animals to hunt: deer, rabbits, and apparently, witches. When she turned onto a scraggly dirt road, he pulled over and turned off his truck.

  He was one-hundred-percent certain if he followed her down that road, she would know he was following her, and he was already concerned that she suspected. But it didn't matter; there were only a few cabins down that road. And if he wanted to find her later, it wouldn't be hard. Especially not for an expert hunter like him. He wished he had brought his rifle.

  Did he really intend to shoot her?

  The thought sobered him. And his cell rang. The noise pierced his ears and quickened his heart. It was only 4:30am; why was Kelly calling? He answered.

  She said, "Where the fuck are you? Coralina is on the roof. I need your help."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mark drove like a maniac, his car scampering across the road like a drunk puppy. The wheels barely could keep their footing on the ground, he was swerving so quickly through the streets. When he got to the house, he could see Kelly was standing at the base of the house, her hands in the air, her body drenched in sweat. She was trembling from head to toe. "Coralina, wake up. This is your mother. Wake up!" Her hands were outstretched as if she was prepared to catch Coralina.

  Coralina was standing exactly where Mark had stood just the other night. Her eyes were shut, and her arms were spread out in the shape of a cross. Her toes were on the edge of the roof; one step forwards and she would fall to her death. Kelly was terrified to move. But Mark was all action, grabbing the ladder from the garage as quickly as he could. He shouted to Kelly, "Keep talking to her."

  Kelly had tears streaming down her face from the terror raging inside her. Kelly let out a sharp "No!" as Coralina swayed suddenly forwards. But she didn't fall, instead just rocking back until she was still again. He got the ladder and climbed up it in a frantic rush. And he grabbed Coralina, screaming, "I've got her! I've got her, Kelly." He sat her down next to him on the roof and he burst into tears. Kelly didn't climb up the ladder, but he could hear her shouting from below.

  "Can you carry her down the ladder? Let's get her off the roof." Kelly still sounded terrified, like her eyes and heart had not been fully convinced of Coralina’s safety yet.

  "Okay, just a minute. She's not awake yet," said Mark. He carefully picked up the girl, holding her tight and hugging her to his chest. She barely responded, but eventually started hugging him back. "Coralina, hang on tight and I can get us down." He wasn't sure she was awake or not, but her grip tightened significantly. Slowly and carefully, he climbed down the ladder with her on his chest, squeezing him. When he got to the bottom, he handed her to Kelly. Kelly let out a terrible scream.

  Cor
alina was covered in blood. It was smeared across her neck and down the front of her light pink nightgown. Mark was startled, even horrified to see it. "But she was fine up there!" He ran his fingers frantically through his hair, staring at her.

  She was blinking and rubbing her eyes. Coralina was the next one to talk. "Daddy, you are bleeding."

  Kelly turned to stare at him, and then back at Coralina. She turned to Mark. "Your nose is gushing blood."

  The third stage.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blood Cry

  Kelly cleaned up Coralina and started making breakfast. Mark's nose was still bleeding. He went upstairs and stripped off his clothes, turned the shower to hot and the steam filled the room. Once under the muffling sounds of hot water, he sobbed. Coralina had almost died. This was all his fault. His uncompromising fears about being a bad father were replaced with the belief that it was too late. He did the best he could do as a father, and even though he tried desperately not to continue the abuse he had grown up with, still his daughters were in incredible danger. They could be permanently harmed by his actions. He wept from the unrelenting guilt and the overwhelming fear. But then he let his anger grow hard as he toweled off and prepared to face the day, and his wife.

  How he was going to talk to Kelly about this very serious development? Maybe they really were cursed or haunted. It was the first moment that it seemed real. The stages that seemed like coincidences were now prominently waving in his face.

  He was terrified that Coralina might be in the middle of it. Would her bones break? A shudder ran down his spine the moment he thought it.

  "Kelly? Can I talk to you about something?" he said when he came and sat down. It was still only six in the morning and he had a little bit of time before he had to go to work. Kelly was in the middle of making pancakes.