Eventually, a green SAAB shows up matching the Uber profile. I hop in and spend a moment fighting to close the giant, black ‘old man’ umbrella. Seriously, this is like a Winston Churchill special. Once we’re underway, I have a pleasant conversation with Keith. He’s an art major, a white guy with dreadlocks and a Rasta hat, and I’m more than a little sure he’s presently stoned. Oh, wonderful. Just my luck I survive Scott only to eat it in a car accident.
He doesn’t drive like he’s impaired at least. Maybe he’s that laid back that he comes off as high all the time. The ride takes us out of the nice little tree-filled suburban area through a denser residential neighborhood and onto a highway bridge that spans the Willamette River. I glance out the window at the tip of that eye-shaped portion of the river. At the end of the bridge, Keith follows a ramp to a road that hugs the coast. It intersects the same street the shopping center is on, so the ride’s pretty short.
“Thanks,” I say as I open the door and jam the umbrella out.
“You’re welcome. Have a great day.” Keith waves, and pulls away after I shut the door.
A few seconds later, a chirp from my phone tells me I’ve (well technically Dad has) paid. I dart past the Mexican place to the row of stores behind it. Precious Eternity is the second one from the right, and appears to be open. Yay. I’m not getting wet for nothing!
Old timey bells ring out over my head as I step into a space that looks quite a bit like a sitting room from an old mansion, except the walls to the left and right are covered in dolls sitting on shelves. Hundreds of tiny faces, the majority porcelain, some plastic or wood, gaze out into nowhere. Some look at me, some gaze away, others slump as if asleep. There’s no glass over the shelves or any security detectors by the exit, and within two seconds of being here, I understand why.
It makes no sense, but I don’t feel like I’m alone. They’re only dolls, but there’s a definite presence inhabiting this place, as if I’m standing in front of a classroom of silent children all gazing expectantly at me, waiting for me to say something.
Yikes. Maybe it’s a good thing I came here during the day. With all my supernatural energy going toward fighting the sunlight, I won’t see any ghosts. That’s perfect because I’m sure there’s one or two… hundred of them in here. Aurélie said the guy didn’t want to be in this store at night. She thinks it’s because of a bad neighborhood, but I have a feeling that’s not the reason. I’m a freakin’ vampire and I wouldn’t want to be in here after dark either.
An oval rug of dark blue and wheat brown in the middle of the otherwise bare hardwood floor holds two wingback chairs and a little table. A glass display counter full of doll parts spans the innermost wall of the front room. Dark burgundy curtains hang behind it like some kind of old theater. The air is thick with the smell of dusty wood mixed with paper and glue.
I collapse my umbrella and look around, hesitant to walk into a place like this while dripping everywhere. Another umbrella sits in a metal bucket on the floor to my left, so I stick the one I’ve borrowed in there as well.
“Hello?” I ask in a tentative voice, inching forward. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time around Aurélie’s dolls. They are creepy as hell. I still haven’t figured out for sure if her comment about souls being trapped is her messing with me or if she’d been serious.
The curtain parts. A man in his later fifties, his hair a mix of grey and brown, steps out, wearing a beige cardigan over a dress shirt and plaid bowtie. I’m evidently not what he expects to see. His expression flickers from bewilderment to annoyance to curiosity.
“Please don’t handle any of the dolls without my assistance,” says the man.
“Are you Mr. Marchand?” I ask, approaching the counter.
The suspicion in his eyes lessens. Guess he doesn’t get a lot of teens in here. Probably thinks I came in to play games or cause trouble. “Yes. That’s me.”
“Hi.” I offer a hand. “I’m Sarah Wright. I’m here to pick up a doll for Aurélie Merlier.”
“One moment, Miss.” He moves a dingy white cloth which I’d thought to be draped over some old bit of doll maker’s gear, but it turns out to be a rather modern computer, completely at odds with the rest of the décor. Maybe that’s why he keeps it covered. “Spell that please?”
I spell her last name as he types it in.
“Oh yes, there you are. She sent a photo for verification.” A small picture of me appears on his screen. Looks like my high school senior yearbook photo. Aurélie had to have lifted it from Mom’s Facebook page. “She mentioned she would be sending a courier.”
“Great. I hope she wired you the money already, because she didn’t give it to me.”
“Yes, yes. That’s all taken care of, but there is one potential complication.” Mr. Marchand peers over his glasses at me. His cheek twitches as he stares, like something about me bugs him but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Either he thinks I’m lying about my age, or he suspects I’m more than human.
“Complication?” I ask in my most harmless tone.
“Yes. The sale’s off if she does not wish to go with you.”
I raise an eyebrow. She doesn’t want to go with me? Oh, great. Either I’m dealing with a haunted doll or this guy is a complete loon. I fidget at the iPhone in my sweatshirt pocket and whisper, “Want?”
“Indeed. Rebecca is quite picky with whom she chooses to reside.”
Please be insane. Please be insane. I force a placid smile while wishing that this guy has cracked. There’s no such thing as haunted dolls, right? They’re all made up stories—like vampires.
“Pardon me a moment,” says Mr. Marchand, before disappearing behind the wall of burgundy.
In the split second before the curtain falls shut again, I catch a glimpse into a workroom of dusty shelves laden with boxes and creepy half-made doll skeletons. Ugh. I’m going to have nightmares about this place for the next thirty years.
It’s got to be totally my imagination, but I get a sense as though numerous people behind me to the left and right are whispering amongst themselves. No words reach my awareness, not even the raspy hiss of actual voices too low to hear. The sensation is purely mental like I hear without hearing, just knowing people are talking about me.
My leg twitches. Come on, Sarah. Keep it together. I am the darkness that flaps in the night. I am a fanged, clawed, supernatural beast. I am the sort of thing that’s supposed to scare other people. I am… about to scream. Neither ghosts nor dolls are any threat to me, right? I risk a hesitant peek over my shoulder at the room. Though I don’t expect to see anyone there, it really wouldn’t surprise me to find a crowd.
What I see is worse.
All the dolls are looking at me. Like, their heads have all turned to face the counter side of the room. I swear they’d all been staring in different directions when I got here. With an “eep,” I face forward again, shivering. It’s a trick of the mind. Gotta be a trick of the mind. Nice dollies. Don’t mind me. I’m only another creepy monster like you. I mean, you’re not creepy monsters. Just creepy.
Crap.
The rustle of the curtain opening startles a yelp out of me.
Mr. Marchand cracks the faintest of smiles as he emerges, but doesn’t otherwise react to my obvious unease. He carries a rectangular wooden box not quite two feet tall, covered with fancy engraving, which he sets on the counter before leaning on it and peering intently at me.
“Are your parents waiting outside?”
“No. I’m here on my own. Just running down from Seattle.”
He blinks. “Little young, huh?”
“I’m eighteen.” I shrug. “Young face. You should see my sisters. They’re ten and eleven and look more like seven.” I cringe inside. Hi. I’m Sarah and I’m a graduate of Dr. Lame-o’s school of lameness. Valedictorian.
“Eighteen? Really?” He rubs his chin.
“I swear. I have ID if you wanna see it.”
Still rubbing his chin, he nods once. I’
m not sure if he’s suspecting I’m an immortal like Kara who looks seventeen but is like thirty or so, or if he thinks I’m normal but fifteen and too young to be alone.
He examines my driver’s license when I show it to him, emitting an impressed noise from his nose. “Well, I suppose it’s a day for surprises. Good genes, girl. Though, I’m sure you’ll curse them when you’re thirty-five and still having people ask to see ID when you try to drink.”
I smile weakly. That line about my sisters was so cheesy I don’t bother trying to say I have little interest in alcohol anymore. No matter how I phrase it, it’ll sound fake.
He rests one hand on the box top and pushes, sliding a thin wooden panel away.
A little girl doll lays inside, a bit too much like a tiny casket for my comfort level. Her dress is mostly white, yellowed in spots with age, and traces of pink adorn the ruffled collar along with some dark burgundy rimming the edge by the neck. The face is porcelain, the eyes sparkling blue despite how old it looks. Ringlets of blonde hang down to her knees. I can’t tell what the hands are made from, but they’re unsettlingly realistic in shape. Not the typical chubby baby hands dolls like this usually have. They’re thin and delicate, making the doll look way too much like someone shrank a six-year-old human child. I’d completely freak out staring at her but the face is quite obviously made of porcelain.
I thought the hands bothered me, but they’ve got nothing on the moment I make eye contact with her. Those gem-blue eyes are quite literally gazing back at me with the weight of conscious thought behind them. No effing way. Oh, I really wish it wasn’t daytime right now. I so want to try and see if I can read this doll’s mind, but at the same time, I’m terrified to look. Something tells me it has one. The doll doesn’t move, which although that’s quite a normal thing for a doll to do, catches me off guard in that I find myself relieved at its stillness… like I’d expected it to sit up or something and braced for that moment of heart-stopping shock.
The doll’s eyes become far too realistic all of a sudden, piercing and darker blue, but as soon as I blink, they go once more appear artificial. A sense that this doll is about to reach up toward me like a toddler begging to be picked up builds until I lean ever so slightly closer, waiting for this thing to move.
“Hmm. How about that?” says Mr. Marchand with a note of surprise. “She likes you.”
As far as I can tell, this porcelain-and-cloth doll didn’t move, speak, or do much of anything but lay there like the inanimate object it should be. Yet, the moment I felt like it wanted me to pick it up, Marchand got the same feeling.
Oh, that’s only a little strange.
“Cool?” I flash a weak smile.
“All right. As I said before, Miss Merlier has already made the financial arrangements. Please be careful with her. She scares easily, but seems to like you.” A palpable note of annoyance wafts from the doll when he slides the lid closed, like she rather wanted to be held. Whether or not Mr. Marchand noticed that, he doesn’t show any outward reaction. “Do you have a car waiting for you?”
“No, I was going to call an Uber once we’re finished.”
He nods. “Go on then. Little else left for us to do but idle chitchat.”
“Thanks. Sec.” I pull out my phone and page an Uber via the app. While I have it out, I text Dad and warn him about me using the ride service so he doesn’t think someone hacked our account. We trade a few texts catching up on what’s going on at the house. He’s fine with me using Uber instead of being soaked, and I’m apparently missing a glum rainy day where both Sam and Sophia are in bad moods because they can’t go outside.
“So, how old is she?” I ask, gesturing at the box after putting my phone away. The question felt a little too much I’m talking about a kid. Eep.
“The doll was made in the early 1920s. I wasn’t able to come up with much in the way of documentation. Came to me by way of a collector in Oklahoma. Used to belong to an old woman. She passed on and they couldn’t find any living kin. Since she’s in such remarkable shape, she wound up at an auction. Traded hands a whole bunch of times. No one seemed to get along with her for much more than a week. Bunch of crazy stories following her around, but don’t go believing any of that stuff.”
I force a smile as a long, ‘Riiiiight’ slides over my brain. “Okay. Sounds fascinating.”
Gingerly, I pick up the box and cradle it somewhat like a baby. Mr. Marchand waves farewell. When I turn toward the door, all the dolls on both side walls are still staring at me. Gulp. Ignoring them, I cross to the front door and stand by the door, watching the street and waiting for the Uber to show up.
“Hi,” I whisper to my bundle. “Sorry about the box. I have a feeling you don’t like being in there, but it’s better than getting rained on and it won’t be long before you’re home. You’re going to love Aurélie.”
Unsurprisingly, the doll doesn’t say anything.
“It’ll be a little while before I can go back, since I have to wait for dark. I bet we both have a little secret, don’t we? Both of us are a little more than we appear to be on the outside.”
Rebecca doesn’t speak—which is totally fine with me.
The strong sense of being watched makes me peer back over my shoulder again. Mr. Marchand has vanished, likely off behind the curtain again.
And… the dolls are staring at me.
All 200 or so are now facing the front of the room. Looking. Right. At. Me.
Again, I swallow hard.
Trick of the mind. It’s gotta be a trick of the mind. I bet they’re positioned in such a way that they always seem to be looking straight at me no matter where I stand. Hundreds of dolls don’t move their heads. That’s impossible.
The doll in my arms draws my attention… somehow. An inexplicable urge makes me look down at the box. No sound, no motion, nothing obvious happened. I half want to think it’s trying to make me feel better. As if somehow, this doll knows I’m getting worked up and frightened by this place and is attempting to soothe my nerves.
Wow, this shop is bizarre. I’ve heard some people say ‘keep Portland weird’ a few times, but this is taking it a bit too far.
Speaking of weird, my Uber arrives: a minivan covered in decals so it looks like a ship out of Star Wars. The guy driving it is wearing Storm Trooper armor without a helmet. I don’t bother popping the umbrella, and dash across the sidewalk into the waiting side door.
“Quick, get us out of here,” I rasp. “The rebels are right on my tail.”
He grins. “They can try, but there’s no way they’ll catch me.”
The side door motors closed, and the van fills with John Williams’ music.
I do the only thing I can… pull out the phone and video this for Dad.
16
The Good Girl
Yanno what’s weirder than feeling like an old-ass doll is alive?
Talking to it and getting a sense like it’s understanding me.
When I arrive back at the house, I replace the umbrella where I found it and sneak into the basement again so as not to disturb the other vampires, who are still zonked. Apparently, whatever aspect of our nature warns us of threats has accepted me as a non-issue, as none of them stir in the slightest.
Given the distribution of the two beds and sofa, the spot farthest away from any sleeping person is the corner by a door leading to the tiny room holding the water heater and furnace. Meh. I crawl under the pool table and sit cross-legged on the floor, unbox the doll, and prop her up next to me. For something made in the 1920s, she’s lasted rather well. Handling her doesn’t at all feel like I might damage something. Unable to help myself, I grasp her right hand in two fingers and shake it. The hand is hard and cold, also likely porcelain.
It’s kind of surprising that someone may have given a doll like this to a child back in those days. Even Sophia, as careful as she is with her things, would surely have dropped her at least once and smashed one of the hands or face.
So, for the next
few hours, in between trading text messages with Ashley, Michelle, and Hunter, I randomly talk to Rebecca, the doll. Though she doesn’t move at all or speak, every so often, I get this strange sense of acknowledgement. Our one-sided conversation starts off with me talking about Aurélie, goes from that to me admitting to being a vampire, and on to the whole Innocent thing, Scott, my family, and how I still haven’t quite figured out if I made an error when I decided to go home and stay with them.
I backpedal a bit, clarifying that I love my family more than anything and couldn’t bear to put them through losing me—my doubt is purely coming from not wanting them to get hurt because of crazy bitches like Petra. As soon as I say that, Rebecca flops over, falling against me.
Whoa. I freeze. Of course, it’s perfectly plausible that a cloth-bodied doll with a heavy porcelain head might sag over after a while of sitting up unsupported. It’s even possible that such a fall might coincidentally occur as soon as I say something that might prod said doll into wanting to console me with a hug.
Yeah. That’s what happened. Absolute coincidence.
Well, one thing at least. Everything I’ve ever heard about haunted dolls called them evil. Now that I’m out of that damn store, I’m not reading any sense of malice from her at all. Though, if Hollywood is any authority on the paranormal, nice can go murderous in a heartbeat. One tiny thing offends her and all hell breaks loose.
Or I’m going legit crazy. Haunted dolls. Pff.
Ashley enters text silent mode after sending me a ‹work time› message. Michelle is at her job already but still texting. She does, however, only respond like once every twenty minutes. Hunter’s not much of a texter. We wind up on a phone call for about a half hour before my battery protests.
The Artist of Ruin Page 16
