“Dude, she’s not your type,” says Emilio.
Mick laughs.
“Look, guys. I really gotta get home. Thanks for hanging out with me, you guys are pretty cool.”
Kara pulls out a smartphone. “Lemme get your contact info?”
“Okay.” I grin.
As soon as we trade information, I bounce out of the seat and race for the door.
Crap. Time got away from me. This is going to be cutting it close.
… And I hope Rebecca isn’t angry with me for leaving her alone so long.
17
She Likes Me
Emotion does affect my flight speed.
I arrive in Cottage Lake at 5:14 a.m. Considering it took me about fifteen minutes to figure out where Dingleberry’s house was to collect Rebecca, I made damn good time. No way in hell am I going to get to Aurélie’s before the fiery ball of ultimate pain and suffering is in the air. The sun will be up in another maybe ten minutes. I need to get my ass in my room, pronto.
Flying through the house bypasses Mom’s rule about shoes inside, since I’m not technically in contact with the floor. She’s in the kitchen about to microwave her oatmeal.
“Cutting it close again, young lady?”
“Sorry. Lost track of time. Totes my fault,” I say while cruising by.
“Why are you flying in the house?”
“Shoes.”
“Why are you wearing shoes in the house?”
“Time.”
“What’s that box?”
“Talk later, please.”
“Please be more careful,” yells Mom as I dart down the stairwell to the basement.
“I will! Sorry.”
I dash across the basement to my room, shut the door, and slouch with relief. Whew. Made it. I hurriedly strip down to my birthday suit before grabbing a fresh oversized tee to sleep in. Can’t leave Rebecca in a box all night, so I open it and pull her out, taking her with me to bed. I flop, pull the blanket up to my chin, and let out a sigh of relief at being in my own room again.
“Sorry about taking so long… and putting you back in the box for the flight. Didn’t want you to get hurt.”
Right as the approaching sunrise starts dragging me off to the void, I swear that doll’s head turns toward me.
My super crazy dream involves me sitting in a chair while my mother fusses at me over every little thing—only her voice is coming out of Rebecca. The doll walks around and around me, shaking her little porcelain head, beside herself with worry.
When my eyes pop open, I stare at the ceiling for a moment trying to push that mental image out of my mind. “Wow. That was twisted.”
I pretty much expect what I see when I turn my head to the left, but when I do—and the doll actually is missing—I let out a clipped “eep.” Okay, calm down. That doll did not get up and walk away. Sophia has her. Obviously. I’m home again, which means small siblings walking into my bedroom whenever they like. She wanted to see that doll before I brought it to Aurélie, and I guess she got her wish.
My attempt to sit still for a while and rest from my panic-powered flight doesn’t work. I can’t stop thinking about math. Specifically, a simple equation: porcelain doll plus Sophia equals something breaks. Carry the one, and I get Aurélie angry with me.
I drag myself out of bed and reach for the nearest pile of ‘bottom clothing.’ Given a choice between yoga pants or a denim skirt, I grab the skirt. Faster to put on. Nothing about the basement warns me of too much sun, so I trudge over to the kitchen steps and peer up. Feels safe. At the top, I crack the door to the kitchen enough to let light in, while keeping my face away from direct exposure.
Warmth like I’m standing near a space heater blows in, but no innate panic comes over me. Good. It’s probably raining. I ease the door open the rest of the way and test the kitchen with a hand. No smoke. Another good sign.
Upon risking a real look, I relax at the sight of rain pattering against the window over the sink. It is a little bright for a rainy day, but well within my ability to tolerate. Explosions from the living room tell me Sierra’s on the PlayStation.
“Morning,” I say while padding by on the way to the stairs.
“Hey.” Sierra waves without looking back.
More explosions—and machine gun fire—come from Sam’s room, though his computer speakers lack the house-shaking ability of the sound system in the living room. I head down the corridor to Sophia’s room, the last door on the left.
I push it open, but the room’s empty. Her bed’s unmade, and the fat unicorn plushie I won for her at the carnival a few weeks ago is perched on the pillow. Aww. She’s been taking it to bed at night. Score one for not-quite-dead girl. But still, it’s odd not to see her anywhere in the house. I don’t think she’d have gone outside on a day like this. “Soph?”
A sniffle comes from behind the bed.
Uh oh.
I hurry over and find her still in her nightgown curled up in a ball in the narrow space between the bed and the wall, crammed in the corner. She’s shaking so bad it’s as if she’d seen what Scott looked like as a Scrap.
“Soph?” I ask again, softer. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
She looks up at me, tears streaming down her face. “I had a bad nightmare. That doll is scary. Get it out of here. I don’t like it.”
“Did you borrow the doll from my room?” I ask, trying to sound as non-accusing as possible.
Sophia shakes her head, making her blonde hair dance. “No. I swear. I haven’t even been in your room since you came home.”
“How do you know the doll is even here then?” I reach down to brush a hand over her head.
“’Cause.” She climbs up onto the bed and clings to me. Damn, the kid is legit terrified. She’s trembling. “It was next to me when I woke up—after I dreamed about it. Scary stuff happened. Blood. A man wanted to hit me with an axe.”
I wrap my arms around her and hold on. Dammit. What the hell? That doll didn’t give off any sense of evil when I had her. Did she get pissed off at flying or maybe me leaving her alone for a few hours? I mean, how could she not like Sophia?
“It’s okay. I’ll find her. She can’t hurt you.”
Sophia holds on for a moment before she lifts her head away from my shoulder to stare at me with dread fear in her eyes. “Wait. You said find her. It’s missing?”
“Yeah.” I wince slightly, bracing for the eruption.
“Look under the bed!” wails Sophia. “Don’t let it get me!”
I pat her back. “The doll’s not under your bed.”
“You didn’t even look!”
“When I walked in, you were sitting on the floor. If the doll was under the bed, she’d have been looking right at you.”
Sophia screams. “That’s mean! Why would you say something like that?”
“It’s part of the big sister rules. A certain percentage of teasing is required.”
She punches me in the shoulder.
“Okay, okay…” I slide off the bed and look under. Nothing but carpet and about 4,000 Barbie dolls. “I think the Barbie army would’ve won this battle.”
She sniffle-giggles.
“Look in the closet.” She wipes her eyes. “Please?”
“Gotta find her anyway…” I crawl over to the closet and pull the door open while my sister cowers on the bed, as if touching one toe to the floor would be fatal. No sign of Rebecca in her closet. “Not here.”
I stand, check her other closet, clothes hamper, and toy trunk.
“Whew.” Sophia finally scoots off the bed and makes a mad dash for the bathroom.
Next stop: sister number two.
I head downstairs to the living room.
She’s still playing… Destiny I think.
“Sierra?” I ask, and wait a moment.
She’s either too focused or ignoring me.
I walk around the sofa to stand beside her—and notice her right hand is bleeding from the knuckle. Oh, sh
e’s probably having a bad round and got mad enough to hit the floor.
“Hey, kiddo. What did you do to your hand?”
“Punched that creepy ass doll.”
I blink. “What?”
“That creepy ass doll tried to kill me in my bed. So I punched it in its stupid face.”
A momentary fit of lightheadedness almost puts me on my ass. “She tried to kill you? What happened?”
“I was in bed. And the doll climbed up and stood there looking at me all creepy-ass-doll like.”
Oh, okay. The ‘trying to kill me’ part was all Sierra’s imagination. Wait. She said the doll climbed. “She’s moving?”
“Yeah.” Sierra twists left while guiding her character to fire on aliens.
“Where is she now?”
“I dunno. It ran off.”
“Ran off?” I half shout.
Sierra nods. “Yeah. It’s moving.”
I can’t even.
“Dad!” I yell.
A heavy thud comes from his office. “Sec, hon.”
Oh, shit. What now? I pivot on my heel and hurry down the little hallway. When I reach his office, he’s picking himself up off the floor, his chair’s flat on its back.
“You fell?”
He offers a sheepish shrug. “Might’ve dozed off. You startled me a bit.”
I pull the chair upright. “Great. My life’s already a horror movie, now we’ve just switched genres.”
“What’s that?”
“Haunted doll from Hell.” I fold my arms. “She’s missing. Sophia had a nightmare and Sierra thought she saw the doll moving.”
Dad eases himself down to sit. “Oh, it’s probably in the basement. Or the attic.”
He’s entirely too calm about this. “Did you hide it as a prank?”
“No. Tempting, but you said it was quite expensive, so I wouldn’t want to risk damaging it.”
“Ugh. What’s it going to do?”
My father makes a series of appraising faces, then shrugs, casual as anything. “Oh, probably try to possess Sophia and make her kill us all. Something like that.”
“Dad!” I yell. “This isn’t a joke.”
He looks up at me. “Come on, Sarah. You know as well as I do one of your sisters is messing with you. Haunted dolls?”
“Yes, haunted dolls. I’m serious. She’s… like alive or something. You know how when you look at a person you can tell they’re alive? I get the same feeling from this doll.”
“Have you seen it move?” asks Dad.
I think back to the head turning toward me right as I passed out earlier… but that could have been the start of a dream. Or my imagination playing with me at the edge of sleep.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I whisper.
“She doesn’t want to hurt us,” says a small voice behind me.
“Gah!” I jump forward, spinning, and land sitting in Dad’s lap.
Sam, in his blue SpongeBob pajamas, stands in the doorway, his expression neutral. “She won’t hurt anyone. She wants to stay here.”
“What?” I ask.
A creepy smile forms on my little brother’s lips. “She likes me.”
18
Possessive
Sam, evidently satisfied with himself, walks away.
“Well, that was a little unsettling,” says Dad. “Hmm. I can’t say I’ve watched all that many haunted doll movies. I’m not that into them.”
“Into them. Right. We’re in one now.” I climb out of his lap.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t leapt on me like that since you were around Sophia’s age.”
“Only you would let a ten-year-old with jump scare issues watch Alien.” I shiver at the memory. “I still can’t even look at the cover of that one.”
He chuckles. “What do you think is really going on?”
“I brought a possessed doll into the house and she apparently likes Sam. And, she seems to want to stay here instead of go on to Aurélie’s place.” I step out into the living room again. “Rebecca? Are you here somewhere hiding? I promise I won’t put you in the box to go to Aurélie’s. She’s really looking forward to meeting you.”
“Stop it,” mutters Sierra. “You’re really freaking me out talking to a doll.”
“Says the one who swears it tried to hurt her.”
She rubs her bleeding knuckle. “Still creepy.”
“You should go have Dad put a Band-Aid on that.”
“Soon as this mission is over.”
Rummaging sounds in the kitchen lead me to the archway. Sam’s up on the counter, raiding the cookie jar.
“Sam, what makes you think the doll likes you?” I ask.
He plucks two chocolate chip cookies out, replaces the lid, and hops down to the floor. “She told me.”
“She told you.” I stare at him, eyebrows up. “Like actually spoke to you or you just have a feeling she does.”
“Actually talk.” He nibbles on a cookie. “She said she likes me because I make her think of her son.”
“Her son?” That stalls me cold. Ooo-kay. I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed a doll would be a child. If she’s got a son, whatever spirit is inside the doll could be anywhere from sixteen to… no, wait. If Sam reminds her of the boy she had, more like mid-twenties and up. Hmm. Mr. Marchand said the previous owner had been a really old woman. Maybe she’s the soul who hopped into the doll after she died. Damn. I forgot to ask if the woman had been named Rebecca.
“Do you know where the doll went?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. She was in my room when I woke up, but she’s not there now.”
“Did you see her moving?”
Sam freezes with a cookie in his mouth, unbitten. He tilts his head and pulls the cookie away from his teeth. “She’s a doll, Sare. Doll’s don’t move.”
“They don’t talk either, but you said she spoke to you.” Okay. Exception time. I… shit. Can’t peek into his memory because it’s broad daylight. Grr. I grab his hand. “Come here a sec, kiddo.”
He follows me without protest down to the basement and into my room. As soon as I push the door shut, I take a knee and hover my face close to his. In his memory, I see out from his eyes as he sits up in bed and spots Rebecca perched on the floor gazing at him.
A female voice that’s somewhere between little girl and chipmunk-ized old woman has a brief conversation with him, though the doll never moves. As he said, she wants to stay with us and tells him how he looks just like her son. He’s either hearing voices, another vampire is playing games with us or…
Wait.
Another vampire.
That bitch.
“Ooh!” I fume and storm around in a circle.
“What’s wrong?” asks Sam.
“I…” The wind falls out of my sails. Hang on. It’s broad daylight. Petra’s a Sybarite. As far as I know, they can’t tolerate the sunlight at all. Like the vast majority of vampire kind, they don’t even wake up until sundown. It feels right, but also impossible. I’m much more inclined to believe she’s trying to drive me insane than Rebecca’s a legit haunted doll. “Don’t know.”
Insanity is a fuzzy point on the ‘don’t harm’ my family decree. For one thing, it would be difficult to prove Petra’s involvement. For another, the Sybarites are supposedly phenomenal at whatever ‘hobby’ they pursue for pleasure. That’s their whole thing—pleasure. When I mentioned them to Dalton after meeting one, he called them succubi since so many of them are preoccupied with pleasures of the flesh. Aurélie said the artistic ones derive such pleasure from creating art that they essentially get off on it. If Petra literally gets off on destroying people, she’s a whole lot sicker than I thought.
The mere thought that she might be having something akin to an orgasm while watching my siblings spiral downward into madness makes me growl.
Sam leans back. “Whoa, Sare. You okay? You sound just like a lion.”
“No, sport. I’m not okay.” I gently pull him into a hug.
“Someone’s messing with us and I’m not happy about it.”
“She’s not messing with us. She likes it here.”
“I think she’s nice, too. But Aurélie is waiting for her. And I’m not talking about Rebecca. Someone else is messing with us.”
He gives me this creepy little stare, no emotion at all on his face, and bites his second cookie in half.
“She’s got to be somewhere in the house. Come on. Let’s find her.”
I spend about twenty minutes searching my room. Sam wanders around peeking at things, though he isn’t putting in much effort. Aside from the empty box, there’s no trace of her. He eventually heads out and goes upstairs. Reasonably confident the doll is not in here, I follow him up to the second floor and visit my old room, now Sierra’s.
Whether it’s my mind playing tricks on me or not, I catch a brief flash of white dart across the rug and disappear under the bed. Except for the occasional bit of cute, the room could pass for belonging to a high school boy. Sierra’s posters are from video games or science fiction movies, she’s got a model of the Firefly ship hanging on fishing line, and a row of Funko Pop figures from various movies arranged on her computer desk.
I catch a whiff of raspberry and wind up fixating on a blood smear on the wall by the bed. Two small dents suggest knuckle marks. Hmm. Looks like Sierra punched the wall. She probably had a nightmare about a doll chasing her around, and in the dream, tried to hit it. Okay. So the doll is not moving for real. This is all happening in crazy dreams. That almost makes me feel better until I question how my siblings saw Rebecca in their dreams when there’s no way they could’ve seen her or known I’d brought her into the house. All three of them would’ve been sleeping, not to mention getting out of bed only a few hours after I passed out.
Is it beyond Dad’s capabilities to prank us like this? No, not really. Could he have kept a straight face about it this long? Also no. The second I screamed and jumped into his lap, he would’ve fallen to pieces laughing is idiot head off. That means he’s not pranking us. It’s also most likely impossible for Petra to be doing anything at this hour, as much as I hate to admit that.
The Artist of Ruin Page 18
