Because it points to Rebecca being real.
Sophia’s scream comes from the hallway.
I run out there, following the sound of continued shrieking to the bathroom. The door’s closed and locked.
“Help!” screams Sophia. “It’s in here!”
“The door’s locked,” I say. “Soph, calm down. Rebecca won’t hurt you.”
“It’s looking at me!” yells Sophia.
Dad hurries up the stairs. “What’s all the screaming? More toads?”
“Daddy!” Sophia yells, then breaks into sobbing.
“She thinks the doll’s in there staring at her.” I point at the door.
He reaches up to the molding and pulls down a flat strip of metal, about six inches long, which he sticks into the knob. With a twist, he unlocks the door and pulls it open.
Sophia’s curled up in the bathtub, hiding in a bundle of shower curtain. No sign of any doll. Upper toilet seat’s up, ring’s down, water’s yellow. Looks like she jumped straight from the bowl into the tub.
Dad collects her and lifts her into a hug. She clings, whimpering.
“Where’d it go?” whispers Sophia.
I rub her shoulder. “Shh. She’s gone. The doll looks scary, but she’s not going to hurt anyone.”
“I don’t want it to stay here. Make it go to Aurélie’s. Please, Sarah, find a new home for that doll. I’m scared of it.”
“You’re scared of everything,” says Sam from the door. “She’s mad at you.”
Dad raises an eyebrow at Sam. “The doll is mad at your sister?”
“Yeah. Because she keeps calling her an ‘it.’”
“I’m sorry,” whimpers Sophia. “Tell her I’m sorry.”
“Sarah, what exactly did you bring into the house?” Dad twists to peer at me, Sophia still clinging to him like a koala.
“The doll… probably has a soul. I have no explanation for how she’s moving around the house. Or how she got out of a locked bathroom.”
Sophia whines.
“Wait, you think it was really in here?” asks Dad.
“She!” yells Sam.
Dad blinks at him. “Sam, did you just yell at me?”
“No,” says Sam, staring defiantly up at him.
I put a hand on Dad’s shoulder and shake my head. He locks stares with me. I shift my eyes to Sam and back to Dad. We both know that’s way out of character for my li’l bro. Sure he disobeys and gets defiant sometimes like any normal nine-year-old, but whenever he’s in one of those modes, he ignores everyone, does what he wants to do, and stops talking to everyone. I honestly don’t remember ever hearing him yell before, especially at one of our parents.
“Sam.” I smile. “Rebecca already has a home—with Aurélie. There are lots of friends there for her to play with. Umm. Or help take care of. I forgot she’s not as young as she looks.”
“No! She likes it here,” yells Sam, before dashing off back to his room and slamming the door.
“Shit,” I mutter. “My little brother is possessed.”
Sophia lifts her face away from Dad’s shoulder and twists around to stare at me, her straight blonde hair draping past her backside. “Ya think?”
19
Attachments
Dad gives me a ‘now what’ look.
I hang my head. “Honestly? I have no idea. When I had Rebecca with me in Portland, I never got a bad vibe off her. I don’t think she’s malicious.”
“She possessed Sam,” says Dad. He’d have sounded sterner, but his voice trips over his difficulty processing what he said.
“Yeah, seems that way.” I hold up a ‘wait a sec’ hand. “But, Sam said he reminds Rebecca of her son. I don’t think she will hurt him. Or Sophia. Or Sierra. If I had to guess, I think she’s trying to show herself to everyone hoping they like her.”
“Umm.” Dad stares at me. “You’re talking about a doll like it’s alive.”
“Okay. What’s your theory?”
He shifts his weight back and forth from one leg to another. “You didn’t bury Sam in an ancient Native American cursed burial ground, did you?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Huh?” asks Sophia.
“A movie you are not watching,” I say.
“The book’s better.” Dad wags his eyebrows.
“Do you want Sophia to be hiding under her bed until she’s twenty-five?” I ask.
“I don’t wanna see it if it’s scary,” whispers Sophia.
I pat her on the head. “Trust me. Don’t. You’ll be permanently terrified of toddlers.”
She blinks.
“Then again,” I say, tapping a finger to my chin, “toddlers are pretty scary even when they’re not undead.”
Sophia grimaces.
“Okay, so what are you suggesting we do then?” asks Dad.
“Aurélie is the doll expert. I think we should just deal with things as best we can and, umm, wait for dark. I’ll call her as soon as I think she’s probably awake and see what she says.”
“I’m scared,” whispers Sophia.
“Don’t be.” Dad kisses her atop the head. “Come on. It’s almost four in the afternoon and you’re still in your PJs.”
“It’s rainy. We always stay in our PJs when it’s too rainy to go out in the summer.”
I eye the window. Trails of rain snake down the glass, a pale grey sky behind the droplets. Wow, total horror movie moment.
“How about a board game?” Dad smiles.
“Okay.” Sophia nods.
I follow them downstairs to the dining room.
Dad sets my sister on her feet by the table and begins digging through the pile of boxes along the shelf behind it. I lean against the doorjamb to the dining room, rubbing my face and wondering what the hell I’m going to do now. A quick errand to pick up a doll. Simple, right? And go me, I found a way to screw it up.
A finger pokes me in the side.
I turn.
Sierra shoves her hand in my face, bloodied knuckles practically up my nose. “What do I taste like?”
“No way.” I grab her wrist and pull her arm down. “Smells like raspberry, so raspberry pie.”
“Very funny,” mutters Sierra.
“What? I’m serious.” I ruffle her hair. “Come on. Band-Aid time.”
“It’s an educational computer.” Sierra smirks. “They have them at school.”
I raise both eyebrows. “Oh. Didn’t know that.”
“You have reached the final stage of enlightenment,” says Dad in a mimicry of a Shaolin master. “To pun without knowing.”
My sisters and I all sigh at the same time.
Board games mostly take Sophia’s mind off having a haunted doll loose in the house.
Mom arrives home from work a few minutes before six. I might’ve screwed up Fed-Exxing a doll, but I owned the hell out of meatloaf. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? I can’t really benefit from food, so apparently, I develop the ability to cook rather well. Guess that comes from having way over-tuned senses.
“Dinner!” yells Mom.
In a few minutes, everyone but Sam’s at the table.
“Sam?” calls Mom. Then, two minutes later, “Samuel!?”
“There’s, uhh, an issue,” I say.
Mom turns her head toward me so slow she looks like an Indiana Jones statue trap. “What kind of issue?”
“Oh, nothing too big. Sam’s currently possessed by a haunted doll.” I smile and shrug like I’m merely telling my mother he had pizza and isn’t hungry.
“Jonathan…” Mom stares at Dad. “What is going on?”
He winces. “Umm. As best we can tell, Allie, that doll the woman sent Sarah off to get had a spirit in it, and it’s kinda gotten into Sam.”
“Let me try.” I head upstairs to Sam’s room. “Sam? Dinner’s ready. You need to eat.”
Silence hangs in the air.
“Sam?” I knock twice. “You need to stay healthy, right? You can’t skip dinner at
your age.”
The door opens. Sam, still in his PJs, looks up at me. “Okay.”
He follows me back to the table, takes his seat, and proceeds to eat in a reasonably normal manner for him. My sisters both stare at him, barely touching their food. Of course, this gets Mom giving Dad and me an accusing glare.
“Oh, wow,” says Dad. “This came out amazing.”
Mom shoots him another look. She’s not jealous, more annoyed that he’s ignoring the whole ‘Sam being possessed’ thing to talk about my meatloaf. I’m sure she feels we’re playing head games with her.
As soon as his plate is clear, Sam goes back upstairs without a word. Sierra and Sophia exchange worried glances, then seem to remember they have food in front of them.
“What’s really going on?” whispers Mom.
I explain everything that happened from the moment I woke up. Mom listens, mostly massaging the bridge of her nose in frustration. “And no, we’re not trying to prank you.”
With dinner over, Sophia hovers near Mom, following her to the couch where they resume reading. Sierra, utterly unfazed, flops down in front of the TV and grabs the PlayStation controller. Dad helps me with the dishes, after which I head back to my room.
My phone is metaphorically on fire from text messages. Ashley, Michelle, and even Hunter are in full panic mode at me not replying to anything all day. I send them all some variation of ‘I’m okay, too long to explain with a text.’ Waiting the few hours between dinner and sunset is maddening. Though, a three-way conference call where I share the doll story with them helps pass some of it. Michelle gets stuck on a loop of “nope” while Ashley wants to see the doll. Hunter’s most astute observation is a “whoa” worthy of Bill and Ted. Michelle drops off to deal with ‘parent stuff.’ Hunter leaves our conference call a few minutes after that for work. Ashley hangs on the line talking about random stuff about twenty minutes more before clicking off with a simple ‘gotta go bye’ before I can say a word.
Two hours to stew. Restless, I wind up roaming the house, peering under beds, in closets, on shelves. Rebecca has evidently ceased to exist as a solid object—or she’s done something totally fubar and gone into the walls. Hmm. I used to be morbidly terrified of our attic. When I was six, I swore I saw a ghost up there.
I shouldn’t be afraid of ghosts anymore, but when I stare at the trapdoor in the upstairs hallway, a shiver of dread runs down my spine. Of course. What sane individual willingly goes into the attic in the middle of a ‘haunted doll’ movie? Do people realize they’re in horror movies? I mean, I’m not in a movie, and my first thought was ‘shit, we’re in a haunted doll movie.’ Why is it characters from horror films never realize they’re in a situation that sounds just like a horror film?
Sigh.
I pull the cord and unfold the ladder. And yes, I’m a little embarrassed that my hands are shaking. I’m not six years old anymore, but I can’t shake the fear I have of this attic. A strong scent of damp wood and rainy air hits me. Crap. That’s not a good sign. Even if my senses are abnormally acute, that means there’s a leak up there. I creep up step by step, the rickety springs creaking with tension, until my eye level is a few inches above the attic floor. My legs wobble in fear, but it’s completely my childhood memory coming back to haunt me. As best I can tell, there are no ghosts in our house. Figure I’d have seen them by now, right? Well, Glim did say they can hide from me if they want. I remember a strong feeling of go away! when I came up here as a child, like the spirit was highly territorial.
Or, I had an overactive imagination.
Jaw clenched, I force myself to climb up. The attic isn’t big and the angled roof draped with pink insulation gives me about a two-foot-wide space where I can stand up to my full height. Pretty sure Dad has to stoop everywhere. I search around the various boxes and such for a while, but there’s no sign of Rebecca, or any disturbances in the dust that suggest something had been moving around here.
I do, however, find a wet spot on the wall by the tiny window facing the back yard. Looks like today’s high winds forced some rain in the gap. Nothing some sealer won’t fix. I’ll tell Dad about it and see what he wants to do. For now, I—
Wham!
The crash of the folding stair/trapdoor slamming shut piles on top of my six-year-old brain’s fear of a ghost trying to kill me. I scream like death itself had me in a choke hold. Before I can even think what I’m doing, I dive headfirst out the little window, smashing it to pieces. My powers of vampiric flight cut out as soon as I’m exposed to the sun outside… and I fall straight down to faceplant in muddy grass.
Ow.
Like, seriously.
Ow.
It’s still windy, but at least the rain’s taken a break. Speaking of breaks, I’m pretty sure my left leg took one too. Possibly my jaw as well. And I’m one-hundred-percent convinced my right wrist is smashed.
“Sarah!” shouts Dad.
Having been in the kitchen, he had a front row seat to my epic feat of aerobatics.
The patio door slides open and the splats of his footsteps rush up behind me… and straight on by. The mud takes his feet out from under him and he goes butt-sliding into the middle of the yard.
I’d laugh, but it hurts too much.
Not even bothering to stand again, he drags himself over to me. “Sarah, are you okay?”
“Nope. I’m the avatar of pain right now.”
“Umm. That leg doesn’t look right.” Dad prods me with a gingerly touch.
“Ow. Quit it,” I deadpan.
He cringes. “Umm. Should we… I mean, should I carry you inside?”
“Nah. That’ll hurt way too much. How long until dark?”
“Not long. Twenty minutes?”
“Okay. Just leave me here then. It’s nice. The mud is squishy and soft. Oh, the attic window is leaking.”
He pauses, probably looking up at it. “The attic window is gone.”
“Sorry. It was leaking… before I leapt through it.”
“Do I want to know why?”
My right hand goes completely numb. That’s a good change. “Trapdoor slammed.”
“Doll?” asks Dad.
“I sure as hell hope not,” I mumble. “I’m thinking Sam or Sierra.”
He pulls my hair off my face. “I hate seeing you like this, Sarah.”
“Feeling’s mutual. I hate feeling like this.”
Dad chuckles. “It’s only because I know you’re going to put yourself back together in a moment that I’m not a complete, panicky mess.”
“You’re never a complete, panicky mess.”
He pats me on the not-broken shoulder. “Well, I’m not as good in crises as your mother.”
“She’s a lawyer. She thrives on crisis.”
“What’s going on out there?” calls Mom from the patio door.
I wince in pain as I lift my head and yell, “Getting started on college early with a lesson in applied physics.”
“Pilot error,” says Dad. “When’s the sun supposed to go down?”
“Soon,” yells Mom. “Hang on. I’ll look.”
Dad pats me on the head. “Your clothes are soaked.”
“That happens when you fall in mud. By the way, nice impression of an ostrich on an ice rink.”
He laughs.
“Six minutes,” calls Mom. “9:05 p.m. according to the web.”
“Groovy,” I mutter.
Dad sits with me, waiting. The sun dips out of view a little sooner than expected. Yay trees. A sharp snap comes from my left shin and my right wrist makes a sound like breaking a fistful of spaghetti in half.
“Umm.” Dad cringes. “That sounds… painful.”
“I feel nothing.” At a crack from my right shoulder, I regain feeling in the arm and push myself upright. “All better.”
Dad walks me back to the patio door. “Hang on. Your mother will stake you if you go in there with all that mud.”
I chuckle.
He rinses me with t
he garden hose before handing it over and raising his arms. I return the favor. We trudge inside, dripping but mud-free. It’s probably a bad idea to take a shower in the same house as a haunted doll, but I’m drenched, freezing, and I want to warm up.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m dry (except for my hair) and changed into a clean T-shirt with sweat pants. As fast as I can get to the phone, I call Aurélie.
“Chéri, what happened? I had expected you to be back last night.”
“I’m sorry. Met some Lost Ones in Portland and they kinda adopted me for the night. Wanted to show me how to have fun.” I explain making it back here with minutes to spare before sunrise… and the doll disappearing. “I think she’s somehow attached herself to my little brother. He’s not acting like himself at all.”
“Hmm.” Aurélie makes soft humming noises of thought. “That is most peculiar.”
Sophia’s voice says ‘ya think?’ in my head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“If indeed the spirit has linked herself to Sam, the best thing would be to make her want to come here. Why don’t you bring your brother here so the spirit can see all the new friends she will have?”
“Wait, so you seriously think it did possess my brother?”
“Oui. It is possible, though I cannot say for certain without seeing him.”
I sigh. “Okay. I might have to compel my mother to allow me to take him on a flight, but I’ll get him there.”
“All right. I’m sorry this is causing you so much trouble. I thought this would be an easy thing. Your family must be adorable if she’s decided to stay there.”
“Thanks… I think. See you soon.”
My phone chirps with a text.
“Be careful,” says Aurélie, then hangs up.
I glance at the screen, preparing to disregard the text message as I have more important things to deal with right now—like a possessed brother—but ‹911 HELP 911› from Ashley stalls me cold. She’s also sent a geotag that points to the southern shore of Paradise Lake, which isn’t too far away.
The Artist of Ruin Page 19
