The Doll-Master and Other Tales of Terror

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Louise had laughed, and her laughter became a fit of coughing. My mother was shocked and had no idea how to reply.

  I knew that there were girls in the high school, and girls who’d graduated, who were attracted to my cousin Travis despite his bad reputation, and I felt a stab of jealousy. Thinking—Travis will be mean to them. They will be sorry.

  “Hanna? Hey, Hanna? C’mon, be a good girl. Let us in.”

  Travis was striking the door with the iron knocker, pleading and braying. I had the idea that he was drunk, or high on drugs—I hoped it wasn’t amphetamines, which I knew to be dangerous. I didn’t dare come to the door to shout at him to go away—that would only provoke him.

  I reasoned that Travis couldn’t know that I was in the house. He could not actually know that anyone was inside. I told myself—They will go away in a few minutes. They will not hurt anything. If I don’t provoke them.

  9.

  After what seemed like a long time, but may have been only five or six minutes, the loud rude knocking at the front door ceased. The ringing of the doorbell ceased. And my cousin’s mocking singsong Han-na! ceased.

  They’d given up and gone away. I thought.

  Cautiously I approached the front door. There appeared to be no one on the front stoop, or on the sidewalk. In the living room I peered out a window where I saw nothing, no one—the McClellands’ front lawn, the five-foot wrought-iron fence indistinct in light from Drumlin Avenue.

  I was faint with relief. I didn’t truly think that Travis wanted to harass or harm me. Nor would he want to steal from the McClellands—he’d be too readily caught. He liked me, he wouldn’t want me to get into trouble—unless he resented me, as the Reidls resented my family.

  Yet, I loved my cousin Travis. I did not want to see him—especially not tonight, in the McClellands’ house—but I loved him, at a distance.

  Thinking of how, after a storm, electric wires lay on the ground, lethal if you touch or step on them. Sometimes the wires are literally crackling with electricity, throwing off sparks.

  Live wire. Travis Reidl was one of these—lethal if you come too close.

  Seeing that Travis and his companion were gone, I was eager to be gone from the McClelland house myself.

  There was no romance in lingering here. The glamour of the house had faded, now I felt so vulnerable. I would switch off lights, raise blinds. Quickly I watered and sprayed the plants—concerned that several of the African violet leaves were looking yellow. Badly I regretted that poor Sasha had been frightened by the doorbell ringing and had run away to hide somewhere—very likely in her cat-brain, she was blaming me.

  I returned to the kitchen, which was brightly lit. I was preparing to leave when I heard voices and muffled laughter at the kitchen door.

  “Han-na! Got you, girl.”

  To my horror the doorknob was being roughly turned—but the door had locked automatically when I’d shut it. Travis’s face appeared at the window, livid with anger and mouthing ugly words: “Let me in! Let—me—fuckin—IN.” Before I could scream for him to stop, Travis struck the window with his fist, broke the glass pane which flew into the kitchen and shattered on the floor like sleet.

  Now, Travis reached inside to turn the doorknob and open the door. Must’ve cut himself on jagged glass since there would be blood-splotches on the door, and on the linoleum floor, but he seemed scarcely to notice.

  Outside, Travis’s friend balked at following him into the kitchen. It seemed he hadn’t expected Travis to behave so recklessly. “What the hell? What’re you doing?”—I could hear him cursing Travis, as Travis was cursing him. If this was Weitzel, he was a stocky, heavy-jawed young man of about twenty with a fattish face, partly obscured by a gray jersey hood drawn tight over his head.

  He and Travis were arguing. Then, he walked away. Travis called furiously after him, “Go to hell, asshole! Fuck you.”

  While the young men were arguing just outside the kitchen door I might have run through the house, and out the front door, screaming for help. I might have run into the street, to stop a passing vehicle—or across the street, to a neighbor’s house. But I did not do this—(I would try to explain afterward, faltering and shamed)—instead I stood vague and blinking as if my legs had turned to lead; standing in broken glass wanting to think that my cousin Travis was just being playful, and had not meant to actually break a window, and force his way into the McClelland house. Travis would not do anything bad to me! Travis is my friend.

  No matter that the window had been shattered, Travis shut the door behind him, hard.

  Travis seized me, and shook me like a rag doll.

  “Why didn’t you let us in? God-damn Hanna this’s all your fault.”

  I tried to push Travis away but his grip on my arm was tight, and painful. I could smell his breath which was fierce with fumes like gasoline. And I could see his eyes, blackly dilated. Travis was “high”—crazed. Travis was in the most excitable mood I’d ever seen him in, and had to be dangerous. Yet still I wanted to believe that my cousin would not hurt me.

  I begged Travis to leave. I tried to explain that my homeroom teacher lived in this house and that I was helping her out while her husband was in the hospital—except I didn’t say that he was in Syracuse, hoping that Travis wouldn’t have this information; possibly, Travis could be led to believe that Mr. McClelland was in the small Sparta hospital, and not thirty miles away.

  “Don’t worry, Han-han, nobody’s going to hurt this fuckin millionaire house. And nobody’s going to hurt you. Except—don’t you try to call the cops, or make a run for it. Try anything like that, girl, you will regret it.”

  Was Travis joking? In our games as children, he’d sometimes talk like this—threatening, mean-sounding. If I gave in immediately, he would not usually continue; he would not shove me around, or hit me; if I cried, he would relent at once and say he’d just been kidding. But now, though tears shone in my eyes, and Travis could see that I was frightened and upset, he was not placated.

  He was laughing, though he was angry. He was angry, though laughing. He had not expected that his friend would abandon him and several times looked out the window as if he might see him outside—“Damn asshole. Coward.”

  When I dared to pull at Travis’s arm, and pleaded for him to go away, he shoved me with the palm of his hand flat against my chest—“Don’t fuck with me, Hanna. I’ll go when I’m finished here.”

  “Neighbors might have heard you break in, Travis. Somebody might have called the police . . .”

  “Fuck anybody heard anything! These millionaire houses, built so far apart, nobody hears anything and doesn’t give a fuck anyway.”

  Travis was exploring the kitchen, which was certainly the largest kitchen he’d ever seen. With cries of mock admiration he flung open cupboard doors, yanked out drawers, snatched up a silver ladle to strike shining copper pans that were hanging from an overhead beam like a manic drummer striking drums—“This is like—what? ‘Kettle drums’?” I was terrified that Travis would smash crystal glasses and expensive china out of sheer meanness. I was terrified that Travis would grab items out of the refrigerator—milk, fruit juices, jams, leftovers in plastic containers—and toss them about randomly. But his attention was drawn to a glass breakfront cabinet where he discovered a lavish store of wine and liquor bottles—here, he seized a bottle of Scotch whiskey with a hoot of triumph. He was very warm, feverish. He was laughing, muttering to himself, cursing under his breath. Suddenly feeling hot, he yanked down the hood of his cheap jacket, then struggled to free himself of the jacket, and flung it onto the floor. Beneath, he was wearing a black T-shirt cut at the shoulders, soiled work pants without a belt. It was shocking to see that Travis’s hair, that had once been so wavy, and beautiful, was matted and stiff with dirt now, as if he hadn’t washed it in weeks. Shocking to see that his skin was sallow, and blemished. There was something
vulture-like about him, his narrow face, skinny and slightly concave torso, jerky motions—I would realize afterward that my cousin was a drug addict, a “junkie”—this is what junkies look like.

  “Time for a drink! Celebrate!—gettin together again. Ain’t you been missin me, Han-na? Ain’t I your ‘favorite’ cousin?”

  Travis poured whiskey into two glasses, and insisted that I drink with him. I told him no, I could not—but Travis forced the glass against my mouth, and forced my teeth apart, so that some of the liquid ran down my chin but a little remained in my mouth, so that I had to swallow; the liquor burned and stung with a medicinal pungency, and caused me to cough. Travis laughed at me, and pulled me after him into the hallway, and down the hallway to the first room, which was the TV room; here, Travis whistled through his teeth seeing the console-model television, which was surely the largest and most expensive television set he had ever seen. He switched it on, and switched through the channels so roughly I thought the knob might come off in his hand.

  The TV screen glared bright-colored. Travis was too restless to watch anything for more than a few seconds. The volume was high, and so I thought—(but it could not have been a serious thought)—that neighbors might hear the unusual sound in the McClellands’ house, and come to investigate; better yet, call for help. But this was my desperation, and not my common sense.

  Travis muttered that he’d be coming back to take this TV—he’d need a damn truck to haul it. Music blared up from the TV, the buoyant and brainless music of advertising, and Travis took hold of me in a pretense of dancing, clumsy, panting, laughing at the look in my face that must have been a mixture of horror, dread, embarrassment, shame—“What’s the matter, Han-na, think you’re too good for me? Your cousin from Black Snake River you’re too good for?” He was belligerent, bemused.

  Travis insisted that I swallow another mouthful of whiskey. Another time much of it dribbled onto my clothing, and some of it down my throat. Travis was gripping my hand at the wrist, hard. He joked how he could snap my “sparrow arm” anytime he wanted.

  I was beginning to feel sickish, light-headed.

  “All your family, you think you’re too good for the Reidls. But I have news for you.”

  Travis drank more whiskey. To force me to drink, he slid his arm around the nape of my neck, held me tight, and pressed the glass against my mouth. I struggled, but he was too strong.

  Thinking desperately—He will stop, soon. He will go away. He does not want to hurt me . . .

  It was uncomfortable, the way Travis held me. He’d hardly looked at me before—his eyes had leapt about, blinking—but now he was looking at me, close up. I could see his blemished skin, the fine broken capillaries in his eyes. I could smell his breath, and the odor of his body.

  “What’re you afraid of, girl? You lookin like you don’t know me.”

  I tried to ease away, laughing. I did manage to ease away from Travis’s tight grip but dared not run from him, for I knew this would be insulting to him.

  He said, as if thoughtfully, recalling something amusing, “You know, you’re an ‘accident’—just like me.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are! My mother says so. Your mother told my mother, she says ‘Hanna is our accident.’ And my mother said, ‘Travis is my accident. I think you got the good deal, Esther.’”

  I was stunned by this. The offhandedness of the remark. But knowing it could not be true, for my mother would never say anything like that. Especially, never to her half sister Louise.

  I thought—He’s just teasing. Travis likes to tease.

  I hated Travis suddenly. I wished that Travis was away ­somewhere—in the juvenile facility at Carthage, or farther away—like one of his older brothers who’d joined the U.S. Army.

  I did not wish that Travis was dead, though. I would never wish that Travis was dead, I would miss him so.

  Though I continued to beg him to leave, Travis dragged me with him into the dining room. Here he mock-marveled at the “fancy glass chandelier” and the “plant jungle.” He had nothing but scorn for the many potted and hanging plants. “What’s this? Fuckin orchids?” He seemed both offended and amused by the beautiful flowers. He stooped to sniff at the odorless orchids and African violets. As I looked on in horror, he broke off a purple striated orchid flower, which he tried to stick behind his ear, but it fell to the floor.

  “Travis! Please stop. Please just go away.”

  “Go away where? This is where I am.”

  Next Travis tormented me by threatening to urinate into one of the potted plants. And then, to my horror, that was what he did—unzipped his pants, and urinated into the jade plant.

  Seeing what he was doing, I backed away hiding my eyes.

  Heard myself laughing. A high-pitched shriek of a laugh, like one who has been tickled hard. Like one who has been killed.

  “That’s how we do in Black River. Nothin to surprise you.”

  Travis was enjoying this, tormenting his good-girl cousin. Wanting me to laugh with him. Almost, I felt a longing to join him in his bad, childish behavior in this house beautiful as a house in a magazine—except this was Mrs. McClelland’s house, and I would never do anything to hurt or upset my teacher.

  The whiskey was making me dizzy, light-headed. I had swallowed only a small amount, but it had gone to my head.

  There was the watering can. I picked it up, and poured water into the jade plant, thinking to dilute the toxic urine. Belatedly I remembered, Mrs. McClelland had said No water for the jade plant.

  This was very funny, for some reason. I began laughing, and then I was choking, and vomiting—spitting up hot liquid, as Travis laughed at me.

  Wanting to go to the kitchen, or into a bathroom, to rinse my mouth. Nothing so disgusting as the taste of bile. But Travis forbade me to leave his side—he didn’t trust me not to run away.

  Travis was helping himself to fistfuls of silverware out of a breakfront cabinet. Seeing the look in my face he sneered. “All this fancy shit they got here, nobody’s going to miss. Some folks got too much, and some folks too little.”

  So careless, some of the silverware fell to the floor. Travis gave it a kick.

  “Travis, please go home. I won’t tell anyone if—if you go home now . . .”

  “Damn right you’re not going to tell anyone, sweetheart. If you do, your whole face is going to look like that ‘birthmark’—real red, and real ugly.”

  This hurt. This was malicious. I could not believe that Travis meant to say anything so cruel to me, knowing how I felt about the birthmark.

  I stammered saying when the McClellands returned, and saw that things were missing, I would have to tell them who’d taken them; and Travis said coldly, without his simpering grin, “I doubt you will do that, Hanna. You will regret it if you do.”

  I knew that this was so. I would not tell anyone what happened here—what was happening, that I was helpless to prevent—what Travis did, or said. I would have to invent a story—as a frightened and guilty child invents a story stammered to adults who will wish to believe her, no matter how preposterous her words.

  For I remember vividly, many years after I left the small city of my childhood to live hundreds of miles away, how I’d rarely confided in my mother, still more rarely in my father, as a girl. So many secrets, that had seemed shameful to me then but were surely trivial, commonplace—the secrets of early adolescence. What drifted through my head like sinuous undulating water snakes in Wolf’s Head Lake, in the rushes where we’d catch sight of them sometimes, screaming with exaggerated horror.

  Though I can remember crying and being comforted by both my parents, mostly I remember shielding from them, or keeping to myself, those things that must not be told to anyone.

  10.

  I did not see the face of the other person. He was wearing a hoodie like Travis but he did not lo
wer the hood. But I could tell he was older than Travis—he was not someone I knew. I did not recognize his voice.

  There was no time. From the moment they broke into the house and began taking things until they went into Mr. McClelland’s home office and found his gun and the gun went off—everything happened too fast.

  Because he was older than Travis, I think. Because they were both “high.” Because Travis wanted to impress him. Because Travis had always had that weakness—teasing younger children, because he had been teased himself by older boys. And wanting to impress the older boys.

  And so Travis did the hurtful things with the gun, to me. To make his friend laugh. Except his friend stopped laughing. His friend said for Travis to stop. And Travis would not stop. So his friend shoved Travis, and tried to pull the gun away, and the gun went off, beside my head. And Travis fell down. And I was on the floor, and I could not move in terror that I had died. And I could not think, for the ringing in my ears. And a black pit opened, and I fell inside.

  11.

  Begging my cousin Travis to leave the McClellands’ house but he will not leave. His face glows like a bulb. Like a deranged sun/comet. Like the white face of a Samurai as the warrior lifts his sword to swing and decapitate in a single terrible motion.

  Dragging me with him through the rooms. Laughing at my misery. Opening the door to Mr. McClelland’s “home office”—which had not been locked, as Mrs. McClelland said it would be.

  And this too is a betrayal—Mrs. McClelland had said she would lock this door.