Or maybe it was just a spin-off of childhood fears. She’d had shelves full of dolls as a child, and had always feared that they were watching her, so she had turned them all to face away from her at bedtime.
Still, at tuck-in time, when Darce leaned down to kiss Chelsea good night . . . she felt that Jane was somehow mocking her. In the car, she couldn’t help but be acutely aware of the doll’s presence beside her in the front seat.
* * *
Chelsea turned nine on a Saturday in August. She had a fairy-themed birthday party. Her little guests all showed up wearing fairy dresses, and Darce provided wings and wands.
The day was everything it should have been for a little girl’s birthday. The grassy backyard was lush and brilliant green beneath the cloudless blue sky, in which the sun hung, suspended, like a bright yellow ball. Lunch and birthday cake were consumed, gifts were opened, and the girls played for hours.
As Chelsea’s guests departed with their parents in the late afternoon, the sky began to fill with ominous dark clouds.
“That was really fun,” Chelsea said.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, and I hope your friends did, too,” her mother replied.
“But now I’m tired.”
“Too tired to play with your birthday gifts?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t we go inside, watch a little television, and relax?”
“Okay,” Chelsea agreed. She helped her mother gather her gifts and bring them inside. She skipped into the living room, her fairy wings fluttering gently against her back.
As a light rain began tapping on the roof, Darce turned on some lamps to dispel the deepening gloom. She tuned the television to Nickelodeon, and she and Chelsea snuggled together beneath the afghan on the sofa.
“Thank you for such a special birthday,” Chelsea said drowsily, nestling beside her mother.
“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”
Tired from the day’s festivities and lulled by the steady sound of rain tapping on the eaves, Darce drifted into sleep, still wearing her baby blue satin fairy dress and fairy wings.
The booming sound of thunder woke her, followed by cartoon voices from the television.
She opened her eyes and saw Jane standing over her, smiling. But Jane wasn’t a doll anymore. She was a real woman.
Darce’s stomach dropped and terror clamped a fist around her heart. She tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat, trapped behind closed, stiff, unmoving lips.
She struggled to move, but her arms and legs seemed paralyzed.
“Greetings, Darce O’Neil,” Jane said. Her non-descript face had gained an angular harshness. Her soft eyes were now hard and cold, shining brightly in the dimness. Her thin lips twisted in a smirk. She leaned down and grabbed Darce around the waist, lifting her with abnormally huge hands. She carried Darce down the hall to the bathroom, where she turned on the light and held Darce up so that she faced the mirror.
Darce tried to scream again, but only silence issued forth from the motionless face reflected in the mirror.
“Why, Mrs. O’Neil, aren’t you just the little doll?” Jane said, and laughed.
That’s exactly what Darce was. A little doll, dressed in a baby blue satin dress. The shimmering fairy wings left over from Chelsea’s birthday party poked out from behind her shoulders.
This is just a nightmare, Darce thought. Just a nightmare that seems really real. I’ll wake up any minute.
“How appropriate,” Jane said. “A little blue fairy doll. Who would ever suspect that there was anyone inside?” She rapped her knuckles roughly against the side of Darce’s head. There was no pain; only a light sensation of contact.
“Oh, no, it doesn’t hurt a bit! Isn’t that nice? You won’t feel anything but endless despair, wondering if you’ll ever draw another human breath again. I know. I’ve been in that doll mold for about . . . eh, one hundred forty-eight years, give or take. Hmm.”
Watching Jane’s face in the mirror, Darce saw her eyes lose focus as she drifted into thought; then, just as quickly, Jane seemed to snap back to.
“Oh, so sorry! How remiss of me. I’m sure you would love to know who I am, and how I came to be here, and, more importantly, how you ended up in your current predicament.”
She set Darce down on the bathroom counter and pulled the bonnet from her head, loosing long, thick silver waves that had previously been black.
“I was a powerful woman in my town. People feared me and my special abilities. But they couldn’t kill me. They created a doll Vessel as a prison for me.” She threw her head back and laughed: a low, deep laugh that sounded nothing like a woman. Her teeth were yellow, rotten, some broken. She picked up Darce’s hairbrush from the bathroom counter and started brushing out her hair.
“They used my own power to chain me. Fools! They believed that I could never escape.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “So many years . . . sitting in the dark, in countless closets . . . mildewed basements . . . musty attics . . . but look at me now!” She spun around, smiling. “Ah, they used my own enchantment, one that I knew how to escape . . . difficult, but not impossible. And your daughter has been indispensable in helping me gain my freedom. Unwitting, of course. Oh, the innocent. Now, my worries are over. They have become yours.”
Fear was steadily rising in the well of Darce’s stomach. Chelsea!
Jane tossed the brush on to the bathroom counter and picked Darce up. “Don’t you worry about your little girl, Darce O’Neil,” she said. “She will be well cared for. Especially since she may yet be of use to me. Oh, you didn’t think she was going to stay with you?” She said, carrying Darce down the hall. “Obviously, you can’t care for her in your current condition. And someone needs to take care of her.”
Darce again attempted to scream, to kick, to struggle, but her efforts yielded no result.
As they passed through the living room, Darce could hear Chelsea’s groggy voice.
“Jane, is that you? Oh, you did it!” She sounded excited as she jumped up and followed them into the kitchen. Over Jane’s shoulder, Darce could see Chelsea’s expression become worried as Jane opened the kitchen door.
“Jane? What are you doing? Is that my mommy?”
“Don’t fret, Chelsea. Your mommy is going to be just fine. You’ll really like being with me, and you’ll love where you’re going. You’ll forget, soon enough.”
Jane pulled her arm back, preparing to toss Darce through the door, but Chelsea ran up and grabbed the doll her mother had become.
“No, Jane! You told me you would change her back! It was just s’posed to be a little while!”
Jane rounded on Chelsea and shook her off, sending her tumbling to the floor.
“I’m sorry, but I lied,” Jane said. “Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not sorry, at all! I’m finally free! But your mommy is going to be okay. Nothing can really hurt her.”
Then she swung her arm and Darce’s world turned upside down, spinning as Darce flipped end over end through the rain. She landed on her back on a soft surface that gave slightly beneath her weight. She stared at the clouded night sky as rain filled her eyes.
The sounds of Chelsea’s screams and pleas were faint, coming from inside the house. Darce could only hear them because she was listening so intently. She was sure that no one else would hear them, as the neighbors were either not home or all holed up in their houses, and the rain would muffle the sounds, completely.
After some time, she heard the back door slam, and then the sounds of car doors opening and closing. An engine roared to life.
That’s my car!
The car’s engine roared and roared as the gas pedal was depressed; then came the sound of it being shifted roughly into reverse. A loud clunk as the motor stalled out. A couple of more stalls; then the car haltingly backed out of the driveway, brakes chirping slightly, into the street. The tires squealed on the pavement, and the sound of the car receded into the distance, leaving behind only the s
mell of burnt rubber.
Darce was alone. Her daughter was gone, and she was helpless to save her.
The moments ticked by and became hours.
At first, Darce railed, raved, and cried inside her prison; but soon enough, she realized that no one would hear her.
Rivulets of rain streamed down her cheeks, and she thought it was appropriate, because they substituted for her tears.
Days passed; then weeks. She watched planes fly overhead, and birds, and butterflies. Occasionally, Darce heard the sound of the phone ringing inside the house. Once in a while, a car would pull into the driveway and someone would knock at the door. Then they would leave. She often heard the neighbors in their yards, having barbeques or sitting on their porches enjoying the nice weather as their children played outside.
When fall came, the sound of the morning and afternoon school bus provided Darce a kind of time reference. The day came that Darce felt a chill on her synthetic skin. She experienced no real discomfort as the temperature continued to drop; just a faint coolness.
Leaves fell upon her face, blocking her vision. Soon, she felt the sensation of being covered beneath a lightweight blanket that became heavier as time went on. Sounds became more and more muffled and further away; then they disappeared entirely.
Winter had come.
* * *
Darce felt the faint tingle of pins and needles in her pseudo-skin. She was thawing.
She knew that she couldn’t let her hopes get too high. A second winter had passed since she had been tossed into the leaf pile. It seemed like an eternity . . . and it could be two more winters before anyone found her. Or four. Or ten.
She couldn’t lie there and think of that. It was better to slip into a state of hibernation than to stay awake and alert, with a faint spark of hope in her heart that might never be realized. She sank back down below consciousness. It made the feather-falls of the sands of time drift down a little faster.
She woke again, suddenly, to the sound of a loud vehicle rumbling to a stop. Doors opened and closed; men shouted back and forth.
“You almost got her, Ron! Okay. Few more steps. That’s it, that’s it.” The sound of heavy footsteps around the side of the house, up the wooden porch steps.
A few moments later she heard more footsteps, coming back outside. More male voices: shouts, conversation.
Still as a stone, she listened.
Another vehicle pulled into the gravel drive. Two car doors opened and then slammed shut. She heard the small, animated voice of a child singing a song; the shuffling of skipping feet and the sound of leaves being kicked up close to Darce’s resting place.
Small hands suddenly lifted her upright. Shocked, she stared at the freckled face before her. Two wide-set, blue-green, curious eyes, tiny rosebud lips, and a snub-nose set perfectly in the center. Ringlets of red hair glowed like an unruly orange halo beneath the bright, mid-spring sunshine.
“Hello!” The little girl smiled. There was a small empty space to the right of her two front bottom teeth. She brushed leaves and dirt from Darce’s blue satin dress and smoothed the lace over Darce’s bare shins. She passed her hand over Darce’s hair and face, wiping away crispy leaf crumbs.
“I’m Rebecca Murphy,” the little girl said. “But people call me Becky.”
Hello, Becky. My name is Darce. But my little girl used to call me Mommy.
Becky held Darce tightly and ran toward the house.
On this short and bumpy trip, Darce was able to see the world of light and color she had been blind to for so long.
The green grass skimmed by, too tall and weedy with dandelions. The blue sky stretched infinitely above the pines. Small birds, partially hidden in the dense leaves and branches of the hedge, hopped to and fro, twittering. Orange and black butterflies fluttered in the air. Their flight looked confused, as though they had lost their way.
“Mom! Mommy! Look what I found!”
Becky thrust the doll forward, holding Darce out for her mother to look at.
A brief shudder of déjà vu ran through Darce’s inner self as Carol Murphy bent down and scrutinized Darce’s face with big, blue-green eyes similar to her daughter’s. Her hair was the same shade as Becky’s, but fell in loose waves, instead of red ringlets.
“She is very pretty,” Carol said. Her forehead wrinkled as she continued her examination. The doll’s face looked somehow familiar; dark brown laughing eyes, long black hair. Maybe she’d seen this doll in the toy section of a department store or on a television commercial.
It was wearing some kind of fairy costume, a blue satin dress with blue nylon wings. The dress was covered with small dots of mold.
“But she’s really grimy, isn’t she?” Carol said. “You know how I feel about bringing strange toys in the house.”
“Oh, mommy, please don’t say I can’t keep her! I can give her a bath! She’ll be just like new!”
Carol gave Darce a last dubious look, then smiled warmly as she reached over Darce’s head to ruffle Becky’s red curls. “Maybe we can salvage her. Why don’t you take her in right now and give her a bath while I finish unloading these last few boxes? Those clothes are no good, though. You’ll have to see if some of your other dolls’ clothes might fit her.
Relief flooded through Darce. Thank God, she thought.
“Yay! Hooray!” Becky cheered. She twirled around and skipped up the steps and through the back door into Darce’s old home.
Before Becky whisked her into the bathroom, Darce caught a quick glimpse at the inside of her house, which greeted her like a long-lost friend. She saw the bulky shapes beneath the dust covers and wondered if they belonged to the same sofa, loveseat, and old overstuffed chair she and Chelsea once cuddled in on rainy nights and during snowy winter weekends.
Becky clicked the bathroom light on and sat Darce on the counter top at the edge of the white porcelain sink. “Now you wait here, Darce,” she said, “And I’ll go find a washcloth and some soap for your bath.” She skipped away, humming to herself.
Darce. She called me Darce! She knows my name! Maybe . . . maybe I can be saved!
But how?
The last time Darce had been so lovingly pampered, it had been as a child, tended to by her mother.
She sat in the sink, immersed in warm, sudsy water while Becky scrubbed her face and body and washed her hair. Afterward, Becky wrapped her in a thick, soft towel and attempted to comb her hair, which was full of snarls.
At least I can’t feel the pain, Darce thought as Becky tugged the comb ruthlessly through her thick, black hair.
She was relieved when Mrs. Murphy called to Becky to set her aside for a while and put her belongings away in her new bedroom.
Darce sat and relaxed on the sofa – her sofa, with its familiar dark blue cushions.
Carol had taken vacation from work so that they could accomplish the move. During the next few days, she and Becky busied themselves with unpacking boxes, arranging furniture, and decorating their new home.
Darce enjoyed being with them. They uplifted her spirit with a bittersweet hope. Their compact family of two was so like Darce’s own . . . filled with the same daily activities. They watched kids’ shows, danced to silly kids’ songs or pop tunes on the radio, ate meals of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, played board games, and had a nightly bedtime routine.
Darce learned that Becky’s father had passed away during a tour of duty in Afghanistan. She watched Mrs. Murphy place his photo beside the urn on the fireplace mantel. He had been handsome in his uniform, with dark eyes and a bright white smile.
Carol had finally gotten most of the household belongings put away; now it was time to take care of the items that weren’t currently in use: winter coats and boots, Becky’s sled, Christmas and other holiday decorations, and the like. This meant a trip to the attic.
Carol had been to the attic once, when she had viewed the house as a possibility. It had been full of someone e
lse’s belongings. From what Carol understood, this clutter had belonged to the previous owner and her daughter, both of whom had disappeared nearly two years before. Most of these items, other than the furniture, had been moved into the attic for storage in the event of the O’Neils’ return.
Carol had had qualms about buying a house with that kind of history, not the least of which were caused by the similarity between the O’Neil’s single-mom-mother-daughter family dynamic and her own. The story gave her chills. It was because of the disturbing recent history, however, coupled with the fact that she got the house at a tax sale for the low price of two years’ worth of back taxes owed, that made it possible for her to afford the house, in the first place. The mortgage on the house had been settled prior to the O’Neils’ disappearance.
Every time Carol felt misgivings about her choice in housing, she pushed them away by reassuring herself that she had gotten a steal. It was a lovely house, perfect for her and Becky. It came with all the modern conveniences: a washer and dryer, a dishwasher, central air, nice big back yard, working fireplace. Carol loved her new home.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling just a little creeped out as she headed up to the attic. She tried to keep her balance on the narrow wooden steps as she carried the large, awkward box. She was glad that the attic door handle was just a lever instead of a knob; at least she could just push the lever down with her elbow and shoulder the door open without having to put the box down and pick it back up again.
She made it inside the door and, arms trembling with strain, she practically dropped the box to the wooden floorboards, where its impact sent up a small dust cloud. Carol sneezed and waved her arms around to try to dispel the dust. The back of her hand struck something solid that shifted from its resting place and fell to the floor with a thump.
She bent to see what object she had displaced, and saw that it was a photo album, a little dusty, but not very old. She squatted to pick it up and rested it on her knees. Curious, she opened it and leafed through the pages.
There were a lot of pictures of a little blonde girl who looked just a little younger than Becky. Christmases, birthday parties . . . first days of school, judging by the neat little dresses she wore as she stood in front of the open door of a school bus in several different photos.
Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease Page 5
