But then her forehead wrinkled when she reached a photo of the little girl with a dark haired woman. Two matching sets of light brown eyes and similar facial features told Carol that this must be the little girl’s mother. Her breath caught in her throat.
This must be the missing mother and daughter.
Yes, they were, she decided as she looked further through the album. She remembered the pictures in the local newspaper a few days after they had disappeared.
But there was something about the woman . . .
She stopped again at a professional photo that had been taken of the girl and her mother. They were both dressed nicely for the portrait. The mother wore a light blue satin dress. The picture bothered Carol, but she wasn’t sure why. The woman seemed so familiar . . . she shook her head. She just couldn’t remember.
She closed the album. She had work to do right now, but later on she would take the time to sort the items in the attic and get them into some sort of order.
She stood and placed the album back on top of the box of items she had knocked it off of. In the process, she noticed the corner of another book poking up. She pulled it out. Feeling the textured black cover and seeing the gilt edges of its tissue-thin pages, Carol thought it was a Bible until she opened it and saw unlined pages filled with spidery old handwriting, accompanied by various drawings and diagrams.
Apparently someone’s old journal, she thought. This might be interesting. Might even hold a clue to the mother and daughter’s disappearance!
Or maybe not . . . but Carol was intrigued, and after pushing the box she had carried upstairs out of the way against the wall, she took the book downstairs with her and set it on the side table so that she could peruse the thing in the evening, when the day was settled and she could relax.
She continued sorting and boxing up the items she and Becky wouldn’t be using. Remembering her difficulty with the last box she had taken to the attic, she made sure she chose box sizes that she could easily carry and that she distributed the weight of the contents more evenly so the boxes wouldn’t be too heavy.
“Mommy, can I use your tea kettle? Me and Darce are going to have a tea party, and I can’t find mine.”
“Sure, sweetheart,” Carol replied, “But don’t put water in the kettle, okay? Pretend tea.” She set a box on top of the stack and turned around. She stopped when she saw Becky’s doll.
“I thought I told you that old dress was no good,” she said. Then she stopped and stared at the doll.
“But I like it . . . it’s pretty! And I washed it,” Becky added.
“Can I see?” Carol held out her hands. Becky obliged and handed the doll over to her mother.
“You did a very good job washing the dress. It must not have been as damaged as I thought.” She smoothed the satin dress, straightened the nylon wings. She passed her hand down the doll’s straight, dark hair and wondered at how soft and realistic the shiny tresses felt. She scrutinized its face, touching the cheeks with her fingertips. The skin felt eerily soft and supple . . . like a child’s skin. She’d never felt anything like it.
Wait a minute . . . matching brown eyes . . . facial structure . . .
The doll looked like the mother in the photo album.
That doesn’t mean anything. Dolls can look like people. Some people buy dolls that look like them.
A sudden thought struck Carol. She looked at Becky. “What did you say you named her?”
“Darce.”
Darce . . . was that the mother’s name? “What made you think of that name, Becky?”
“She told me it was her name.”
“She told you?”
“Yes. I asked what’s your name, and she thought, Darce. And I heard her. So I named her that.”
“Aaaah. I see.” Carol slowly handed the doll back to her daughter, an uneasy feeling settling in the back of her mind. “Does Darce talk often?”
Becky’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! She talked to me about Kelsley, her little girl, and the witch, and how she’s so unhappy because she’s not really a doll, she’s trapped in there, and I wish I could help her!”
Carol felt faint. She leaned against the boxes she had just finished stacking against the wall. “Ummm, oh. That’s really an interesting story.”
“Oh, but I don’t think it’s just a story, Mommy, I think it’s really true! I can’t hear my other dolls, we have to pretend talk. But Darce really talks.”
“Okay, Rebecca, it’s about dinner time. Why don’t you and . . . Darce . . . go have your tea party, and you can have some pretend appetizers, and by the time you’re all finished, I’ll have the main dish on the table, how does that sound?”
“Yay!”
“Tea kettle is on the stove.”
“Thank you, Mommy!”
“You are very welcome.”
Throughout the rest of the evening, Carol couldn’t keep herself from being distracted by the doll. Her eyes were drawn to it. Time and time again, she found herself staring at its face.
At the dinner table, she said to Becky, “No toys at the table. Please take Darce into the living room.”
“But Darce always eats with us, Mommy!”
“No toys at the table has always been the rule. I’ve been letting it slide, but I really would like to stick to it.”
“All right,” Becky said, sounding dejected.
Later, Carol tucked Becky and Darce into bed with misgivings. The doll had been creepy to begin with, but now . . . could there be any truth to what Becky was saying?
She had never told Becky about the mother and daughter who had gone missing. She had questioned Becky about places she might have seen that information . . . but the only places she would have access to it would be two-year old newspapers, of which they had none, or the news on television, neither of which Becky ever paid attention to. Or maybe on the Internet . . . which Becky only used for young children’s sites. And Becky hadn’t had any contact with neighbors or with children that might have gone to school with the daughter.
She practically ran up the stairs to the attic and immediately began digging through the box of items where she had found the photo album earlier. She knelt on the dusty attic floorboards to make accessing the mess a little easier. Toward the middle of the stack, she found personal papers; medical records, car insurance notices, bills, report cards.
The name on the car insurance notices and bills was Darce O’Neil.
The name on the report cards and medical records was Chelsea O’Neil.
Carol sat back on her heels. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, which was wet with sweat from the summer evening attic heat and from her frantic efforts.
So the names Becky told her were correct; almost. She had called Chelsea "Kelsley".
Could her story really be true? Could Darce O’Neil be trapped inside that doll’s body? What about the “witch”, and Darce’s daughter, Chelsea?
She grabbed the photo album and took it downstairs, leaving it with the journal she had brought down earlier. She would look at them both a little later; but right now, she wanted to do an online search to see if she could find any information about the O’Neils’ disappearance.
She only found two articles with different dates, both from Singleton’s only newspaper. Apparently the mystery wasn’t enough to warrant more. They didn’t offer much more information than she already had.
Darce O’Neil had failed to show up for work for several days and couldn’t be reached by phone. Some of her friends were concerned because they hadn’t seen or heard from her since her daughter, Chelsea’s, birthday party on August 24, 2009. Chelsea’s friends hadn’t seen her, either. A missing persons report had been filed on September 9th of that year by Katie Maine, Darce’s long-time best friend, prompted by Chelsea’s absence the first few days of school. The absences were unusual because Darce had registered Chelsea for school and Katie and Darce had taken their daughters school shopping together.
According to Katie
, Darce hadn’t mentioned going on any last minute trips out of town, particularly since school would be starting in a few days. She and Chelsea were settled and stable, both well-liked in Singleton. In fact, the only plans Darce had before school were their picnic plans at Lake Forshee on the last Saturday before school started.
Katie and Darce had discussed the picnic after Chelsea’s birthday party, when Katie picked up her daughter, Tamara. But Darce and Katie did not show up for the picnic. Neither had Darce returned Katie’s phone calls during the time period between the birthday party and the day of the picnic, nor was Katie able to contact Darce afterward.
Darce’s car was gone, but all of her and Chelsea’s belongings had been left behind, including Darce’s cell phone. The birthday party dishes were still dirty, and the television set had been left on. There were no packed bags and no notice to anyone that they were leaving. Police found no clues as to where the two could have gone, and the car was never found.
Seems suspicious to me, Carol thought.
She sat back in her chair and stretched.
Could it be true? A woman trapped inside of a doll, courtesy, no doubt, of the “witch” that Becky had mentioned, who had supposedly kidnapped Darce O’Neil’s daughter?
Tomorrow morning, she would ask Becky to tell her a story. One with a lot more details.
But right now, Carol was tired. All this fairytale stuff would have to wait until morning.
* * *
There. That dress.
Carol was once again perusing the photo album. She had wandered into the living room with her coffee and seen it, and the little journal, still lying on the side table where she had left them the day before. She sat and sipped her coffee while she flipped the pages. And stopped when she saw the blue satin dress.
No wings. Same dress.
But that didn’t prove anything. Couldn’t a custom doll be made with copies of the model’s clothing? The doll could have been a gift from a loved one.
Then she picked up the journal. The pages were so old that she had to handle the book with great care; one corner of a page crumbled between her fingers when she grasped it to turn it. She closed the book. This time, she just let it fall open.
She hadn’t seen the grungy old ribbon that marked the page, but that’s where the book opened to. She had to squint her eyes to make out some of the handwriting.
“The transition will be made through the Power of Nine: Three words to activate the transition, repeated three times; and three souls: one to articulate the three words, one to be used as sacrifice to release the trapped soul from the Vessel, and one to be retrieved from the Vessel. The sacrificed soul will take the place of the soul released from the Vessel.”
* * *
“And she’s been inside the doll ever since.”
Becky ate a spoonful of her Lucky Charms as she finished telling Darce's story.
"And Darce told you this in your head, with her thoughts."
"Yup!" Becky smiled brightly, a drop of milk dribbling down her chin.
Carol took a sip from her fresh cup of coffee and gazed at Darce, who sat beside Becky's plate on the table.
I'm going to feel like a real idiot if I believe her and it's just a fairytale.
"Darce says it's not a fairytale, Mommy!"
Startled, Carol almost dropped her cup. "Ummm . . . what?"
"Darce says you think her story isn't true, that it's just a fairytale, but it isn't!"
"How would she know that?"
"She heard you think it!"
“So . . . not only can she think thoughts at you that you can hear, but she can hear your thoughts without you saying them out loud?”
“Yup!” Said Becky.
“Okaaaaay,” said Carol. She looked at the doll and thought, Darce, do you know how to get changed back?
“No, she doesn’t know how,” Becky said.
Carol tried again. Do you have any idea how you got transformed in the first place?
“She doesn’t know that, either. The witch cast a spell on her. But she says that you know something.”
Carol raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“She says you found something. A book! A magic book! You found it in the attic! And something about a powder – a powder of mine.” Becky wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know what she means. I don’t have any powder. I had baby powder when I was a baby, but I don’t have any anymore ‘cause I’m grew, and I’m not a baby now.”
Carol set her cup on the table and said quietly, “Do you mean the power of nine?”
Becky clapped her hands. “Yes!” Her eyes widened and her mouth opened into an “O”. “She’s right! Darce’s right, isn’t she? You did find something! This means we can help her, right?”
Carol shot Darce a warning glance. “I don’t really know, yet. I haven’t read enough. I’ll have to look at the instructions more thoroughly before I will know for sure.”
But she thought, I’m sorry. This is witchcraft. I’m Catholic. I know nothing about witchcraft. And there has to be a sacrifice. I don’t think I can sacrifice anyone.
Darce sat beside Carol on the sofa that night after Becky had fallen asleep. Carol read the instructions for the “magic spell” out loud.
“. . . the Vessel is impenetrable and unbreakable, so whosoever’s soul is held captive within cannot die or be destroyed, with one exception. If the Sacrificial Soul is already compromised and ready to pass on, and takes the place of the soul in the Vessel before it has separated from its physical body, this enchantment can be broken permanently, and the Vessel will be rendered ineffective.”
Darce could feel her last seeds of hope drift away into nothingness as she listened. She would never be able to escape her prison without imprisoning another soul. She didn’t want to do that; she wouldn’t do that. And she knew that Carol wouldn’t either.
She felt the sensation of Carol’s life-sized hand on her small doll-shoulder. “Don’t give up just yet, Darce. This may not be easy, but not impossible.”
It sounds impossible to me, unless we’re willing to kill someone to break the spell, thought Darce. I don’t know which sin would be worse.
She might as well face the fact that she was going to remain imprisoned in this doll-form forever. Because she couldn’t die as long as she was inside it.
She felt her mind drifting away to the shadows where it had spent the past two years.
“We will figure it out, Darce,” Carol promised. “But look. At least you aren’t outside in the dark, alone. You’re with me and Becky. At least you’ll have things you can do. Maybe not physically, except when we bring you places. But you can watch television and movies. You can listen to music. We can take you for walks, we can take you places, like shopping and mini-golf. You have a warm, comfortable place to sleep. For now, you’re . . . you’re paralyzed. You’re still alive, and you can’t move. But you can communicate. So don’t give up yet.”
Darce heard what Carol said. And she had to admit: at least with Becky and Carol, she would have kind of a life, even if it was a half-life.
* * *
The half-life continued for several months. They tried to break the spell a few times, in various ways.
Becky brought them an injured butterfly, but by the time they got the ritual space set up with the circle of salt, the candles, water, and soil, the insect had died, and what soul it had, if any, was well on its way to the other side.
After that, they decided to just keep the items set up. Carol had cleared a place in the attic, and would periodically replace the old spell components with fresh ones. They would be ready if they ever received an opportunity.
Their hopes were raised when Carol found a wounded bird in the backyard. Unwilling to simply let the creature die, Carol took care of it as best she could, and they all waited. The bird recovered within a few days, and Carol set it free.
She researched witchcraft and Wicca, trying to educate herself on a subject she had never believed in. It was all s
tuff of fairytales, not real. Or at least, that’s what she had been taught to believe. And now, she questioned her entire belief system.
The more she researched, the more she learned that paganism was not about Satan worship, at all, but more about . . . the worship of nature, and harnessing natural energies to help in the practitioner’s endeavors. There were many categories of witches, and though there were some who were self-serving and practiced evil, this wasn’t the norm.
Was that really so bad? She wasn’t really sure what she believed. But she was convinced that this situation could be a reality; and if so, then this was what she needed to do.
But still . . . Carol wasn’t a witch, and was so nervous the first time they tried the spell with the butterfly; she had felt sure something would go wrong. Her hands were shaking and she was sweating.
She practiced the spell over and over until she knew it by heart; the water and earth offerings, the lighting of the candles, the motions, the requests.
* * *
Darce tried not to become frustrated when the start of the school year rolled around and Becky was gone most of the day and Carol was at work. Carol left the television on for Darce and set her in a reclining position on the sofa so that she could either watch TV or doze; but Darce could feel the mounting anguish at not being able to get up to stretch her legs, to walk outside, to even change the channel or put music on, instead.
I am just a living lump, she thought.
And she had to force herself to remember that she was no longer in the leaf pile, staring at the sky . . . and then staring into darkness as the leaf pile grew on top of her and the snows obliterated her from sight. That would cheer her a little . . . but only a little, even though she would give her thanks to God, because at least she had been found, so her chances of being saved had increased exponentially. And then she would pray.
“Mommy! Mommy! Darce!” The back door slammed and Becky ran into the kitchen, breathless and dirty, her curls tangled from the autumn wind.
Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease Page 6
