Help for the Haunted

by John Searles

The image of Dot, naked and cowering in the corner of their bathroom, came to life in my mind. “But that was because of Rose.” Or mostly because of Rose, I thought.

  “Sylvie, I don’t know where this is coming from,” he told me, shutting the book and paying attention now. “But we’re not leaving you here alone and we’re not going back to enlisting a nanny service. Besides, I can’t say no. I’ve already agreed to the lectures. They’re paying us three times what we normally get.”

  The ringing fell quiet. And again, I heard myself say something unplanned: “Why?”

  “Why?” At last, my father looked up from his book with an exasperated expression.

  “I mean, why are they suddenly paying more?”

  “Well, if you must know, word is getting out about us,” he said with a measure of pride. “People are curious about the things your mother and I do.”

  My mother. The mention of her caused me to glance over at her rocker. Penny was not there. As if to prove my father’s point about how in demand they were, the phone began ringing again. “Where is Mom anyway?”

  “In bed.”

  “Bed? But it’s barely four o’ clock.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s not feeling her best.”

  “She’s sick again?”

  “I’m afraid so, Sylvie.”

  Before he was even done talking, I turned and started toward the stairs. My father called after me that I should leave her alone so she could rest, but I ignored him, going directly to my parents’ bedroom and peeking in.

  Since the shades were drawn, the green glow of the alarm clock was the only light in that room. My mother’s body was a lump under the covers once more. I could make out only her pale face, eyes closed, on the pillow. Someone must have turned off the ringer on the phone in their room, because inside I heard only the soft rise and fall of her breathing even as down below the sound started up again. I wanted to bring my mother soup and cool washcloths and ginger ale, to take care of her the way she had always taken care of us, but there seemed to be nothing to do at the moment except let her sleep. I stepped away and went to my room, where I found Rose lying on my bed.

  “How did you get in here?” I asked, since I had locked the door when I left.

  My sister ignored the question, held out a copy of the Dundalk Eagle. “I’ve been waiting for you. Did you see this?”

  I looked down at the photo of our mother cradling Penny. “Someone said something at school,” I told her. “So, yeah. I went to the library and found it.”

  “Why do they have to put this crap in the paper? It makes us look insane.”

  “Don’t blame them both. I was there when Dad took that picture. She said she didn’t want it turning up anywhere.”

  “Well, she’s an idiot for posing for it in the first place. What does she expect out of him?”

  I fell quiet, turning to look up at the horses, counting their legs, counting their tails. I’d taken Rose up on her offer, and now that shelf held her horses too. Fourteen of them crowded for space—a herd that had come to the edge of a cliff. “Don’t call Mom names,” I said, quietly. “She’s sick again. I’m worried about her. Something’s not right.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll tell you when it began: the moment they came down the stairs from that apartment in Ohio lugging that doll.”

  After so many weeks spent waiting for her to broach the topic, there it was at last. “That morning I walked with you to the bus stop. You said you were going to tell me things about what goes on in this house. But you never mentioned another word. Why?”

  “You were the one who had it on your mind, Sylvie. You should have asked me again. Besides, I’ve been busy focusing on other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “My life. Some of us actually have one. Unlike you.”

  I went quiet once more, returned to counting the horses. It was easier than talking to her, easier than thinking about our sick mother down the hall and our father in the living room combing through those ancient books full of strange stories, and the sound of that phone ringing and ringing. From behind me, in a softer voice, Rose said, “I’m sorry.”

  Since there were so many horses now, it took longer to inspect them. I kept counting, imagining I was staring into an actual herd, breath blowing from their nostrils, tails swishing about to keep the flies away.

  “Did you hear me, Sylvie? I said I was sorry. I know I’ve got a mouth on me, as Dad likes to point out. But I shouldn’t use it on you all the time.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ll try to be better, though.”

  I had seen how easily her efforts to control her behavior peeled away, so I didn’t put much stock in what she was saying. When I finished counting the last of those horses, finding every last one intact, I turned to look at her on my bed.

  “You know, I think about it sometimes,” she told me.

  “Think about what?”

  “Growing up here. I’m hardly the sappy type. But once in a while, I can’t help remembering.”

  “Remembering what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Stuff like sleeping in the living room under those makeshift tents or drawing our houses in the foundation across the street. I remember those times, even if I act like I don’t.”

  Her words left me with the same awkward feeling as when I told her I’d miss her if she went to live with Howie. I wanted to ask why we couldn’t share a more grown-up version of that closeness now, but worried the question would make her defensive, so I kept quiet.

  “I remember when Mom and Dad first brought you home from the hospital too. ‘Look at its hands,’ I used to say. ‘Look at its feet. It’s so tiny.’ And Mom would say, ‘Rose, your sister is not an it, but a she.’ ” Rose let out a laugh then and paused, lying there with her sneakers on my mattress, staring at that picture of our mother in the paper. I walked over and looked at it again too, my gaze shifting to a passage from Heekin’s article:

  “After we returned to our apartment from the hospital, where we had lost our daughter, I put Penny on top of her bed,” said Elaine Entwistle. “For some time, I felt too heartbroken to go back into that room. But when I did, I saw the doll’s arms and legs were arranged differently than I’d left them. I asked my husband if he’d been in that room, and he said no. I told myself it was my imagination, that I wasn’t thinking clearly. But soon, it happened again. That was just the beginning of a series of very strange occurrences, which led us to contact the Masons.”

  I stopped reading. I’d already been through it once at the library that day. Clearly, Rose wanted to be done with it too, because she crinkled the paper and tossed it in my wastebasket. “I feel sorry for you, Sylvie.”

  “Me?”

  “I’ve only got another year left. But you’ve got all of high school with them. It’s not going to be easy after this. And according to Dad, the piece got picked up by other papers. Bigger ones.”

  “Maybe people will forget,” I said, detecting that flimsy sound in my voice once more. “Maybe things will go back to normal.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. But if I were you, I’d get rid of that doll before she does any more damage.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe the things they said about her.”

  “I don’t. But does it matter what I think if others out there believe? Now that people know she’s here in this house, Penny will just keep influencing things. Look at Mom and Dad. They believe, and it’s changed them already. It’s changed the whole feeling in this house too. It’s like the air is harder to breathe. That’s what belief does, Sylvie. Whether something is true or not is beside the point.”

  I sat on the edge of my bed, considering. Finally, I asked, “But get rid of her how? Where?”

  “You’re the brainiac. Figure it out.”


  Rose looked past me then. Her expression tightened, and I turned to see our father in the doorway. In one hand, he held an ancient book from the curio hutch, so thick and heavy it might have been a weapon. “I made dinner,” he said, his voice deep and low.

  “I’ll be right down,” I told him, even though I didn’t feel hungry in the least.

  “And what about you, Rose? Should I assume you won’t be joining us again?”

  “No thanks,” she answered, quieter than I was used to. “I ate after track practice.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll take food to your mother, Sylvie, then see you downstairs.”

  Once he was gone, Rose stood from my bed and went to the door. I asked why she never ate with us anymore and she told me the more she stayed out of his way, the better. “Like I said, I’ve only got next school year left. At this point, I’m just trying to get through it.”

  With that, she turned to go. Despite the fact that Rose had gotten into my room anyway, I locked the door and headed down to the kitchen. My father had not set the table, so I did. When he joined me again, he took the phone off the hook, then pulled out the frozen glass tumbler I only ever saw him use at holidays. From the cabinet above the fridge, he dredged out a bottle of scotch and poured himself a drink, and then we sat at the table, Rose and my mother’s chairs two ghosts among us now. If Penny keeps having an influence, I thought, someday soon I’ll be the only one left.

  It was unlike my father not to bother with conversation while we ate the dinner he had prepared—a flavorless meatloaf that tasted nothing like the one my mother made with onions and garlic and stewed tomatoes on top. I kept trying to introduce topics into the silence, telling him about my upcoming exam and the trick questions my teacher tossed in, but those things did not hold his interest.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked finally.

  My father sipped more of his drink. Turpentine mixed with rubbing alcohol—from where I sat that’s what it smelled like, a smell that made me think of Christmas, since it was normally the only time he allowed himself a glass. “Just nerves,” he answered. “I’m meeting that reporter tonight.”

  “Oh. Is he still writing his book?”

  “He’s about done with it actually. But our last interview, well, it didn’t go the way I wanted. So I convinced him to meet me one more time. He’s always got so many questions. Some of them I’m incapable of answering, because it comes down to faith and the way we interpret the world.”

  “But you’ve always been good at explaining those things, Dad.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess the way our lives have been around here lately has me distracted. I want you to know, Sylvie, that this isn’t how I intended things to turn out.”

  I stayed quiet, pushing chunks of meatloaf around my plate.

  “I’m talking about your mother upstairs. Your sister as well. The two of us eating dinner alone. When I left home years ago, I dreamed of having my own family. A happy one.”

  “We are happy,” I said, but there it was again: that flimsy sound in my voice.

  My father took a few greedy sips from his glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, letting his meatloaf go untouched. And then a horn honked outside. He stood from the table, giving me a kiss on the forehead.

  “You’re right, Sylvie,” he said, sounding less tense. “We are happy. All families have bumps along the way, so why should ours be any different? Things will go back to normal. Anyway, I’ve checked in on your mother for the night, so it’s best just to let her sleep.”

  After he grabbed his coat and walked out the door, I was left to clear the table before heading upstairs, where I stopped to peek in at my mother again. She lay in her bed, sound asleep, a half-empty dinner plate on the nightstand. I felt the same urge to go inside and take care of her, the way she always took care of us. But I did what my father asked, leaving her to rest and going to my room instead. I pulled that slim piece of metal from my pocket and slipped it into the knob, opening the door.

  The moment I stepped inside, I felt it beneath one of my slippers. When I lifted my foot, I saw another of those broken limbs. And then I looked to see not just one but dozens scattered on the carpet. Dozens more on my desk too. I stared down at the chaos a long moment before gazing up at that shelf, where every last one of them had been toppled.

  I closed my door. Knelt on the carpet. Hands shaking, I went to work gathering those pieces. When that was done, I put them in a pile on my desk before stepping into the hallway. Last I looked, the rocker had been empty downstairs, but I knew where I’d find Penny. And whether or not the doll was to blame, I wanted her out of our lives.

  I walked to my parents’ room and stood outside their door. My mother, I could see, was in her bed still. Quietly, I pushed open the door enough for me to step inside.

  Her voice sounded thick and sluggish when she stirred, asking, “Sylvie, is that you?”

  “Yes, Mom. It’s me.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “It will be. But I wanted to check in on you. To see if you need anything.”

  “Actually, a drink of water would be nice. I’ve just been so thirsty. There’s a glass here on my nightstand if you don’t mind.”

  I filled the glass in the bathroom sink and brought it to my mother, who lifted her head from the pillow and drank with a loud gulping sound. Meanwhile, I stared around the room, my eyes adjusting to the green glow of the alarm clock. Their dresser. Their nightstand. My father’s empty bed. It was all the same. But then I noticed a smaller lump beneath my mother’s covers. I reached over and pulled back the blankets.

  “Why?” I asked when that blank face gazed up at me.

  My mother set down her glass, returned her head to the pillow. “I can’t explain it, Sylvie. I had my doubts about the claims that couple made. But your father—he believed. Either way, those people had been through so much, I thought it best to pray with them and remove the doll from their home, to give them peace of mind if nothing else. But now, well, there have been nights when I wake to find her here. Same as what happened to them.”

  “Well, I think I should take it back downstairs.”

  I waited for my mother to correct me, the way Rose said she once did to her, saying Penny was not an it but a she. But she just kept her head on her pillow as her eyes fell shut. For a moment, I thought of going into the bathroom for a towel to avoid touching the doll. But there seemed no time for that. I moved to the other side of the bed and reached down, moving calmly, intently, slipping my hands beneath its body and lifting. And then Penny was in my arms and I was carrying it out of the room.

  Down the hall. Down the stairs. Through the living room, past the empty rocker to the front door. Outside, a misty rain had begun to fall, making a faint skittering sound, like mice running up and down the gutters. I stood on the stoop, staring out at the tangle of twisted branches surrounding our house, at my parents’ Datsun in the driveway, at those signs my father had painted and nailed to the trees, the words screaming: NO TRESPASSING! Carry the thing into the woods, I thought, bury it there like my father had done with Mr. Knothead years before when the rabbit had been found dead one morning—no more tic-tic-tic of its heart. But I had only my bare hands to dig with, and the idea of venturing out there in the dark frightened me.

  And then, all at once, I knew.

  My feet moved down the stairs and across our mossy lawn until I reached the well we had no use for anymore. Without taking time to consider it, I shoved off the plywood and stared at the shimmering black surface of the water below. I held Penny over the side, took a breath, let go. A faint splash, but nothing more. No scream. No struggle. Of course not. The doll was powerless, after all, except for the power we gave it. If that’s what you believed. In that moment, I did. In that moment, I didn’t too. In the rainy silence that followed, I reached for the plywood, slid it back
over the mouth of the well. I rooted around for rocks to put on top, but the ones at the base of Rose’s old rabbit cage were too heavy to lift. The plywood would be enough, I decided, before turning back to the house.

  Inside, I went to my room, thinking of my father out there with that reporter, wondering about the things he was telling him for that book. I slipped into my pajamas, looking over at the pile of limbs on my desk. Tomorrow, I told myself as I climbed beneath the sheets, I’d glue them together one last time. Even if they’d never be quite the same, I could lie in bed at night and stare up at them on the shelf. Despite what happened, those horses would appear whole again. Like my family, I thought, drifting off to sleep, they would be together, happy, unbroken once more.

  Chapter 17

  Possessions

  An upright soldier of an H. A slouching E. A slouching R. The word BAD, then a space, then another word, this one missing a letter like a gapped-tooth smile: DE_IRE. I stared up at that drooping marquee as Heekin and I drew closer to the theater, putting together the puzzle of those letters. With effort, I managed to conjure an image of the place it had once been: the ticket window clean and shiny, the marquee upright, proudly announcing films like Casablanca or Breakfast at Tiffany’s. But the image vanished when we reached the glass doors plastered over with newspapers and work permits.

  “Did your uncle say,” Heekin asked as he walked along the row, tugging on the tarnished handles and finding every door locked, “where exactly we should meet him?”

  I shook my head, glancing up at those letters on the marquee again as if they might rearrange themselves and offer an answer.

  “He did want you to come, didn’t he?”

  Confused, not angry—that’s how Heekin seemed, though I wondered how long until that changed. If he had not just shared those stories about his time with my mother, reminding me of her good and honest nature, perhaps I’d have been able to keep the lie going. But considering the larger untruth I’d been nurturing for so many months, there seemed no room for more.