Page 26 of She’s a Doll

Fuck. No. I’m sorry. I’m freaking out. Please don’t freak out. It’s me. I mean, the doll. I’m the doll. I mean, no, I’m not the doll. I died and got stuck in the doll. It . . . it doesn’t matter. Please, you have to help me. No one else can hear me. I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped like this.

“I’m trying to work,” she muttered, and put the last cat on the shelf. “I can’t do this right now.”

Do what?

“Have a mental breakdown.”

Wait, I thought/said. No. I’m real. Please. You have to believe me. I’m real. I can move! Just look at me, I’ll show you. Please.

She didn’t look at me. She turned and walked away, shoulders stiff, clutching the box the cats had come out of with white-knuckled fists.

I called after her, and when she didn’t react, I screamed after her. I couldn’t do anything else. She was the first person I’d been able to communicate with since this whole ordeal began. I couldn’t let her just slip away. I needed her more than I’d ever needed a person before.

Someone I could talk to.

A psychic.

I’d never believed in psychics before. I’d never believed in ghosts before either. Briefly, madly, I wondered what existed out there in the world. Vampires? Werewolves? Fish-headed aliens like in Call of Cthulhu? It was obvious that the world was a bigger, messier, uglier place than I’d thought it was when I was a kid. A place with magic and monsters . . . like Kyle.

The woman crushed the box in her hands as she left the room.

She could hear me.

I knew she could.

And so began my campaign.

Look at me, I begged whenever she passed by my cabinet. Please.

She didn’t.

I need help, I cried the day after. I was murdered. I need help! Please!

She kept ignoring me, and for a few days, time went too fast for me to do anything, anyway. When it slowed down and I saw her again, stacking Russian dolls on a nearby display, I changed tack. If you put my legs on, I’ll dance for you, I promised.

She dropped the Russian doll and cursed under her breath.

A puppet without strings! I continued, sensing weakness. Imagine the money you’ll make! Enough to stop working here. You’ll get a nice, fancy house up on the hill. I know what those houses are like. I have a friend⁠—had, when I was alive⁠—who lives in one of those houses. She invited me over for a tea party one time. In a word? Swanky. That life can be yours just so long as you talk to me. Please.

It wasn’t very effective . . .

She finished arranging the Russian dolls and left without so much as a glance in my direction.

Time slipped and churned. Dark, then light, then dark again. I called out, begging, then pleading, bargaining, then begging again. I didn’t know if the woman could hear me or not. I didn’t care. Please! Don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me!

Then, in a moment, it was day. The store sat suspended and still; a nearby customer’s mouth hung open, voice so slow it sounded like a zombie’s moan, the employee they were addressing frozen mid eye roll. The fluorescent lights blinked. On . . . off . . . on . . . off . . . on . . .

In the light I saw something new.

Three dolls were on the shelf next to me, sitting in a circle on a spotted handkerchief like it was a picnic blanket.

A schoolteacher, a cowgirl, and a ballerina.

The ballerina’s head was cocked in my direction, her glass eyes staring serenely, her lips set in a smaller, more dignified smile than mine. She wasn’t broken. None of them were. They were as perfect as they’d been when I saw them last, slumped in a heap on top of the bookshelf. My sister dolls.

The light blinked off.

The shadows on the ballerina’s face deepened, darkened.