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“The children aren’t going anywhere.” Ruth pushed Job inside and relocked the door, dropping the key into her bra where the children wouldn’t be able to get it.
“Jimmy, take Katie and go over to the far side of the room,” Clara instructed.
“No,” the eight-year-old shook his head defiantly.
“Jimmy, now,” Clara repeated firmly.
Reluctantly the child obeyed, grabbing hold of Katie’s arm, dragging her off Clara’s lap. The little girl cried out in protest, and then they ran to the other side of the attic. He grabbed the wooden bed and stood it up on its side, then pulled Katie behind it, as though it were a shield that would protect them.
“The police are looking for you, they're getting closer,” Clara spoke, diverting her attention away from the children. “They know that Tommy knew enough to find you, and they know everything I remembered. They will find you.”
“They haven’t yet,” Ruth contradicted.
“Because they didn’t know what I knew, I couldn’t remember, and Tommy never said anything. But theywillfind you,” Clara’s green eyes shot daggers.
“How would they find us?” She was more amused than annoyed. “We aren’t using the same place as when you and Tommy stayed with us.”
“I know, but they’ll find out who you are, and then they’ll know where you're hiding out.”
“Youdidn’t even know our names,” Ruth reminded her, chuckling.
“Please, just let us go,” Clara begged.
“I can't.” As the gravity of her situation and the enormity of her need settled on her, Ruth sobered.
“Why?”
“Because we need you, my dear,” Job replied when Ruth found her emotions had clogged her throat and she couldn’t speak.
“You need me? You mean to kill the children? Because you want me to help you turn them into dolls? Why can't you do it yourself? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all these years? So why do you need my help all of a sudden? I don’t understand.” Clara looked like she was quickly getting overwhelmed.
“No, dear.” Job wheeled himself over next to Clara’s chair. “It’s us. We need you to turnusinto dolls, but first, you must learn the process.”
“Turn you into dolls?” Clara looked incredulous. “That isn’t even possible. You two are insane. You haven’t been turning children into dolls; you’ve just been killing them.”
“Poor child.” Job shook his head. “You don’t yet understand, but you will. We will help you. Ruth,” he turned to her, “you were right, we must try again; we must keep trying until she understands.”
“What? No,” Clara protested, beginning to jerk her body in a panic, knowing what was coming and attempting to flee.
“You don’t have another little weapon on you this time, do you, Clara?” her hand subconsciously moved to the small scratch on her arm where Clara had gouged at her with a screw. The younger woman’s hands were curled into fists, and Ruth had to pry them open to check that they were empty.
When she was satisfied that Clara posed no threat, she retrieved her keys and unlocked a small cupboard built into one of the walls, depositing the keys in her pocket. In the cupboard was a small electric hot plate and all of their specially crafted brands; each one had been lovingly handmade by Job himself. One was there for each child—from the first two down to the ones that would soon mark Jimmy and Katie. Ruth had kept the hot plate on, anticipating taking another go at Clara soon after the first. She set about heating the fifth child’s brand, virtually oblivious to Clara’s begged pleas.
With the brand red hot, she put another on to heat and returned to Clara, whose skin had gone so white Ruth wondered whether she was about to pass out.
“Please don’t, please.” Tears streamed down Clara’s pale face.
“Are you ready to kill the girl?” Ruth asked, holding the branding tool mere millimeters above Clara’s flesh so she could feel the full force of the heat, anticipate what it would feel like when it scorched her flesh. Ruth knew what it felt like, too, for she and Job also bore the marks of all the children who they'd transformed into dolls.
“No,” Clara sobbed. “I'd rather you burn me a million times than hurt her.”
Clara clamped down on her bottom lip to keep from screaming as the brand made contact with her skin. Ruth could see the small dots of blood on her lip.
“I’m sorry, dear.” Job always hated inflicting pain; he was such a sensitive, good-hearted soul. “But you must bear their marks, just as we do.” He had removed his shirt to show Clara the brands that covered his back, arms, and chest.
“Please, not again,” Clara begged as Ruth returned with another brand.
Just as she was about to lower the poker, she was rammed from behind. Stumbling, she fell, landing hard on her knees. The poker and the keys both went flying.
