The Doll. a Short Story

The spiel my father gave me nearly every time I left the house was getting old. I was almost eighteen and he was still way too overprotective for my own good. In my eyes, I was still young enough to make mistakes. In his eyes, there would be no mistakes to make. I was long past the point where I could recite the speech backwards and it followed me into my nightmares. He hadn’t ever asked me to give him the rules, like a test to see if I’d really been paying attention. Most of the time I wasn’t but this time I tuned back in a few seconds before my scheduled response, if I’d call it that.

“...and home by nine,” he finished.

The other lines included the usual, no boys, no being under the influence or unsupervised, and again no boys.

“Okay, but you know I agreed to pick up and drop off Maddie.”

“You know, Sara, as a good Christian daughter, you should obey your parents.”

“Okay.”

There was nothing that fueled him more than me passively reacting to his Bible-thumping reminders that I didn’t need. I always said it breezily, like I was brushing the scriptures off my shoulders. We’d been to church enough for me to have a great sense of the bible and being Christian. I was certain my father using it to manipulate me into obedience was not very Christian-like of him. Internally, I wanted to tell him that and more. I wanted to tell him that good Christians were good friends and could respect their parents at the same time. Giving Maddie a ride wouldn’t be disrespectful in any way. What was disrespectful and unchristian-like was lying. Maybe he said it because he knew I was lying. Still, he put the key in my hand and allowed me to leave the house. I drove to Kris’ house instead. Maddie was a real friend, who I did hang out with occasionally, but sometimes I used her as a placeholder when I wanted to be with Kris. She lived far enough that my parents wouldn’t likely run into her. She also hardly left her house and had no problem lying to say I’d been to see her.

Kris was just a friend but an unlikable temptation in the eyes of my father. I felt excited with each passing minute and equally as anxious. Partly because I was seeing Kris and partly because I was defying my father and there was always the possibility that he’d catch me. He was right about Kris being a temptation, but I found him very agreeable. I tapped the wheel to the pop song that was playing over the radio as I waited for Kris to come outside. He did a few minutes later, sliding on the other half of his jacket over his brown skin. He pulled the door up and gave himself a pat down. He looked as he always did: flustered and rushed, but handsome. He turned back to grab his keys from the door. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, taking deep breaths.

“...eight ...nine ...ten.”

He put his hand on the handle when I exhaled for the last time. Deep breathing was supposed to help my anxiety, but my heart was still racing as he buckled his belt. Being alone with him wasn’t what made me anxious, we’d been alone plenty, although my father knew nothing about that and hopefully never would. After years of being friends, I’d been seeing Kris in a new light. I figured my anxiety came from not knowing what might come out of my mouth while we were alone. I had a habit of sometimes saying my thoughts aloud, unfiltered, without caution. When I saw him it entailed clammy hands, losing my ability to speak comprehensive sentences or keep my train of thought, and forgetting to breathe. It was all because I was so caught up in his everything when he was near - his eyes, his hair, his voice, the curve of his eyebrows. 

On the way to Rizzo’s, the cafe we liked to do our work in, I tried leading a conversation but he was more interested in his social media DMs. They were always stocked full of girls wishing and dreaming they could be with him, just like me, but no one wanted to be seen by him as badly as I did. Kris kept mute until we sat down at a table with our drinks. He turned his phone face down on the table, finally giving me his attention. Although I liked to meet secretly for the adrenaline rush, the other reason was to talk about our writing, which was important to both of us. He liked to go over things line by line, word by word. I liked that he often surprised me with what I didn’t see, I liked that he proved me wrong.

“Alright, what have you got for me?” he asked.

“Something new,” I said. “I felt inspired.” 

I pulled out the weathered leather notebook I carried with me everywhere. The spine was held together by Scotch tape. It was nothing close to a new sight to him. I told him it was called ‘The Doll’ and scooted a little closer to him so I wouldn’t have to read as loud.

I opened the box on my bedroom floor. It was sitting on my doorstep when I came home a few hours ago. There was no return address but there was a note inside the box. I plucked the note out and peered inside to see a doll spotted with dirt and dust. She was wearing a light pink dress and shoes that probably used to be white but were now gray. My younger brother called me, making me jump. All I caught at the top of the note before I went downstairs was 'dear Miss. Shannon Hayes'.

All he wanted was a bowl on a shelf he couldn't reach, then the cereal and milk. After he settled down watching Blues Clues and eating Fruity Pebbles, I went back upstairs. I could've sworn I left the doll and note in the box, but there they were laid on my bed. I shrugged and sat on the edge of my mattress.

'Dear Miss. Shannon Hayes, I regret to inform you that you are now the owner of this doll. Her name is Samantha but you can call her Sammy for short. This doll belongs to you until the day you, unfortunately, shall die. Good luck.'

The note wasn't signed and I couldn't recognize the almost illegible handwriting. The date was signed two days ago. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the doll move. I turned to fully look back at her and she wasn't sitting against the headboard, legs crossed. What the Hell? I looked back at the note to reread it and found another paragraph waiting to be read.

'Miss Hayes, I forgot to mention that your death won't be while you're old and brittle. You'll be young, it'll be very painful.'

"Unless," I turned my head with wide eyes to see the doll talking. "you do exactly what I say."

"W-what do I have to do?" I stuttered out.

"You'll find out in due time my dear."

She blinked. The doll freakin' blinked.

"What. Are. You."

"I'm Samantha, a possessed doll that happened to end up with you."

I picked it up by the loose heel of its shoe and stuffed it in any way it fit back into the box. I shoved the window open and threw the doll outside into the neighbor's backyard. Satisfied, I closed the window and turned to go out and get food from the kitchen. I screamed when I saw the doll sitting on my bed, Indian style, holding the note.

"You'll never get rid of me. You'll never escape, because I never sleep. Never."

Welcome to my nightmare.

“How was that?” I asked.

“I liked it but it’s a little short. Is this a short story or is that supposed to be the preface, first chapter?” he asked.

“First chapter. I thought the length was good though. What else would I write?"

“I think you could add more detail, does the doll smell like anything, does it creak when it moves, how old does the doll sound? Like a little girl or an old woman? Stuff like that. The main girl can ask more questions, extend the convo,” he paused.

He took a bite of his pastry and barely chewed before he swallowed. A sip of his drink followed before he continued.

“I want to know what Samantha has the ability to do and I want to know what Shannon is willing to do. I actually wanna know if this whole doll thing is real or just a dream.”

“I was planning to get to that. Like I said, it’s only the first chapter. Who wants to keep reading if I give it all away now?”

He agreed with a smirk and an eyeroll. I listened to the rest of the critique after he looked at it closer. I missed some of the things he said, getting lost in his voice and the way his lips curved when he spoke. The light was hitting the iris just right, I could see them so clearly. His brown eyes matched his skin in tone and made my insides liquify.

It wasn’t the first time I’d zoned out while he was speaking. It was more embarrassing when we weren’t alone, when our friends would catch me in the act and tease until my face was inflamed. I was convinced he had to know how I felt, because all of our friends did but no one had ever said if Kris told them how he felt about me. Would I die before he made the first move? Would I have to make the first move? He pulled off oblivious a little too well. To this day, he never let on that he saw me. Not even now, as he looked up from his coffee.

I looked down at my paper with a loud breath, trying to focus, but it didn’t work. He didn’t ask if I’d been paying attention or what I was looking at so hard. Outside of being his best friend, and spending all this time with him, how could he not see me how I saw him? I would stop, if I could. I didn’t want to like him. I tried to find things to make me dislike him, things that would let me see him as a brother, to see him how everyone else in our group saw him. All I ever noticed were his sweet brown eyes or the way they would turn green when he got excited. Kris’s smile could light an arena and his voice and energy toppled over the brim. He was the guy that stole every room he walked into and acted like he didn’t know it.

There were little things I noticed that I doubt anyone else did. It was exhausting sometimes, to not act on my thoughts and feelings and pretend to keep my cool, act like everything was normal. I was so sure he noticed, like he noticed me staring again right now, but never said a word about it when we were alone.

He had stopped talking by now and was waving a hand in my face.

“Hello, earth to Sara?”

“I’m back, sorry. Definitely spaced out and I don’t know how long ago, so I might’ve missed the entire critique,” I said with a slight grimace.

“I’ll write it down for you,” he said flatly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really. I’d probably lose focus too staring at my devilishly handsome good looks.”

I was a little speechless at first, then found myself debating if he was flirting or joking with me. He pushed on my arm with a smile, telling me to ease up. It was a joke. I cleared my throat and announced that I’d be going to the bathroom. I thought my escape would relieve the tension I was feeling. I did another round of breathing exercises as I looked in the mirror. It didn’t work. I redid it, but only got to five. Five was when someone on the other side knocked on the door.

“Occupied!” I yelled.

I quickly finished the set before I rinsed my hands and exited. There wasn’t anyone waiting on the other side of the door. Had I imagined the knock in the first place? Back at the table, Kris was ripping a sheet out of his notepad, likely his notes, to leave with me. He carefully picked up my worn book and tucked it between the pages of the story. When I sat down, he was sliding it back in place. I was certain the tension was gone when he smiled. We moved on to his story, which he titled Hay Truck.

They threw me off the hay truck about noon. I was hitchhiking from Kansas. Once I mentioned having no money, they made me get out in the middle of a deserted road. I guess they expected me to pay for gas. I slung my bag on my shoulders after a while and headed the way the truck was going. At the intersection, I decided to make a right. I had been walking for a good 15 minutes, singing, well trying to remember the words to I Believe In A Thing Called Love by The Darkness when I stumbled across a young man lying in the cornfield. He was on his back, and I think crying too. I slowly dropped my bag on the side of the road and pushed my way through the shucks of corn.

I remember this part clearly, as these were the last moments of my life. As I got closer to his face I realized that he wasn't crying of sadness, but of laughter, and he had a big smile on his face. I had a strong feeling this would be like a scene from The Children Of The Corn. He threw me down and very carefully cut off each of my fingertips, slowly slicing near the knuckle. I passed out before he began the dissection of the second hand. I woke when he moved to my toes. I slowly began to lose consciousness just as he pressed the blade, completely soaked in my blood, against my neck.

At this point, there's a flashback of my sixth birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. I was screaming bloody murder because Chuck looked like a wet rat trying to give me a hug. Up on stage, the band was "playing" and one's head was backwards, on the girl, one eye was closed and the other one blinked non-stop. I pushed Chuck back and he fell, ruining my cake, and crushing half of the gifts.

I went to another moment soon after that, when I was 11 and I was in a car crash. We were parked on the street next to the house, and my dad and I got in. It was a Saturday night, and where we lived there was always a group of rowdy kids. He started the engine and this car pushed ours toward the house. We crashed into the house, which started on fire. The ambulance was called, and so were the firemen. The car was dragged away from the fire, and they cut through the doors to get us out. I thought I was fine, but it turns out, I had glass in my face, and a broken leg, and cuts everywhere. My dad wasn't so lucky.

“I wanna start by saying this is just a draft and I have no idea where this is heading, so I’ll take anything you got,” he said.

We both liked to write about the darker side of things except his stories usually contained the gory details that mine lacked. He always liked to hear the compliments on those so I made sure to give them and get a chance to see his smile in return. I tried to fight it, but it brought a smile to my face too.

“Don’t hate me for repeating but I’ll give you the same advice you gave me. Give me more about the dad. Clearly, there has to be some connection to the present unless this was just a strong memory that affected how he did everything following his dad’s injuries or death. Maybe more flashbacks or does the narrative continue into the afterlife?”

“Repetition can be good,” he said.

The sound of his voice made me forget what I was gonna say next. It was smooth like the way he smelled and the bass in it vibrated through him to me. I could feel his words. Sometimes I questioned if some of his stories were even good or if they just sounded good in my ears. The writing club either confirmed or denied if I had love blinders on when we met up and everyone else said what they thought.

We spent more time going through, line by line. I was enjoying our close quarters but I kept my eye on the time, watching it creep closer and closer to my curfew.

“Alright, I know we’re cutting it close. Let’s go,” he said.

We had about 20 minutes, it would be just enough time. He started packing his things up and I cleared the table. He knew about the ridiculous curfew and agreed on its ridiculousness, but he would never make me late. I grabbed my bag and waited for him to do the same. Kris was busy eying the cashier, who was another student at our high school. A bit of heat bubbled inside. I stormed past him and went outside. Kris quickly followed. Neither of us spoke on the ride back but it wasn’t completely silent. The wind was blowing through the car and the radio was on. The tension was still there and the feeling of awkwardness.

“Thanks for the ride,” Kris said, as I finally pulled up to his house.

“Well, you’re on my way home. I don’t mind. Not at all… nope. Not one bit,” I replied lengthily. I always talked more than I needed to.

He smiled at me anyway and left the car. I waited until he was inside before I pulled off. I rode with the windows down, trying to air out Kris’s smell. My father had a nose for his cologne and he hated it. No matter how subtle the label said it was, I consistently left windows open and sprayed air freshener to try to rid the seats of the smell. There was also a slight thrill knowing it could lead to a bit of trouble, a revelation of my well-kept secret. It was a few minutes past nine when I parked in the driveway. I knew my father would be waiting in the living room. He did so every time I went out. If it’d been nicer weather, he would’ve been waiting on the porch. The light was off as if he thought I didn’t know he was there. It made him nervous when I left the house and I wasn’t under his supervision. If he didn’t mind having my friends in his home, he would try to force every engagement to be here.

“I said 9pm was your curfew, Sara.”

At this point, I was used to an abnormal greeting. I never walked into a ‘welcome home, how was your day?’ He wasn’t a normal father.

“I drove Maddie home.”

“While I appreciate how much you’ve grown into a ‘good’ person, but you shouldn’t risk your curfew and break the rules to be a good friend. Put yourself first when you need to.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t speak again so I made my way to my bedroom. He never said goodnight either. It was oddly quiet in our two-story home; when I checked on my brother, Tanner, and my mother, they were both asleep. I showered, then laid down myself. I found that I couldn’t sleep because I had an unsettling thought of my father sitting up in his police uniform all night in our ugly plaid armchair. Writing might put my mind at ease. I opened my laptop for light and the notebook to the pages the story was written on. As I suspected, the notes from Kris were waiting for me. I experimented with some of them, rewriting the scene a few times. I was in the middle of the third rewrite when my father appeared in my doorway.

“You have school in the morning,” he stated in a monotone voice.

“Okay,” I said.

He wasn’t going to go anywhere until I shut the laptop and moved it away from the bed. I did the extra mile and left it on my desk across the dark room. My father wasn’t there when I got back in bed. The visual from earlier followed me to my dream world – the only place I thought I could escape him. There, I saw him again with his gun this time, sitting in the same ugly chair. The barrel was aimed at me. I couldn’t speak so I didn’t know how to tell him not to shoot his only daughter. He took the safety off and stood up, his demeanor only becoming more intimidating.

A door appeared to the left and a knock sounded soon after. My father opened the door with his gun ready at his side, revealing a slightly taller version of Kris. Kris wrestled the gun away from my father. My father backed away and sat down in the armchair. Kris came closer to me and stood just in front, protectively.

“He will not hurt you. I will protect you,” Kris said.

He didn’t sound the same, more like a robot. He raised the gun and aimed. Nothing happened then, we all stood and looked across the space at each other. 

“Kris? What’s going on?” I asked.

“Just say the word and I will take care of this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me to kill him and I will. I will protect you.”

“Shoot.”

I sat up straight when I woke up, gaining control of my breathing. My shirt was moist from my sweat, almost soaked through. I couldn’t remember if Kris actually shot my father in the dream but I did remember that I told him to kill my father without a second thought. That was all I could think about while I laid in bed until my alarm went off. The thoughts continued as I was downstairs waiting for the first pot of coffee to brew. The sound of a knock at the front door brought a chill to my entire body and broke the trance I was in. I was the only one downstairs for now, everyone else was awake but still in their rooms.

“Who is it?” I asked, walking over.

No one answered on the other side of the wooden door. It was very early and I didn’t think we were expecting anyone on a Wednesday morning. The peephole didn’t show anyone or anything other than an empty off-white porch. Against better judgment, I opened the door slowly to see if anyone was waiting off the porch, maybe at a car - nothing. Just as it was last night, it was eerily quiet. There was fog rising as well as if it was a scene out of a horror movie. I walked barefoot onto the porch to check again for anyone who could’ve rang the bell.

“Guess it was just my imagination,” I said to myself and went back inside.

The brewer was old so the coffee wasn’t done when I returned, as expected. My hair went up in a bun although it was usually curled. I put on my favorite pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, deciding to take a lazy day with my appearance. By the time I walked back into the kitchen, the coffee was ready. My father was there, pouring some into his own mug. We didn’t speak. As I poured my own cup, he went back upstairs. I decided to leave then, without saying anything to my family.

When I opened the front door, there was a box sitting on the ground. It was addressed to me, so I took it inside and brought it to my room. There was enough time to spare to see what was inside. Inside was a doll that looked exactly like the one I described in my new book, along with a note. It must’ve been Kris, as a joke or inspiration maybe, trying to normalize things after Rizzo’s yesterday. I tossed the package in the corner and went back outside, where the doll was waiting again.