The Dollmaker

New way of living can be confusing. (This content is very much inspired from House of Wax, and Dead Silence, two top notch horror movies in my point of view.)

My name is Solace, and my personality is contradictory to my label, and that, and only that, is the exact reason why I was sent to live with my grandfather, a recluse. 

"And now, young man, remember," my mother lectures, "we have sent you to almost every boarding school we know of, and now our last hope is this humble man, who rectified your father when he was your age."

My father is dead now, but he had lived life to the fullest. A luxurious house, thousands of mines under his ownership, and a treasury which, I think, was all the wealth of the Victorian Age doubled. The competition to other businessmen. Apparently, in his teenage years he was crooked, narrow minded and selfish. He forged checks, ransacked apartments, consumed drugs, and was a local celebrity due to his wrongdoing. And then, one day, his father, whom anyone with a common sense would make out as my grandfather, took him to live in his bungalow for a day. The next day, he was a new person. A hardworking schoolboy, and a persevere human being. 

And then he was Mr. Perfect all along. Or at least until he died of tuberculosis aged 45.

"Long time no see, grandson." grandpa said. Sarcasm dripped from his scrawny voice.

"We saw in the last Family Reunion."

"Ah yes, blimey, I do forget things a lot. I actually do my best to stay away from these gatherings. But your Aunt Betsy, you know, my eldest offspring with an idea of 'togetherness'-"

"Later, grandpa, because Solace is here to spend a few days and return as a civilized human being." my mother urged. 

"Then you should visit a boarding school, why come to me?"

"He has been expelled from every school we know. He cheats in examinations and steals pens."

"Typical schoolboy." he commented. "You should try St. Patrick's, Delilah."

"You mean the last school?"

"Even them? This requires me, yes, daughter in law, on second thoughts, you've come to the right place."

"We are so glad to hear that."

My grandfather turned to look at me curiously. 

"What do you like to do?"

Random question. "Um.. eat and sleep."

He laughed, slapping my back, "Just like my Jerry, it's a pity he's dead. How old are you, my boy?"

"15." I said with more ease.

"And underweight." he said, punching my arm, making me groan in pain. "Lazy too."

"See?" mother looked at me, earning a glare. 

"He needs correction." he scratched his chin. "Well, what're we waiting for? Bring in his clothes and other things."

"They are in the car. I'll tell the chauffeur-" began mother, but grandpa cut across.

"Chauffeur? What chauffeur?"

"You know, the employee..."

"Good boys don't need chauffeurs to carry their luggage! You'll handle that, won't you, Solace?"

"I could use some help-" I began.

"No help! Come on, where is the strong boy beneath the bony features?" he pushed me, and I stammered, I was not used to this treatment. 

Our driver, Gardiner, looked at me in a mocking way, and I gritted my teeth at the maniac as I unloaded the car, and with a lot of effort, brought it out of the car and placed it in the patio.

After tea and biscuits, and some light conversation, mother departed in the car, leaving me in hell.

I sat in the tea room, marveling at the huge house he owned. I was a child of a rich family, yes, but this house was more rich in art than money. There were expensive French doors, delicate glassware, an aesthetic figure of Aphrodite in the middle of a square shaped clearing in the house. All in all, it was fascinating. 

"What are you looking at, son? Tea is over, now take the tea cups, go to the kitchen and wash them."

This was no good omen, and just as I had thought, I was not going to like my stay in grandpa's house. 

The days that followed were balmy and dull. Every morning, I was in charge of 'cleaning' the house. It was already spick-and-span with shining floors, but still, the old hag was making me do this. 

One day I was dusting a shelf filled with antiques, my mind pondering on the days I spent at my own house, just ordering my servants to do this and that. And in my daydreaming, I suddenly tripped over something. I inwardly cursed myself- I was so dead. I looked down and realized that it was one of his tiles.

I had heard at tea time the day mother left me here, that grandpa had brought these at an auction in Venice during his Eurotrip. I was shocked at first, but then I realized that I hadn't damaged it, and sighed with relief. But it was curious to see that the tile was slightly elevated from the others. 

I leaned closer, but heard the shout 'SOLACE!' that I had grown to hate so much, and cursed.

In the days that followed, my prime center of interest was that one elevated tile. It was dumb of me, but still, I felt curious, and one day, when grandfather was out for a stroll, I captured the perfect opportunity. 

I encircled the tile and looked at it closely- the aesthetic designs and all. That was when, at last, that I spotted something peculiar. A tiny opening in the corner. I pushed aside the tile and realized that it was fixed to the floor on one edge.

Like some elementary kid in a fantasy novel, I exclaimed, "A secret passageway!"

At first I wouldn't go. It could be anything. There could be anything. Spiders, snakes, all those creepy crawlies that I was afraid of. But curiosity steered me forward. 

Once I entered, I knew there was no turning back, because the tunnel was very much congested. And descending the stairs, I saw something- the most horrific thing I have ever seen. 

A dimly lit room. There was a portrait- an old one of my grandfather, in his younger ages, dressed as a wood carver. I thought he was going for some fancy dress competition or something, but I got suspicious when I saw a cupboard hidden by a long, dirty old sash. I pulled it off and gasped.

Horrific looking dolls. They were very realistic. Some had stains of red liquid which I could not identify- paint? Blood? I touched. They were coated in wax, and beneath them, I could feel wood. I was at the peak of getting rather interested, but that was when I saw a coffin in the corner. I opened it, not trusting myself to look at it with sanity. And I screamed in a way that my mother, if she were there, would describe as unmanly. 

A skeleton. I had three guesses as to what my grandfather's profession was. 

1. Professor in Biology. 

2. Artist.

3. Wood Carver.

4. KILLER. 

"Observant young man." I heard grandpa's voice. "Very observant."

I shivered. "What is this?" I almost screamed, pointing at the skeleton.

"Your father, Solace. Your father." 

"Don't joke, grandfather. October is months away, April 1st too." 

"You plague of a boy! I am not joking. Have you not witnessed my artwork?" he pointed towards the shelf. "I am not an artist- well, in a way, I am, for all these are my creations- my lovely creations, yes."

"What?"

"Count the number of dolls."

I counted, there were nine of them.

"I hope you know how to count? Well, the tenth, he is your father's dolllike representation. And the one in the corner, your Aunt Betsy. And the others- your other aunts and uncles. I have their coffins here too."

"Are you mad?" I asked.

"No, you are the one. Let me explain. I was very keen on carving wood. I began to love it, I was obsessed by it. And this infatuation led to me thinking of killing my children and remembering them as pieces of wood. Betsy was the easiest, for she was my most loving daughter. So one day, I called for her, and when she did come, I killed her, by strangling her, for I could not wish her a painful death- her being my favorite daughter. After nine of them came the hardest project, Jerry, your father. He came to know about this business eventually. My only son with a common sense. 

I tried to make him come alone to this room, but he was very careful, and I was glad when things took a wrong turn in his teenage when he started bringing a bad name to the family. I took it as a challenge to rectify him and so, since he wouldn't come to the room, I decided that I would have to try something else. And so, I poisoned him. To death. And then. I made a wax doll befitting his form. My collection is complete, and now I live a contented life."

He smirked towards the end. 

"But I saw Aunt Betsy just last year! Are you nuts?"

"No, grandson, I have executed my plans carefully up to this time. I have knowledge in paranormal activity. You believe afterlife does not exist. But I do. I have an army of dolls, and they are at my finger tips. They live and act like human beings. My remarkable talent."

"Daddy..." I heard a young childish voice of a girl, and I looked around to see the Betsy doll stir much to my horror. "Who is this boy?"

"Your nephew." smiled grandpa.

"You mean Jerry?" it asked, looking at me. 

"Yes, sweetheart. Jerry."

"According to what you say," I began, "The relatives I've seen are all... dolls. But how can I be born to a wax doll and a human?"

"The only real person you saw from your paternal family is me, yes, you are right. And yes. It is possible to be half wax doll, half human. Did you think your lack of physical strength was due to laziness? No, my boy. Your skin is weak. A character you inherited from wax doll daddy."

"Why do you do this?"

"Because of a force I like to call, INTEREST. And now, what about a grandchild doll collection? I could transform you into a full wax doll, yes I could." he smirked, and his snakelike arms reached out.

I screamed. Everything blacked out.

Author's Note

Constructive criticisms, please. And forgive me for the errors, I am too lazy to edit. Also, thank you in advance if you like it, which I am doubtful of, considering the lame ending and confusing storyline. :)

Reviews

[Faabi]

I liked the skeleton oy the story.But as you are aware it needs considerable improvements. The beginning was just okay, the middle part was gripping ie my heartbeat increased slightly but the ending was confusing. And also I felt a mixture of British and american english in your story.It would help if you do research about indian english writings and writers .It would help to develop your own writing and style