The Doll

A psychological short story I wrote a week or so ago. Enjoy (I'm bad at naming these things too... Please take no notice of the title)!

The mansion staircase before us creaked in harmony with the howling wind. The door, chains encasing the handles, ominously looming above us. The clanking of the metal chains could be heard, despite the gale.

“You ready?”

“’Course. Born ready.”

She doesn’t look it. Quite the opposite, actually. Looking around the area, it seems that this will be the easiest way to get in. She apprehensively walks up to the more than sufficiently large doors leading inside, and I follow. The ivy cascades down one side, it’s fairly obvious this place was built a long while ago, and has been derelict for a good decade or so. Not to mention the rusted iron fencing and the Victorian-style cobbles. Looks like the windows have been boarded for a while too, the screws have rusted to the point of disintegrating as soon as they are touched. The door looks usable, thank god, but cobwebs have been laced intricately between the small gaps. Hasn’t been used in a couple years, the thick layer of dust gives that away. I doubt anyone will be inside; there’s no way they could get in that has been used recently.

She kneels down and pulls a hairpin out of her hair. She inserts it into the lock on the chain and twists it until it clicks and releases the catch. Clever, I never thought to bring one. We pull the (surprisingly heavy) rotten doors open. We both struggle to lift it, but at least it’s open now. Letting her go in first, I light a match and follow quickly. A pungent smell is present, of char and rot. The match gives off little light once the doors are completely shut, but enough to find the control panel for the house. It’s rather confusing, a multitude of switches, lights and buttons, most of which no longer had labels. She manages to find the light switch which she promptly flips. It doesn’t help much, it’s still dark. We’re still able to see though, our eyes will get used to it soon enough. I throw the match away and stamp it out. I’ve found wooden floors don’t take too kindly to live flames.

The interior looks.. almost sterile. It’s large, with a lot of open space. The floor is littered with remains of pool tables, chairs, and even the remnants of a grand mantelpiece. A large pile of glass shards sit in the centre of the hall; likely a chandelier. How archaic, looks like this would have been a lovely house. All that remained intact is a large velvet armchair facing away from us and the mirror (despite being cracked) with intricate scrollwork above where the mantel and fireplace would have been. The rotten wallpaper shone a disgusting magnolia, undecorated and unkempt. A part of the wall is completely demolished, a door lying face down on the floor. Parts of the ceiling have fallen, the next floor visible through the large holes. The rest of the ceiling looks stable, but we best be careful. Anything could happen here.

The magnificent chair is all my eyes can focus on. It unnerves me, something’s wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck standing up, I silently stare. Someone should be sat there. A hero, one who has just completed his goal. He would be sat there triumphantly, a smirk on his face. Yet he isn’t there. He’s missing. Why?  Where is he? She asks me what I’m staring at, I don’t reply. She isn’t important right now. The chair looks.. cold. empty. In a physical sense near, yet somehow far. But that doesn’t matter. He’s not there.

My eyes itch.. My head hurts too.

Deafening ringing makes my ears ache.

I hear a faint “Are you okay?” from her. I struggle to nod a reply.

He opens his eyes, the piercing blue flickering with excitement. He grins despite the pain in his head, and tilts his face down. She looks at him, puzzled:

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He nods with a smirk. He starts walking towards her, hands in his pockets. He puts on hand on her shoulder, and stares.

She’s quivering, and he knows it. He quickly pulls his other hand put of his pocket to reveal a switchblade. Its steel shimmering slightly in the dim light. She stares at him, and tries to remove herself from his grasp on her shoulder. Lightning fast, he turns her around and pulls the blade to her neck. She froze, tears silently falling down her face.

“Trying to run? Where do you think you would go? We know you wouldn’t be able to open the doors.”

Her breath ragged, she is silent, despite the clear distress she’s in. He switches the knife to his free hand so he’s holding around her neck. She doesn’t dare struggle, she knows he can kill her right then and there. She can feel the knife being dragged down her stomach, the pressure light, teasing. He suddenly stabs it into her side; she lets out a strangled scream. She feels sick, powerless to him. She can do nothing but accept her fate. He twists the knife into her side, and laughs slightly. He lets go of her and she drops to the floor.

How pathetic, he muses. Guess he’ll have to finish it. He pulls the knife out of her side, and the blood starts secreting from her crumpled form. He brings the knife up to her face, pressing down into her cheek. Her eyes showing only pure fear as she writhes in pain. He brings it down to her stomach again, this time carving into her insides. She could feel her guts being ripped by him, hysterically laughing as he did so. He still wore the menacing grin, knowing that he will be the last thing she ever sees. Her eyes flutter as she struggles to breathe, wheezing heavily. She’s stopped thrashing now, only slight twitching. He digs the knife deeper into her no longer porcelain skin. Stillness.  

Like a doll. So pretty. She lays there on the ground, in a pool of crimson. Her pale skin marred by the wound. Her blue eyes glassy and glazed over, staring at absolute nothingness.

Laughing, we take our seat on our velvet throne, the doll at our feet. Our blue eyes glimmering with delight.

Author's Note

Be harsh; I encourage it. I'd like someone to say exactly what they think of it.