Terror Scribes

by Adam Lowe

  “Hello, sir, can I be of assistance?”

  Sam turned, a little startled by the voice, and saw a man dressed in a dayglo orange top and cream slacks. His black hair swept across his head in swirls, the lights above picking out indigo highlights.

  “Hi, yes. I’m looking for a toy.”

  The assistant nodded; his painted-on smile patronising in the extreme. Of course he was looking for a toy—it was a toy shop, wasn’t it. “Any particular toy, sir?”

  “I . . . I’m not really sure,” said Sam, his eyes swivelling left and right again. “It’s for my daughter, you see. I’d like to get her something special.”

  “Ah, a little girl. I see.” The man came over to stand beside him, his arm snaking around behind. Without actually touching Sam, he ushered him to a section of the shop so pink it could have been made entirely from candyfloss, and had the same sickening effect. There were fluffy kittens scattered all around the floor, helium balloons with hearts painted on them tied to every shelf, and glitter plastered all over the walls. “This is our girls department, sir,” the assistant told him. “Now what did you have in mind?”

  “I’m not really sure—”

  “An ‘Easy-Peasy’ Baker Oven perhaps, which bakes edible synthetic cakes, a ‘Beautifullicious’ make-up and hairdressing kit . . . ”

  “She’s a little bit young for that,” said Sam. “In fact, well, the toy is a gift to celebrate her moulding day.”

  The assistant jiggled his head up and down enthusiastically. “I understand. What age did you choose, sir?”

  “Six, give or take.”

  “Splendid. All right, then . . . ” The man moved over to one of the shelves and picked up a box. Through the transparent front Sam could see a doll inside. It had frizzy, curly hair and wide eyes that opened and closed when the man shook the container. “How about a ‘Missy Daydream’ doll, sir? Just like the real thing—very life-like.”

  A bit too life-like, thought Sam. It looked the spitting image of Sally, only a couple of years younger. Too creepy.

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? They’re quite popular these days. It’s not real plastic, just a very clever imitation.”

  “All the same, it’s still a bit . . . I don’t know . . . weird. A good idea though,” Sam offered. “Something along those lines, maybe, but less . . . I don’t know . . . ”

  The assistant thought for a moment. “I think I know just the thing. Have you ever heard of a range of dolls called the ‘skins’, sir?”

  Sam couldn’t say that he had. “Are they new?”

  “Not exactly. They’ve been around for a little while, but not that many have been . . . created. We have been known to import them from time to time.”

  “So they’re unique?” Special . . . ? He wanted something special . . .

  The man’s smile remained in place. “Oh yes, quite.”

  “In what way?”

  “They’re grown, sir, not manufactured.”

  Sam had never heard of this. “How do you mean?”

  “They’re not mass-produced. They’re . . . ” The assistant looked around and lowered his voice. “They’re made from something called flesh.”

  Sam frowned, his eyebrows creasing. “Flesh?”

  “That’s right, sir. Not many people of your generation will have heard of it. But it’s a bouncy, springy material. Very durable, comes in various colours.”

  Sam looked down at his own, resin-coated hands; the fingers curled round in a gripping pose. Flesh? It was a new one on him . . . whatever would they think of next?

  “I don’t suppose I could see one of these . . . ‘skin dolls’, could I?”

  “You’re in luck,” said the assistant. “We have one left in the basement. If you’d care to follow me.” He walked stiffly off towards a set of stairs; Sam followed him, knee joints creaking with every step he took. He’d have to remember to lube them when he had a minute or two to spare.

  The basement was extremely dark. A flip of the light-switch revealed rows and rows of untouched stock, hidden away from the world. Boxes of every size and shape. Sam hurried to keep pace with the assistant, walking alongside him down the first aisle.

  “So why is it none of these dolls are displayed upstairs?” he asked the man.

  The reply was considered carefully. “They’re not to everyone’s . . . taste. Only someone like yourself, looking for that very extraordinary gift might appreciate its qualities.”

  Sam wasn’t sure at all about this. But before he had time to say anything else, they’d arrived. The box was one of the biggest down here and the assistant opened up the cardboard flaps on the front. The inside was shadowy, and Sam bent down to peer into the gloom.

  Something moved.

  Sam jumped back, alarmed. “What the hell was that?” he shouted.

  “Please don’t worry,” said the assistant. “It’s just reacting to the light. Happens every time we come down to feed it too.”

  “Feed?” This was getting stranger by the minute.

  “Yes, sir. In order to remain active, the doll must be fed organically. There’s a certain amount of maintenance as well.”

  Sam had recovered his composure and was bending once again. “Maintenance? What, you mean like changing the batteries?”

  The assistant laughed. “Why, goodness me no; it doesn’t require batteries. I mean cutting hair, washing from time to time . . . that sort of thing.”

  Sam noticed that there were bars across the front of the box. The assistant followed his line of vision. “Ah, yes, it comes with its own . . . playpen. Where you can store it when not in use.”

  “Can you get it to come out a little bit further?” said Sam. “I’d like to see it.”

  “Naturally.” The man reached into his pocket and took out a crumbling piece of biscuit. It wasn’t plastic or synthetic, Sam could tell, it was made from something he’d never come across before. “Come here!”

  At first nothing happened, so the assistant rattled the box. “Come on. Food!” he snapped. “That’s right . . . .come on . . . ”

  Sam watched in amazement as a hand reached out into the half-light. It was small and peculiar, it had lumps where it should be smooth—and nails that didn’t look like they were an extension of the hand at all, but rather individual things in their own right, perhaps glued on? The assistant continued with his coaxing, bringing the doll out to the front of the box, to the bars of the playpen. For the first time Sam could see it properly, crawling and shuffling towards him. It was completely bare, pink—but a dull pink compared to his own colouring—apart from patches of red here and there, at the lips and cheeks especially. Its hair was long and brown and flowed over its shoulders. It didn’t just hang there straight down, it seemed to have a life of its own; it was doing its own thing entirely. When it looked back at Sam it was with large, brown eyes; it blinked once or twice but there was no snapping sound. In fact there was no sound at all. He couldn’t take his eyes off this thing, and if it hadn’t shifted its own gaze from Sam back to the biscuit, they might have remained like that, locked in each other’s sight forever.

  The doll snatched the biscuit and shoved it greedily into the wet hole in its face. “Dadda,” it said with its mouth full.

  “It can talk?” said Sam, a little alarmed.

  “Of course. It’s been trained to say the following words: ‘Dadda’, ‘Mamma’, ‘potty’, and ‘thank you’. “

  “Tanku,” repeated the doll.

  “Amazing. There’s no cord or anything,” whispered Sam. Though it was hard to tell without seeing it standing up, the doll looked to be about Sally’s size and age. It would certainly make a unique companion for his daughter.

  “Am I to take it that sir is interested?” the assistant asked.

  Sam didn’t answer quite yet. He was too busy staring at the doll again. The man took this as a good sign and continued to smile his painted-on smile.

  “Hi hon
ey, I’m home,” shouted Sam as he gripped the handle on the front door and pushed. He was so proud of that grip; it was such a fantastic grip.

  “Hi Sam,” shouted his wife from the kitchen area. “I’m just doing some ironing.”

  Sam followed her tinny voice through the hall and into the kitchen. There she was: Suzie, curly blonde hair in ringlets that framed her face perfectly, sunlight from the window reflecting off her shiny forehead, black eyelashes batting so fast they almost created a draft. Her tall, statuesque frame was complemented by a patterned gypsy-style top and a pair of tight jeans cut off just below the knee. Her white rubber shoes had little straps that curved over her delicate feet. God how he loved her.

  The pair embraced and he gripped her shoulders, as he often did, pulling her in closer to him. Sam and Suzie kissed, heads clacking together, mouths meeting but never opening; Suzie running her fingers over his felt-covered head. When they were finished, Sam pulled away and said. “Well, I’ve managed to find a very special present for little Sally’s moulding day.”

  “Really,” said Suzie, beaming. “What?”

  “You’ll never guess in a thousand years, Suzie.”

  “Not another pet, Sam. We have a hard enough time keeping an eye on Ginge and Tinkerbell.” As if on cue, the two cats appeared in the kitchen—one through the flap in the back door, the other from behind Sam. Both were ‘meowing’ electronically as they brushed up against Suzie and Sam.

  “No, not a pet as such,” said Sam. “I’ve got her a toy.”

  “Oh, Sam, I thought we’d discussed this already . . . ”

  Sam gripped one of her dangling ringlets and wound it around his hand playfully. “I know, honey. But, well, this is different. This doll is so—”

  “A doll?” said Suzie.

  “Baby, it’s not like anything you’ve ever seen before . . . ”

  “Sam, you’re so easily led. How much did it cost?”

  “That’s not important. I just know Sally’s going to love it.”

  “It’s not one of those creepy ‘almost real’ ones is it?”

  Sam shook his head. “Look, it’s probably better if you see for yourself.” He took Suzie outside by the hand, gripping it firmly all the way. Sam led her to the bright red Ford Escape SUV on the drive. He put his hand through one of the windows—none of which contained any glass—reached into the cream-coloured interior and flipped the switch for the boot. There was a snick as it opened and Suzie walked around the back.

  “It’s inside the box?”

  “Yep,” said Sam. “But we’ll get it inside first before I open it. Oh boy, are you in for a treat!”

  Sally’s moulding day arrived, and Sam and Suzie snuck the box—now covered in wrapping paper and a bow—into the upstairs bedroom for her to discover first thing in the morning. Suzie had taken some convincing about the present at first, even though she admitted she had never seen anything like it before; it was certainly not what she’d been imagining. But as soon as the doll uttered the word ‘Mamma’ and looked pleadingly up at her, she relented. Sam was right: Sally was going to adore this unusual gift.

  As soon as they heard Sally stirring, and then whooping with joy, Sam and Suzie burst in and shouted. “Happy Moulding Day!” Both stood there proudly watching their daughter, strawberry hair in pigtails, eyes the size of small plates, remembering the day when they’d donated their own plastic to form her. It had been a major decision, but they had always talked about starting a family since the moment they met. And neither had regretted it for a second.

  “What is it? What is it?” screamed Sally, jumping up and down.

  “Why don’t you open it and see?” suggested Sam, giving nothing away.

  Sally tried to undo the bow with her stubby fingers, but couldn’t find a purchase. Suzie patted Sam on the arm, and he was more than happy to help—grabbing hold of the ribbon from his side and tugging gently. It wasn’t long before the box was open, and the pen exposed. Inside was the doll, cringing slightly in the corner. It was dressed in a purple outfit with frills—just one of an assortment the man from the shop had given Sam.

  “Wow!” said Sally, hardly able to believe it. “A dolly!”

  “Do you like it?” asked Suzie.

  Sally nodded enthusiastically; she’d never seen anything like this either, and was desperate to start playing. “Can I? Can I?” She was looking for the opening to the pen.

  “Sure,” said Sam. “She’s yours, after all. Any idea what you’re going to call her, Sally?”

  His daughter stopped and thought about this, then said. “Clara.” She opened the pen and tried to pull on Clara’s arm, but again couldn’t get a proper hold. Sam wished sometimes he’d insisted on gripping hands like his own.

  “Here, try this,” he said, giving Sally a piece of bread.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s what the doll . . . it’s what Clara eats.”

  Sally held it in her podgy palm. “Come on out, Clarabel. You and me are going to be friends.”

  Still hesitant, the doll crawled towards her and took the bread. “Tanku,” it said. “Tanku.”

  Sally played with the Clara doll all that morning, having an imaginary tea party, dancing to the latest bopping beats, then dressing it up in a variety of garbs. Sam had to remember to change the doll’s undergarment around dinnertime though—as the assistant had said, that’s what keeps it going: in one end, out the other. There were no batteries required with this little beauty.

  At her Moulding Day celebrations later on, Sally showed Clara off to everyone. All the other girls her age were very jealous—even the ones with Missy Daydreams, which their parents had never really cared for anyway. And Sam had to go through the mechanics of the doll with curious mothers and fathers as they watched the children play. It’s called what? Flesh?

  Only during a game of swings out in the back garden was there a small problem, when the Clara doll fell off onto the ground. Sally came running over to fetch Sam, yelling that there was something strange and red coming out of Clara’s mouth. Puzzled, Sam dabbed at Clara’s lip with a piece of rag, finally holding it there until the liquid seemed to dry up. He shrugged when Suzie joined him, as puzzled as she was.

  “Tanku,” the doll said quietly.

  All Sam could think was it must be something to do with the ‘growing’ process that the assistant had been talking about; unique to these so-called flesh dolls. Whatever the case, Clara was soon dragged off for the children to play with until it was time for them to leave.

  As the days went by, Sally seemed to lose interest in the Clara doll. Sam tried to get her to play with it, but just as quickly as the novelty had taken hold, it wore off in about the same time. A week later and Suzie was starting to get a bit annoyed at being the only one who fed and changed the doll; that’s when she remembered to do so—usually reminded by a mewling noise the doll had started to make. Often hours would go by and no one would even think about Clara in her pen. Sally was too busy watching the paper screen TV or chasing the cats.

  When she did take Clara out, it was only to make her the butt of jokes and games. Sam was a little shocked to walk into the bedroom and find Clara taped to a chair, with Sally throwing hard rubber balls at her. Where the projectiles had connected with its skin, the doll had turned a purple colour—obviously to match her dress, which hadn’t been changed since that first day out of the box.

  “Mamma,” Clara was crying with each thud of the ball. “Mamma.”

  “Sally, stop that right now,” Sam had shouted, then ordered her downstairs. He’d untied the doll, grasping the sticky tape firmly and unravelling it—and their eyes had locked again. Sam paused for a moment when he saw her leaking again, when he saw the wetness in the corners of her big, brown eyes.

  “Tanku, Dadda.”

  Sam placed her back in the pen and turned off the lights.

  On Clara’s last day in the house, Sally went too far.

  She thought it would be a good idea
to see what would happen when you overfed the doll. Ramming biscuit after biscuit into its mouth, Sally laughed when Clara tried to cough it up again. “You’re the one who has to eat,” said Sally. “not me.”

  It was as she shoved another piece of bread into Clara’s mouth that the doll clamped down on Sally’s stumpy fingers. She bit through them almost up to the palm. Sally cried out in shock and alarm, swinging her other arm round to strike Clara.

  It was then that the arm came off at the socket.

  When Suzie raced upstairs, she saw the scene: Clara with Sally’s hand in her mouth, the arm waving about in the air; and her daughter—her precious daughter!—on the floor screaming, dismembered by this foreign ‘toy’ Sam had thought it was so clever to bring into the house . . .

  Clara spat out the arm. “Mamma.”

  Suzie went into a rage, lunging for the doll. She struck it and it fell to the floor with a bump. “Potty,” it said, then leaked all over the floor because nobody had remembered to change her in a week. The puddle spread and Clara just sat there shivering. As Suzie approached again, the doll made a dash for the bedroom door—clambering over the bed and racing for safety.

  Sam was at the open doorway. He let out a painful groan when he saw his baby lying on the floor, then a startled grunt as Clara crawled between his legs and onto the landing.

  “Come back. Come here!” he shouted, turning and grabbing. He gripped her dress, ripping it at the shoulder, but Clara didn’t stop. She spun around, backing off as Sam followed her.