Ante Mortem

by Jodi Lee, ed.

  Tim curled around himself, leaned against a ramshackle stone. The air wasn’t as cold anymore, but he still shivered. He could hear Them inside, eating, still hungry. There was no enjoyment in Them, just ravenous emptiness.

  He should have left, but he was frozen. His face felt wet, but he didn’t think he was crying. He just sat, staring at the picturesque mausoleum in the dark and hugging his knees to his chest, reciting snatches of things he’d read over the last week in his head, trying to find the one that would save him. Tennyson was no good anymore, but neither was anything else. And then there was the shuddering feeling he got every time Shakespeare appeared.

  When they were done, he heard that voice in his head—the one from last night, cold and silver. You may take him back. We are finished.

  The wall before him shimmered, knotwork blurring. Elliot stepped through, looked right through him with electric eyes. Something dark and viscous trickled down his forehead, from his shining hair. His fine, full lips were an appalling shade of gray, chalky skin stretched too tight over high cheekbones and forehead.

  Tim’s vision blurred.

  Would you like some of what we took from him, or something else? Charm magic, perhaps, to counteract your… defects?

  Tim choked a little. “I don’t want anything.”

  A moment of silence, a ripple through the air. Confusion.

  Tim forced himself to his feet, retrieved his pack. Movements stiff, body numb. He avoided looking at the still-beautiful thing that used to be Elliot. “And I don’t want him back. He’s yours.”

  It was important to have standards.

  The first few steps were the hardest. Past the oblong stone they’d photographed, past the cigarette butts they’d pressed into the ground. Toward the angel with the crumbling wings and the weathered rocking horse, the weight of his camera bouncing reassuringly against his back.

  * * * *

  Hunger Pains

  Myrrym Davies

  Early evening sunlight filtered through slatted ceiling vents, highlighting the cobwebbed rafters with a dim, orange glow. The rest of the attic lay shrouded in shadows; moldering boxes and cast off furniture lining the walls like cloth-draped sentinels, guarding the room’s hidden secrets. Sarah ran the beam of her Barbie flashlight over stacks of dusty crates and discarded sundries, a satisfied grin creeping onto her face.

  There was bound to be some cool stuff buried there. It was just a matter of finding a way past those bulky boxes and boring old furniture.

  She swung the flashlight in a slow sweep and spied a couple of crates she felt she could squeeze between. Her grin widened to a smile of anticipation as she headed towards the back of the room. Today, she would find something really special.

  She could feel it.

  Sarah might have missed the box had the beam of her flashlight not glinted off its latches. It lay in the farthest corner of the attic, half hidden behind a stack of brittle newspapers, its leather top coated in a thin layer of dust. Sarah blew a stray lock of dirty, blonde hair out of her face and aimed the light at the box, a grin dimpling her cheek as she inspected its cracked, brown casing and tarnished hinges.

  Treasure!

  Setting the flashlight on the floor, she grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled. Excitement bubbled in her belly as she dragged the trunk from behind the papers, revealing a row of discolored catches along the front. Images of possible treasures flitted through her mind: photographs, curling and yellow with age; clothes from a forgotten era; colorful costume jewelry. The box could contain anything. She would not know until she cracked the lid and peeked inside.

  Sarah released her grip on the handle and circled to the front of the trunk, examining the pitted catches. Four simple lever clasps—easy enough to open, provided they had not rusted shut. She lifted the first three with no trouble and gazed at the fourth, a grin spreading across her dust-covered face. This was the part Sarah loved most: the moment of discovery. She loosened the final clasp, reached for her flashlight and raised the lid.

  A cracked, wooden face surrounded by blonde curls gazed up at her from a bed of black velvet.

  Cool…a doll!

  Sarah shone the light over her newest find. It was a pretty thing, with golden hair and a pink satin dress, and much larger than most of the dolls she owned—about the size of a two-year-old child. It looks really old, she thought, reaching in to prop the toy up. She repositioned the flashlight and studied the wooden face. Cracked and flaking shellac marred the doll’s features, giving it an almost diseased look. The retractable eyelids appeared glued in a half-lidded state, adding to the toy’s sickly appearance. Twin lines ran from the corners of the Cupid’s bow mouth, curving to meet underneath the chin.

  Maybe the mouth opens and closes, she thought, brushing a renegade curl from the doll’s face. Like those dummies the ventriloquist guys use. Sarah pressed a finger against the doll’s lower lip, but the lacquered teeth remained firmly clenched. She reached around to the back, feeling for some kind of lever or button that might operate the jaw.

  The doll’s eyes clicked open.

  Sarah jerked her hand away and giggled, silently chiding herself for being such a scaredy-cat. She shone the flashlight at the doll’s face, taking in its glassy, green eyes. “Cool,” Sarah said, leaning in for a closer look. The eyes were intricately detailed—from the golden flecks in its glass irises to the delicate lashes on the lids.

  They almost look real...

  “Sarah? Where are you, hon?”

  Sarah flinched and craned her head over her shoulder. “Coming, Momma,” she said, scrambling to stand up. A chill washed over her as she considered what Momma would say when she learned of Sarah’s whereabouts. Technically, she was not allowed to play in the attic (not until Daddy could inspect it for spiders, rusty nails and anything else he felt little girls should not be exposed to), but Daddy wouldn’t be joining them until the end of the week, and Momma had made it clear Sarah was to stay out of the way while she unpacked…

  “Sarah?”

  Sarah sighed and cupped her hands around her mouth. “In a minute,” she yelled.

  She stooped to retrieve her flashlight when a dull clack snapped in the darkness. Sarah whirled around and aimed the flashlight at the leather box, thinking the doll might have fallen to the floor; but there it sat, propped against the velvet interior just as she had left it. She eyed the toy, a combination of curiosity and unease tickling her mind.

  Something’s different, she thought, taking a step towards the box.

  Sarah shone the light over the wooden face and frowned. The doll’s mouth hung slack, the glazed teeth glinting white against the dark, rectangular opening. She took a step towards the box and froze, a definite chill creeping down her back.

  The doll’s eyes flashed yellow.

  “Sarah!”

  Sarah jumped, nearly dropping the flashlight. She fumbled for a moment before steadying her hand to cast a beam of light onto the doll’s face. The eyes glittered green. A burst of nervous laughter exploded from her mouth. It’s just your imagination, stupid, she thought, tucking the flashlight into her back pocket.

  Still chuckling, she lifted the doll from the box and made her way to the attic door.

  Getting the toy down to the main level took a lot longer than Sarah thought it would. The doll’s large size and unbending limbs made navigating the stairs difficult. Sarah reached the landing between the second and first floors, hitched the doll to her hip, and cautiously made her way down the remaining flight of stairs.

  “Sarah? Where is that child...”

  Her momma’s diminutive figure appeared in the kitchen door just as Sarah rounded the balustrade, her foot tapping a short-tempered rhythm on the hardwood floor. Behind her, Sarah’s little sister Laurie squirmed in her highchair, chunky fingers gripping a two-handled sippy cup. The baby banged the cup against the tray a few times, then tossed it onto the floor.

  “Where have you been, girl?” Momma said, a taut sco
wl darkening her normally cheerful face.

  Sarah had seen that expression a lot since the move.

  “Huntin’ treasure,” she said, turning the doll about and holding it up for inspection. “I found a doll. Cool, huh?”

  Momma gave the proffered toy a cursory glance and turned to retrieve Laurie’s sippy cup from the floor. “Looks kind of like that old Suzie Sez doll I had as a kid,” she said, placing the cup on the child’s tray. “Only mine was made of plastic, not wood. Where’d you find it?”

  “In the attic,” Sarah said, returning the doll to her hip.

  Momma crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “What were you doing in the attic?”

  Sarah shrugged and looked at the floor, her toe tracing an invisible pattern on the polished oak planks. “Staying out of the way?”

  Momma closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Look, hon, I’m too tired to argue with you right now, so I’m gonna let it slide this time,”—she shot Sarah an I’m-not-messing-around look—“but you can’t go back up there until Daddy does his ‘safety inspection.’ You know how he is about stuff like that.”

  Sarah nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good. Now go put that doll in your room and wash up. I’ll make us a couple of sandwiches for dinner.”

  Sarah’s stomach grumbled at the mention of food. “Can I have peanut butter and jelly?”

  “Sure. Grape jelly okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sarah shifted the doll to the other hip and mounted the steps. She reached the landing at the top of the staircase and turned left, heading for her room. The doll’s wooden cheek rested against her shoulder, its glassy gaze seeming to bore into the side of her neck. Sarah’s scalp began to prickle, as if she really was being watched…

  A sharp, stinging pain flared in her shoulder. Sarah grimaced and slapped at her arm, but the doll’s head seemed to be resting on the very spot that hurt most. She pushed at the toy, trying to move it away from the tender spot, and the pain intensified. Sarah twisted her head to the side and gasped.

  The doll’s teeth were embedded in the sleeve of her shirt, pinching the skin of her shoulder between its gradually tightening jaws.

  Sarah grabbed the doll’s hair and yanked, whimpering as the lacquered teeth scraped across her flesh. Her arm freed, she released the handful of hair and let the doll drop. It hit the floor with a clatter, a faint, yellow gleam shimmering in its eyes, and the mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

  Sarah’s legs buckled. Leaning against the wall for support, she peeled back the sleeve of her shirt and prodded the abraded shoulder with the tips of her fingers. The skin hadn’t been broken, but she could see the indention of the doll’s teeth outlining the beginnings of what was sure to be a spectacular bruise come morning-time.

  She turned her attention to the doll, eyeing it with a mixture of curiosity and dread. She nudged the doll’s arm with the tip of her sneaker and quickly drew her foot back, half expecting the wooden hand to reach out and grab her. The doll rocked slightly, its eyelids fluttering with the motion. With a shuddering sigh, Sarah picked the doll up and—keeping it at arm’s length—made her way to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

  Her mood lightened tremendously the moment she crossed the threshold. Sarah loved her new room. The rose-colored walls and white wicker furniture made her feel like she had just stepped into Malibu Barbie’s beach house. A Disney Princess poster and perfect attendance award hung on the wall, the only adornments she had found time to hang up. White lace curtains framed a large picture window, the gauzy material fluttering lazily in the evening breeze.

  Sarah sat the doll in the white rocking chair and knelt down, studying the cracked, round face. Hazy sunlight trickled through the curtains, staining the doll’s teeth a dingy orange. Sarah leaned forward and looked closer, inspecting the lines running from the sides of the mouth. She brushed a tentative finger across the lower lip, as if expecting the mouth to snap open at the slightest touch. Maybe the mouth part is broken, she thought, applying some force to the doll’s bottom lip.

  The teeth remained firmly clenched.

  Momma’s voice drifted to her from downstairs. “Sarah? You gonna eat this sandwich sometime tonight?”

  Sarah rose to her feet. “Coming, Momma,” she said, dusting off the knees of her pants. She glanced over at the rocking chair and froze.

  The doll’s eyes flickered yellow and blinked.

  Sarah stepped away from the rocker, a rash of goose bumps puckering the skin of her arms. She backed across the room, her gaze never leaving the wooden face. The doll’s eyes—now back to their customary shade of green—seemed to follow her as she moved. Unease settled around Sarah, filling her with a sudden urge to bolt from the room. Turning her back on the doll, she hurried to the door.

  A soft click echoed through the room. Sarah paused at the threshold, gripping the doorframe tightly enough for her fingernails to indent the molding. She swallowed hard and craned her head over her shoulder.

  The doll’s mouth hung open.

  Sarah jerked awake and sat up, a ragged gasp catching in the back of her throat. Groggy, she blinked away the remnants of a nightmare and squinted at the glowing hands of the Barbie clock hanging above the dresser. Quarter past five.

  She groaned and flopped back against the pillows. She had not had more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep all night.

  A shiver coursed through her body as she recalled the nightmare that had woken her this time—one in which some shadowy predator stalked her through an endless maze of cloth-draped furniture and dusty crates. Sarah was not sure which part was scarier: being lost in the maze or being chased by something she could not see. She shuddered and patted the pillow next to hers, seeking Mr. Roar, the ratty stuffed lion she had slept with since the day she was born. Lions were supposed to be brave, and holding Mr. Roar made Sarah feel more secure.

  Where is he?

  A soft creak startled Sarah from her search. She sat up and pulled the covers to her chest, her head turning in a slow sweep. The creak came again and Sarah froze, her heartbeat pounding triple-time in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glint of silver, like moonbeams reflecting off a mirror. Sarah’s head whipped around, eyes widening as they locked on the rocker in the corner of the room.

  A girl no older than ten sat in the chair, an oversized doll in her lap and a silver hairbrush in her right hand. Soft moonlight slipped through the window, ebbing and flowing over the girl’s form as she rocked to and fro. Long, blonde curls hung around her face, shadowing her features to an indistinct blur. Seemingly oblivious to Sarah, the girl moved the brush over the doll’s locks, her foot occasionally kicking at the floor to set the rocker in motion.

  Sarah cocked her head. “Who’re you?” she asked, her tone more curious than frightened.

  The girl paused her brushing. A pair of green eyes shone briefly from behind the wall of curls, disappearing as the girl turned her attention back to the doll. “Amanda," she said, resuming the steady pass of brush over hair. “Amanda Stilton.”

  Sarah scoured her memories for a connection and frowned. She didn’t know anyone named Amanda. “Um, I’m Sarah Wilkes. We just moved in yesterday.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh.” Sarah’s fingers twisted nervously in the hem of the bedspread. “So, do you live around here or something?”

  Amanda shrugged, seemingly too absorbed in her grooming duties to respond. Sarah turned her attention to the doll in the girl’s lap. It looked a lot like the one she’d found in the attic. “I like your doll,” she said, more to break the silence than out of any real admiration. “What’s her name?”

  Amanda flinched, nearly dropping the silver brush. “Her name’s Beatrice.”

  “Cool. Where’d you get her?”

  “I found her in the attic.”

  Sarah sat up straighter. “Really? That’s weird. I found a doll in the attic too. She’s—” Sar
ah’s words drifted off, her brow furrowing in confusion. She distinctly remembered setting the doll in the rocking chair when she brought it upstairs. Her eyes narrowed to a squint, trying to see through the wash of shadows hovering around the girl.

  “Hey, where’s my doll?”

  Amanda either did not hear the question or chose to ignore it. She sighed and held the doll up by its arms. “I hate her, you know,” she said, giving the toy a good shake.

  Sarah blinked, confused by the sudden shift in topics. “Hate who?”

  “Beatrice,” Amanda snarled, returning the doll to her lap. “She’s mean.”

  Sarah’s brow shot up. “She’s just a doll. How can she be mean?”

  Amanda tossed the hairbrush to the floor and shook her head, the curtain of blonde locks swaying with the movement. “You don’t believe me, either,” she said, sliding from her seat. “Nobody does.” She walked to the foot of the bed and bent over, disappearing from view behind the wicker footboard.

  Sarah pushed the covers off and crawled towards the foot of the bed. “I didn’t say that,” she said, peering over the footboard.

  A cold knot of dread twisted Sarah’s stomach as she watched the girl settle, cross-legged, onto the floor. Pale light poured through the window, highlighting the black welts covering Amanda’s arms from wrist to shoulder. A tattered hole in the girl’s sleeveless smock revealed a gaping wound in her belly, her insides bulging through the gash, glittering sickly in the moonlight. Amanda looked up at Sarah and smiled, black ochre oozing from the ragged holes in her face and neck.

  Sarah gagged and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she gasped, her nose crinkling in disgust. “What happened to you?”

  Amanda shrugged her shoulders and looked away. “She got hungry,” she said, her voice sounding hushed, as if she were telling a dirty secret.

  Hungry? Sarah gulped and gripped the footboard a little tighter. “Who got hungry?”