With Strings Attached

by A. A. Vacco

  Kat rolled her eyes and sighed. "Well, I can say I'd be thrilled to work for you, Mrs. Valor. I can start as soon as next weekend. Do we need a key or anything to get into the house?"

  Mrs. Valor nodded, "Yes of course. Here.”

  She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a key ring. Removing a silver key with a red marker on the end of it, she said, "This will get you into the main entrance of the mansion and the shed out back. Everything you need should be in the shed and in the closet at the end of the main hallway. I'll leave a checklist for things to clean and another list for things to do during business hours. It's fairly straight forward, but if you need anything, please give me a call. The phone at the front desk has our number written next to it."

  Kat leaned forward and took the key from Mrs. Valor. Mrs. Valor turned her attention to Elle. “Can I expect a reply from you by this Wednesday? Otherwise I'd like to give Kat another set of hands and will need to see who else wants to apply."

  "Yes, of course," said Elle, "I can let you know by then. Um, do you mind if we go through the mansion on our way out? I'd like to get a look at what we'd be taking on." She'd seen the place dozens of times, but sizing it up from a maintenance perspective warranted another viewing.

  "Oh of course! Well, Kat has the key; you two can head over there now and just give me a ring once you have a decision. Kat, I'll see you Friday evening to go over some things for Saturday morning."

  Both girls stood, made their way down the short hall and into the main entry. They slipped back into their shoes and jackets brought to them by Mrs. Valor, who thanked them and directed them toward the mansion as they left.

  They arrived at the rickety porch of the mansion and Kat felt a familiar prickle of fear crawl into her chest. Her heart rate picked up and her hands felt clammy. Elle noticed and nudged her with her elbow. "C'mon Kathy, it'll be fine. There’s light this time, and you know what to expect. It really doesn't get much spookier than it did the other night, I promise."

  Kat wanted to believe her. Also, if that nickname stuck she would never forgive Elle, and advised her of this. Elle smirked and gestured toward the door. Once again, the door clicked without the use of a key and slowly creaked open. Elle's prerogative to terrify Kat no longer existed, so she took the lead. They entered the main area and located the time cards and checklists. Nothing out of the ordinary in terms of reasonable expectations. Elle still wanted to see the building and grounds to ensure she wasn't getting in over her head. She took the papers from Kat's hands and stuck them back into the top drawer of the counter. She grabbed Kat's forearm and pulled her into the first room on the right. They made their way down the hallway once again. The stringless marionette sat motionless on the shelf in the otherwise vacant room. Kat did not entertain the thought of who placed it back there. As they passed, however, it once again clattered to the floor. Kat jumped a little, but then caught herself. "Right," she whispered, "that is normal for this house."

  "Uh huh," replied Elle, unfazed as she studied the floors and windows. The floors would be easy enough with the right mop. The windows had some hand prints, but they weren’t too dirty. Most didn’t have a screen, she noted. The trick would be the dusting, especially the mirror-lined walls in sunroom that was packed with too many dolls to see much shelf space.

  As Elle calculated the amount of work they'd be doing, Kat continued to try to take in the place. Her intense fear and limited vision on her first walk through clouded her assessment considerably. She missed most of the rooms' arrangements as a result of both. It was easier to evaluate things without being limited to the single beam of a flashlight. The dolls’ heads still turned as Kat and Elle passed by. Kat wasn't sure she'd ever get used to that, especially when they blinked.

  Elle knew all the exits, so she showed Kat how to get out of the maze of rooms through several back doors. They were hard to see and hidden behind bookshelves cluttered with dolls. Kat decided the worst were the baby dolls because they were the closest to being lifelike. Their makers put in a great deal of time with the detail in their faces, eyes, and moveable limbs. She also felt a general uneasiness as she walked past a brass cabinet with glass doors in one of the back rooms. The encasement displayed three dolls and it stood apart from the other cluttered displays. The doll in the center caught the most attention. It was dressed in what Kat assumed to be a hand knitted dress. It stood for the time being, but according to Elle, changed positions quite a bit. The thing Kat found most disturbing, though, was that it was one of the few dolls with a hand painted face, including the eyes. Even still, those dark eyes seemed to blink and follow her as she walked by. The other two dolls were from a similar era with just as much detail as the one centered. They moved too, but never past the centered doll. They wore different clothing. Vibrant, bright robes and sashes, Kat noticed. They had darker skin tones and thick, dark hair. Aside from the mansion’s general eeriness, Kat felt the most apprehension when she stood near that display. When she asked Elle about it, Elle didn't seem to notice it. "You'll get used to it, Kit-Kat," she kept repeating.

  "Yea, yea," grumbled Kat. "If you say so."

  The outside felt different. Once Kat stepped beyond the threshold to any door leading outside, the heavy, chilling sensation dissipated. The quarter acre of land that the mansion sat on consisted mostly of grass with a few bushes on the east part of the lot. In the back yard, a white birch tree stood in the back corner. Most of the leaves had already fallen from its branches and gathered in crunchy piles around the base. A stubborn few, though, kept a delicate hold onto the birch, finishing out their color changes.

  Elle unlocked the wooden door to the shed. A lone bat screeched and flew out, causing both her and Kat to duck and cover their hair. With a giggle, Elle shook her head and stood to examine the contents inside. She found a rake, a shovel, a lawn mower, a red gasoline tank, and other random yard care items. It was plenty, and surprisingly organized. Elle expected a cluttered, rusty collection of equipment based on the wear on the shed’s outer walls. Kat eyed the damp space and stopped at the far back corner of the shed. There hung a freshly cleaned rifle. Familiar with firearms, Kat took it down and examined it further. It was fully loaded. The end smelled of gunpowder, and Kat told Elle she thought it was fired recently.

  Elle shrugged. "Well, we are in the woods. I'm sure Mr. Valor hunts. God knows there are plenty of deer out this way."

  "Yea, that's true," agreed Kat. But she wasn't satisfied. She saw that the Valors had a much newer shed of their own, and wondered why they wouldn't keep their gun in there.

  The thought left her, though, as they walked back inside and toward the main entrance of the mansion. Just as they were about to exit, Kat felt her heart jump into her throat. A cool, icy sensation set onto the left side of her neck, as if someone's cold hand pressed against her. No other part of her felt it, and when she turned to see what it was, she saw nothing. She tried to call out to Elle, who was a few steps ahead of her, but words weren't coming. After a few dragged out seconds, Elle turned back to see what was holding Kat up. She smirked at Kat's pallor and said, "C'mon, you knew what you were getting into," and moved past the door frame and onto the porch.

  Kat rushed after her and they turned for home. As they walked, Kat began to regret her winter job decision, but she hated backing out of commitments. She turned to begging Elle to take the job too. If she was stuck in a haunted hell for three months, she might as well take Elle down with her. Elle just smiled and said, "We will have to see.”

  7

  New York City, NY, 1888

  Frank sat in silence, watching the rain pelt the glass of the kitchen window. Four months since he lost Myra and the house maintained a resounding melancholia in her absence. He barely slept, and spent most of his time drowning in a bottle of whiskey in front of the fireplace. When he did leave the house, it was for food or to make an appearance at whichever job site required a quick sale of medical supplies. He could do the work in his sleep, and complete sobri
ety was not necessary. Unfortunately, he found himself able to catch several hours of sleep only if he took down enough of the whiskey to pass out. Otherwise, he kept close company with his thoughts. The short bursts of sleep Frank managed to get were filled with dreams, and more often than not, he found himself back in Kansas at the table with a life-sized Lucy. No substantial conversations occurred, though, because he woke up frequently.

  The actual Lucy doll didn't help the situation, either. He often found the doll anywhere but where he left her. He convinced himself he moved Lucy in his drunken stupors, forgetting about it until the following day. But even more unsettling, Frank kept finding blood stains on the doll. He spent hours the night Myra died scrubbing the doll, but he would randomly discover missed stains. Sometimes there were distinct, dried dark droplets on the face, other times the hem of the dress appeared dipped in crimson. Although it had been months since Myra’s death, Frank was still unable to come up with a valid explanation for the odd feeling he got around his wife’s doll. He kept coming up with fresh reasons for the otherwise unexplained occurrences. The bloodstains, for instance, were just residual stains that appeared to come off, but once the water dried, resurfaced from insufficient scouring.

  One evening, Frank threw back a few more shots of whiskey than his usual intake. With his gaze toward the fireplace, he slowly watched the fiery flourishes blur into an orange ball of light. The glow grew dimmer as Frank's eyelids grew heavier, gradually closing. Soon he was unconscious.

  8

  Several hours passed. The flames simmered; their warmth replaced by a cool draft. Frank slumped down into the couch, whiskey bottle leaning against his right side in a loose grip. The left hand rested on his chest rising up and down with each deep, audible breath. He stirred when the fire hissed out completely. The damp air chilled his drunken figure, and Frank's eyes fluttered. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming or actually seeing this, but Lucy, initially placed on Myra's chair next to the fireplace, was now resting next to the hand on his chest. The heaviness of his body prevented him from moving. He wanted to run, scream, push the doll to the floor, but he was unable to do anything. The doll sat facing him, staring. The head slowly tilted to the right, mirroring the angle of Frank's head. A slow, cherry-lipped smile crept across the hand-painted face. The lips are typically pursed, Frank recalled, but they’re definitely moving now.

  The smile stopped just before it became a full grin. Just a thin smile, nothing more. The dark eyes locked with Frank's. He felt beads of sweat rolling down his back. His legs ached with cramps from trying to move them. Even that traitor of a left hand refused to give him even a tremor to tip the doll off his chest. He focused on the eyes. With his full attention on the doll, Lucy's thin smirk grew. Now it was a full grin, and there were teeth. Frank's heart clamored against his ribcage. Part of him hoped that it would burst out and cause the doll to fall to the ground. The doll's right arm lifted from her side in a slow, steady motion. It stopped when it was just above Frank's hand, and dropped atop his. He felt the smooth porcelain against his clammy skin. It felt like a heavy stone and he was unable to move from under its touch. But the teeth-when did this doll develop teeth? Frank frantically processed. They sat moments longer, Frank's inebriated, petrified body in a stare down with a porcelain doll.

  To Frank's increasing horror, the pearly white grin widened. The incisors on the doll were notably pointed. Fangs? Does she actually have fangs?

  Fangs or not, the grin maintained its width that now seemed menacing. Frank's heart began to skipped beats, causing his vision to blur. His shirt clung to his back from his profuse sweating. He felt the dampness on his forehead starting to trickle into his eyes, but he couldn't blink. Lucy’s frozen gaze persisted. Then, the painted right eye winked at Frank. The quick break in eye contact was enough to return mobility to Frank's body. He flung his left arm away from his chest and launched the doll into the wall. He expected the doll to shatter, but only its arm separated from the rest of the body. Frank leaped to his feet and stood over the doll, fists clenched and ready to fight. He panted and continued pouring sweat that now splashed onto both the floor and Lucy's still form. The doll remained face down. Frank still hovered.

  By the time the early morning rays broke through his windows, his heart rate was slowing, close to normal. Frank shivered with the chill of the damp house enveloping him. He was completely sober, and a migraine threatened to emerge. His legs felt like someone bludgeoned them courtesy of the relentless cramping. As shaky as he was, Frank refused to even consider sitting back down, fearing the charade would replay as soon as he dozed off. At last, he gathered his remaining strength and kicked the doll onto its back. No more teeth. No tilted head. Not even a smirk. Lucy's vacant stare and pursed lips appeared as they always did. The only proof of last night's freak show was the detached limb. Frank had no intention of reattaching it. In fact, he fully planned on disposing of the doll once he believed he could walk more than several steps without falling. Trembling, Frank ambled back toward his bedroom, closed his door and locked it. He flopped onto the bed face down, quickly possessed by a deep slumber.

  9

  Eventually, Frank's shivering broke his stupor. He fumbled to pull the blankets on the bed over him. It was no use; the chill had settled into his bones. He lumbered toward the washroom and filled the tub halfway with water. Then he made his way into the kitchen and started up the stove to boil some water. One of the first stoves available for in-home use, he recalled, but was too exhausted to relish the thought.

  He hoped a hot bath would ebb out the cold. Frank was certain he had a fever at this point. Each of his joints ached, and his muscles felt bruised. As he stood in the kitchen, he gulped down a glass water to quench his dry mouth. Finally, the water over the stove came to a boil and he carefully took it back and added it to the bath. He peeled off his clothes and sank into the warmth of the tub. Once again, Frank succumbed to another feverish sleep.

  He slowly regained consciousness once the water temperature dropped enough for the shivering to return. He dragged himself out of the tub and dried off with a nearby towel. He hurried back to the bedroom and started layering on clothing. Once dressed, Frank sat on the edge of the bed and took in some deep breaths. He was still terrified of returning to the living room where Lucy presumably remained. He needed to figure out how to dispose of the porcelain gargoyle.

  But did the doll pose a real threat? Frank mulled this thought over. He was incredibly drunk during the ordeal, and once he sobered up, the doll returned to its lifeless state. Regardless, Frank decided, it must go.

  Even if his intoxicated brain did enjoy bringing the doll to life, it was now too frightening to deal with, real or not. With a final exhale, he stood up and made his way to the living room. He found Lucy's arm still on the floor where it landed, but the doll was back in a seated position on Myra's chair. Several droplets of dried blood pooled under both eyes. Methodically removing a handkerchief from his back pocket, Frank wiped the maroon crusts from the doll, picked up the arm, and made his way toward the backyard.

  It wasn't much of a yard, mostly a concrete garden with an iron fire pit and a solitary red oak tree in its early stages of growth. Frank smiled as he recalled Myra picking it out at the nursery just down the road. She hoped to watch it grow into a full-sized tree over the course of their lives. She told him she could fit both hands around the trunk and over the years she would use that to measure how big it grew. When she couldn't wrap both arms around it, then it would be done growing. Frank never argued the logic; it made sense to her and it made her happy, so why disagree? The tree stood surrounded by a lone patch of grass. The remainder of the small grounds were covered with cement. The fire pit was piled with logs, but it was usually too rainy or cold to enjoy an outdoor fire just yet. Tonight, however, Frank had plans to do just that. Not considering its porcelain structure, he lifted the top log and replaced it with Lucy. He then anchored the log atop the doll and lit a match. The rain had stopped h
ours before, but the damp wood hissed into an ascending trail of smoke when the match kissed it. Frank sighed and went for the canister of kerosene he kept just inside the back door. After retrieving it, he proceeded to saturate the wood with fuel. Lucy's dress and hair soaked up the kerosene as well, until the entire pit was flammable. Frank took two steps backward and lit the match. He carefully leaned forward. He flicked the lit match into the pit and jumped back. With a whoosh, flames engulfed the structure. Fortunately for the cement foundation, the fire remained in one place. Frank sat and watched the fiery battle within the metal basin. Black smoke poured up toward the sky and he wondered if the fire department would drop by. He stared at the blazing enchantment for a few minutes, then went back inside, glancing out the kitchen window periodically to monitor the flames. Finally, as the fire settled, all he could see was a large pile of ashes and embers. He didn't bother going back out to dig and see what was left of the doll. He doubted anything would be left of it after the amount of heat the fire concocted. Turning from the window, Frank poured himself a glass of whiskey, and sat down. He stared into the back yard and watched the rain start to peck at the window once again.

  Frank dozed off with his head down on the kitchen table, empty glass in his right hand and an almost empty bottle to his left. His face smashed against the hard, oak tabletop, but this wasn't what woke him. He coughed a few times, but couldn't clear his throat. The room felt warmer than he expected, and even after blinking several times, his eyes felt dry and the room remained hazy. Suddenly, Frank noticed a familiar glow coming from the living room, accompanied by more haze. No, not haze, smoke. Smoke?

  He hadn't even lit the fireplace. Before he had time to think about how this had happened, he heard a loud crash where the staircase stood near the front entrance. He believed the banister or something from upstairs likely caved and fell. A strong gust of fiery smog blasted Frank onto the floor just as he attempted to stand. He sat, mystified, staring as the flames swallowed the living room. A few licked the kitchen door frame. Frank frantically scooted toward the door leading out to the yard. He tried yelling for help, but ended up in a coughing fit. He prayed the fire department saw the smoke this time, and wondered if he could even make it out the back door. Still gasping for air, Frank flipped himself onto his stomach and started dragging himself across the floor by his elbows. The exertion caused him to breath heavier, and the coughing increased. Frank's vision started to darken. He was only an arm's reach away from the door, but even that seemed too far. Every reach took maximum effort. The coughing turned into a raspy wheeze. Frank used the last of his strength to lean up against the back door and try to catch his breath. He grasped for the knob and turned it as hard as he could. Locked.