His Cemetery Doll

by Brantwijn Serrah

  He'd carved the angel Maya, because he had known it.

  No, she couldn't have drowned herself. Not when her heart so desperately needed to return to her daughter. The memory Asya had tried to show him was a memory of murder. Fred had pushed her into the river. Fred had drowned her.

  Then he'd somehow preserved her.

  Without warning, the statue cracked. Con's fingers twitched as beneath them, a dark splinter like a lightning bolt traveled down the pristine stone face, splitting it cruelly down the middle. It continued downward, digging deeper into the stone until it reached the angel's beautiful breast.

  Then, Maya simply fell apart.

  Con stepped back as the last of his statue crumbled away, falling into so many tiny, unrecognizable pieces. It struck him deep in the chest, as it hadn't before. The finality of it hit him hard in the gut: a thing of beauty he'd created by his own hands, like nothing he'd ever had the call to create. Dust, now. He could never recapture Maya again.

  But maybe I can rescue her muse.

  "You can't take her from here, Conall."

  He spun. Father Frederick stood in the door to the little chapel. God damn the man, he took in the sight of Conall with mild interest as though merely meeting with him after the day's service. His expression kind, even caring. Con brought up his shotgun with a snarl and aimed it at the man's chest.

  "Where's Shyla?"

  "Please," Fred said, waving a hand. Christ, the gun didn't even scare him! Conall stalked toward him.

  "You damned lunatic, you tell me where my girl is!"

  "No need to shout. As I said, you'll not take her. Not her, nor her unfortunate mother. Why can't you accept it?"

  "What the hell are you doing, Fred? This is insanity! You murdered Asya, drowned her to turn her into—into—"

  His words faded into a furious roar as his anger overtook him.

  "You are out of your goddamned mind, man!"

  "Am I?" Fred asked. He remained nonplussed. Con caught sight of black thorns, creeping about the edge of the door. They slithered, like poisonous snakes waiting to strike.

  "I wished to help Shyla's mother," Fred said. "The poor wretch...she'd decided on a life of debauchery and sin, a waste of the true beauty and strength she had cultivated in herself. A vessel so lovely, Con...wasted on mortal wickedness. What I did, I did to save her from herself."

  "By turning her into a...a ceramic golem?"

  "She's beautiful," Fred replied. "Utterly flawless. It's such a shame the inner creature could not be cleansed of its earthly filth so easily."

  He gestured to the pieces of the statue littering the ground.

  "Like you, Con, I crafted an angel. Mine, though, proved to be a true angel. I gave her eternal beauty, eternal life."

  "To imprison her here in a church?" Conall demanded.

  "Where else should an angel reside?"

  "You took her life away," he shot. "You took her child away. And the Sisters...you killed them too!"

  "Please, no one is dead," Fred said, holding up placating hands. "Not a single one has died. Each is preserved here in my sanctuary. Or at least..."

  He narrowed his cold eyes at Conall. "They were...until some idiot opened up with a shotgun on them. If anyone here has blood on his hands, Con, it's you."

  "Don't bullshite me, priest," Conall growled. "We both know what you've done here. I counted seven of those dolls downstairs. What happened to the rest of the order? Away on sabbatical? You've got my daughter and you'd better hope to hell she is in pristine, untouched condition when I find her, or I am going to visit a much, much worse punishment on you than you ever have to these poor women!"

  That brought a smirk to Fred's face. "Come now, old friend—"

  "Don't you dare call me friend!"

  "Why are you so opposed to this? Don't you want Shyla to inherit eternal life? Heaven's perfection, here on earth? Didn't we agree this would be best for—"

  Before he could finish the sentence Conall fired. The blast caught Fred high in the chest and sent the priest staggering back into the hallway, and Con limped quickly after him, ready to fire a second round.

  The hallway stood empty.

  "Damnit!" Conall shouted. The scattershot marked the wood on the opposite wall, smattering the old construction with blackened pellet holes but no blood. Had the priest even been there?

  Of course he was, Con insisted to himself, trying to prevent his mind from running too far after the impossibility. He stood right there. And he got away.

  All it means is I have to find him again.

  "Asya!" he called out. "You have to help me find her! Show me how to find her, please!"

  No answer but the creak and sigh of the old, dead church.

  Then...

  Somewhere very faint...very faraway... a tiny strain of music drifted up from the shadows. Something unfamiliar...simple.

  The chimes of a music box. The one he'd seen Asya winding up for her unborn baby, in her memories.

  Chapter Twenty One

  The sounds led him to another set of stairs, beckoning him down. Logic told him these steps must lead out into the courtyard, between the main building and the cloisters of the convent...but they did not. Instead, he found himself descending down, farther than a single story. Farther than two. Did the church have a basement, then?

  The strains of Asya's music box slowly faded away as he followed them deeper. Soon, only quiet, agitated susurrations remained: more whispers, more of the long-faded voices of nuns. They sounded unconcerned with him this time. As if a flock of old ravens gossiped in black leaves overhead, a long train of indiscernible conversation traded back and forth in a hush.

  He'd gone too deep: no way the church would dig a basement so far underground. Even tombs would not be this buried.

  Face it, Con...maybe by now, you've lost your mind.

  He must keep going. He had to trust Asya.

  She might be the only hope of finding his daughter again.

  The ballerina is a slattern and a madwoman, Fred's voice said in his mind. I tried to save her from herself.

  The voices of the twisted mannequins in the sanctuary. Yes, she drowned herself...threw herself in the river...

  Ghosts don't exist, Shy, his own words returned.

  He couldn't doubt her now. Not with Shyla's life on the line.

  Asya—his Asya—had to be truth.

  The stairs finally ended, and Conall found himself before a room divided into small sick bays. The equipment had yellowed with age, old pieces perhaps a generation out of date, and probably military surplus. The whole place had the feel of an abandoned triage hospital.

  Fred at least kept things neat. Surgical tools, long dulled of their shine, lay in symmetrical rows along the counters, and old, discarded doll parts stacked neatly on the shelves. The porcelain pieces were dotted with little flakes of dried blood here and there, but no other evidence of the priest's "experiments." Certainly nothing recent. Conall did not mistake the slight ease of tension in his shoulders.

  He couldn't be too relieved, though. Whatever Father Frederick claimed his intentions to have been, Con hadn't forgotten the fierce, jealous tantrum the man threw at the idea of Asya being touched by another.

  She's a slattern. A wanton whore.

  Which suited you fine, Fred, Conall's own thoughts answered. Until your perfect, personal plaything wasn't so eager for you.

  The more this story unfolded, the more Conall understood how Fred hadn't chosen the beautiful ballerina out of kindness, not because he wished to help her.

  He'd done it because he wanted her for himself.

  Now—in whatever sick fashion the man's rotted-out heart deemed choice—he would try to do the same to Shyla.

  This understanding set Con's gut aflame with rage. He stalked the rest of the way across the eerie operation room to the doors opposite and kicked them open with a brutal yell.

  "Dad!"

  Shyla. Strapped to one of those yellowed, run-down hospita
l chairs. Fred loomed over her with scalpel in hand, and when Conall bust in the priest spun with a rabid snarl. Con hardly saw Fred, though: his eyes riveted to the single ruby thread of blood on Shyla's pale cheek.

  The man had cut his daughter.

  "You son of a bitch!" he screamed, and lunged for the priest with his shotgun stock raised to strike.

  As soon as Conall moved in, he saw the ribbons. Asya's gray ribbons wrapped around Fred's arms and throat. More slithered around Shyla's chair, and at the last second he caught sight of the doll herself, crouched spider-like over the lamp above.

  Asya had been in the way. Her mask crisscrossed with slashes, the cracks now spread over the whole surface, and more crept down one exposed shoulder. In whatever struggle Conall had interrupted, the priest had evidently taken the phantom's green eye.

  The blue one, though, flared with fierce passion at Con's arrival. She scuttled down from her defensive perch and lunged at the priest from the flank.

  The stock of Con's gun caught Fred in the temple, but Fred's momentum drove them both to the ground. Conall's injured leg failed him, and he crumpled under his attacker. Soon Fred had wrestled the gun hard across Con’s Adam’s apple. Eyes blazing full of poisonous hate, he began his low, ugly chant again, the droning summons which brought the winding, thorny creepers up from the floor below.

  "You loony fuckin' bastard!" Conall choked. He pushed back against the gun. "Put away all your evil cheatin' toys and fight me like a real man!"

  "I've nothing to prove to you, Conall," Fred said through clenched teeth. "You're simply an old soldier. A broken piece of war machinery. I don't blame you for your ignorance."

  "Oh, fuck off!"

  Conall managed enough strength for one good thrust, shoving the gun back, and brought his head up to crack against Fred's. The impact sent white heat across his vision, but it knocked the priest away. Immediately Con shot upright to escape the tendrils grasping for his throat. His leg, though, had already been caught.

  Fred regained himself and moved for Conall again, but Asya chose that moment to pounce. A scream like the howl of an angry banshee rose up from the doll, and for the first time her mask truly changed. Porcelain lips drew back from terrible piranha teeth, needle fangs long as Con's finger. Her jaws distended like a serpent's, and her hands, clawing for Fred's throat, had curled into hideous talons. Silver ribbons whipped up and danced around them, until Fred focused his attention on the doll at last and his own thorny vines retaliated to her.

  As soon as the creepers released him, Con clumsily scrabbled to his feet and hurried to Shyla's chair.

  "Dad!" she cried. Tears gleamed in her eyes, and her voice had gone hoarse. Con's heart thudded in anguish, imagining how she must have screamed for help down here, alone with the madman.

  "He didn't hurt you?" he asked, turning her chin to inspect her cheek.

  "N-not really," she said. Her eyes were on the brawl as Con quickly searched for the releases on her restraints.

  "I think he meant to...but the doll, she...she interfered. She lured him away and then locked him out...but he broke through, and then she kept putting herself between us."

  "She would," Conall said. "She'd have stopped him from bringing you here altogether, if she could. He had some kind of collar on her."

  "Wh-why would he do this?"

  Con finally released the last restraint. He gathered her up in his arms and squeezed her tight.

  "I don't know, dear heart. We have to go now."

  The doll gave another wild scream, and Con whipped his head around toward the sound. The vines had wrapped around her, prying her away from Fred even as she still screeched to get at him. The priest climbed to his feet, wiping blood from his face.

  "Bad girl," he growled. Descending into his chant, he lifted up one hand as if to slap her. Instead, he cut it through the air, and a lash of his thorns hit her across the face. Small shards of her mask scattered in its wake. The vine lashed again and sent more cracks fissuring across her shoulders and collar. Porcelain chips fell to the floor with a terribly delicate chime.

  "Stop it!" Shyla screamed at the priest. "Stop it!"

  "There's nothing for it, my child," Fred intoned. "She's fallen from grace. Rejected my gifts of life and perfection."

  He turned his face away from Asya to grin at the girl. His eyes shone bright with his madness.

  "Things will be different with you. You will be a good creature...I have faith you will."

  Con hugged Shyla protectively close with one arm, and with the other leveled his shotgun, bracing it against his shoulder.

  "Cover your eyes, lass," he whispered, and fired.

  The blast hit Fred high in the shoulder, sending him staggering back. Con stumbled as well from the recoil, managing to brace himself on the surgical chair and fight to find his target. Blood had already soaked through Fred's cassock.

  Good, Con assured himself. Not a fake this time.

  He awkwardly worked the pump without letting go of Shyla, working to keep her calm and keep his sights focused as the priest spun to attack.

  Asya's silver ribbon lashed around Fred's throat quick as a whip and jerked him back. Conall fired again, and this time he hit the madman straight in the chest.

  Fred's eyes flew wide with disbelieving shock.

  "You..." he choked. "You...can't kill...me..."

  He sounded astonished. A last, rattling wheeze escaped him, and those eyes turned glassy, rolling up into his head.

  "I think I can," Conall growled.

  The black vines slackened and dropped to the ground. Asya—covered in their slashes—eased back to her feet while they fell away from her. She didn't release her hold on Fred's body, though: tilting her head in curiosity, she appeared to study the priest, her ribbon keeping him upright.

  Presently, as Conall stared on in horror, Fred's chest began to cave. Beginning in at the edges of the shotgun wound, large, dark cracks crept outward. Then, little by little—exactly like a crushed porcelain doll—the priest started crumpling to pieces.

  "Don't open your eyes, Shy," Conall commanded, holding her tighter to him. While Asya continued to watch the priest disintegrate, solemnly bearing witness, Con led his daughter toward the door.

  Right before he could slip out of the room, Asya's one-eyed gaze found him. Her mask had returned to normal...though now she wore an expression of deep sadness. Then her focus dropped from him to Shyla.

  Con wet his lips.

  "Come with us," he whispered to her. "Please. You can be with her."

  Asya bowed her head, then slowly shook it no. When she raised her face to him, he saw why.

  The cracks on her shoulders—across her chest—had started to deepen. Even as he watched, another shard of porcelain broke free and fell to the ground at her feet.

  "No," he said. "No, Asya, no."

  "What's happening, Dad?" Shyla asked, lifting her head. Con let her, releasing her from his grip and approaching Asya.

  "You can't, Asya, not now. You're finally free. You can come back with us, back to the graveyard."

  The doll shook her head again, and now her movements became shakier, less precise. As she moved, the joint of her neck ground audibly, and part of her mask flaked away.

  He grabbed her by the arms.

  "Why? Why, after all this?"

  She glanced away from his face. Her gaze fell instead to her breast, and he followed it. The porcelain crumbled faster now, as it had for the priest, and Conall caught a glimpse of the empty, hollow darkness underneath.

  "Your heart," he said. "Your heart! Is it here somewhere?"

  Asya sagged against his grip, and her head fell limp.

  "Shyla!" he said. His daughter waited right beside him, staring in awe. "We have to find her heart. He kept it, so he could preserve her. It must be here!"

  The girl—bless her—quickly voiced an agreement and turned to start tearing through the shelves and drawers containing Fred's medical tools. Conall, meanwhile, care
fully lowered Asya to the floor, gently laying her out.

  "Just hold on," he said. "Please. Just give us a few more minutes. We'll find it."

  Her blue eye locked on him, and her porcelain lips held the barest hint of a smile. He didn't like the expression: it was an expression of goodbye.

  "Don't you dare let go," he hissed at her. Then he stood and started tearing through the cabinets.

  "I don't see anything!" Shyla cried, digging through Fred's awful collection. "There are no jars, no cases, nothing."

  "Keep looking," Con replied. He threw a glance at Asya: she'd closed her eye, and bobbed her head back and forth in weak, slow rhythm. She made a distracted sound. She was...humming.

  "Stay with us, Asya," he said.

  She didn't appear to hear him. He could practically see her weakening: head lolling, limbs resting limp on the stone floor. She sighed, too weary a sound, and then even her humming came to a stop.

  "Asya!" he yelled as he yanked boxes down from above. "Asya, you listen to me!"

  Nothing.

  "Asya!"

  He abandoned his search and returned to her side. Those fine cracks raced down her arms, up her mask all the way to her hairline. At any second...she'd collapse...

  "Dad, here!"

  Shyla thrust a small box into his hand. It didn't look like any kind of storage box, like Fred had kept around the surgical room. On the contrary, it wore ornate embellishments, silver scrollwork on gleaming mahogany. A detailed arrangement of dials and cogs decorated the top under a frame of glass: the inner workings of a clock, with delicate gold hands and finely-stamped numbers.

  It took Conall a long, terrible moment to recognize what his daughter had found.

  "The music box!" he cried out in shock.

  "He had it in his...well, there's another room back there." She gestured to the back of the room, where there stood another door Conall had not yet register. "I remembered he went in and out of there first, to find a book. I guessed he might have kept...something like this... in there too."

  "A book?" Conall asked. "Do you know where the book is, sweetie?"

  She nodded, and disappeared again briefly into what had probably been Fred's study, or shrine, or whatever place he would study his bizarre arts.