One-Eyed Doll

by James Preller

  11

  THE FIGHT

  “I’m back,” Malik called as he entered the house. Silence. He walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Tee? You up there?”

  No answer.

  He checked the bedroom. No Tiana. No one-eyed doll. Moving swiftly, he searched every corner of the small house. Calling softly, afraid to wake his father. “Tiana? Tee? Answer me.”

  Nothing.

  He was frantic now, his body tingling. Where was she? Where could they have gone?

  And he knew. Right at that moment. He knew.

  The old place.

  Tiana had taken the doll back to the old place. Or perhaps, the witch had taken Tiana.

  His little sister. Just six years old.

  It was Malik’s job to look after her. To take care of her, no matter what.

  He ran without touching the ground, his heart in his throat.

  In two leaps, Malik landed on the front porch on the old place. The wood splintered under his feet. The door was ajar. Malik entered.

  “Tiana!” he called.

  A chill ran through his body.

  The house was cold. A cloud of smoke came from his mouth like on a winter’s day. Malik shivered. He stepped fully inside.

  CLICK.

  He sensed it. The witch was in the house, somewhere. The rooms were dank and empty, dusty and dark. Tiana was here, too. He could feel it in his bones.

  Malik crept deeper past the entranceway, deeper into the darkness. He did not see a black shape slink into the house behind him. Its paws made no sound.

  Tiana was on the floor in the living room. She lay sprawled on her back, legs spread, arms wide at each side, as if she were about to make a snow angel. The little girl stared vacantly at the ceiling. He felt her skin. Tiana was cold, so cold. Her felt for her heart.

  It was beating. She was alive.

  “Tiana, can you hear me?”

  A rustle came from behind him.

  He spun around to see the one-eyed witch. Standing upright. She moved quickly, mouth wicked, teeth sharp.

  MEEEEOOOOOORRRRWWW!

  Out of the darknness, Midnight pounced on the witch. Claws slashed, howls erupted. Sounds of biting and screeching and wild cries filled the room.

  Malik crouched beside his sister, frozen in fear. He watched the fierce battle. Suddenly, Midnight was thrown against the wall. The cat tried to rise, but could not. One of its back legs gave out. There was blood smeared on the wall. The witch cackled in triumph.

  That’s when Malik saw it.

  A brick.

  A red brick on the floor.

  Without thought, Malik’s hand reached out. His fingers curled around it. He raised the brick up, and down it fell, down upon the head of the one-eyed witch.

  The witch slumped to the floor.

  Its one eye shut.

  12

  MALIK’S LONG WALK

  For Malik, the rest was a blur.

  He carried his sister home. She was cold. Limp in his arms. He kissed her, talked to her, squeezed her tight. Tiana did not respond.

  Up the stairs they went. He tucked her into bed, piled the blankets warm around her.

  He raced back to the old place, ready for battle. But the one-eyed witch still lay on the floor. Dead, he thought. Malik looked around for Midnight, but the tough, old cat was gone. It must have limped off into the woods. He carried the doll back home, then dumped it in an empty garbage can at the side of his house. Malik found thick rope and tied the lid shut, just in case. He tightened the rope. Tied a knot, then another, then another.

  Next, he called his mother. Woke his father. Told them that Tiana was sick. She needed a doctor. And soon the doctor came. She was a tall, graceful woman dressed in a white lab coat. Dr. Owens. She sat at the side of the bed to examine his sister. And after a while, the doctor came out. “We’ll let her rest for now,” the doctor said. “She needs sleep. Perhaps tomorrow…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  She spoke quietly with Malik’s parents in the next room. He heard his mother sob. His father tried to comfort her, saying, “There, there. There, there.”

  Malik awoke that night to noises in the yard.

  Bumps in the night.

  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

  THUMP,

  THUMP,

  THUMP!

  The one-eyed witch was awake.

  Malik sat up. Got dressed. Tied his laces.

  He had one last job to do.

  He took a hammer from the shed and grabbed his school backpack. The witch did not wish to come. She fought him. But the hammer convinced her.

  Malik walked the roads by himself that starry night, dimly lit by a sickle moon. The pack was slung over his shoulder. He gripped the hammer in his hand.

  All the while, the one-eyed witch whispered from inside the pack. Pleaded with him. Promised to behave. Begged for kindness, asked for mercy.

  The witch cried, “Oh, dear boy, sweet boy, gentle child. You do not wish to harm me. I am sorry, a thousand times sorry! Search your heart! Forgive poor me, little me.”

  Malik trudged on, tramping through the warm night. Finally, he stopped on a footbridge that spanned a great and raging river.

  “Do you hear that, witch?” he said.

  “No, no, no!” cried the one-eyed witch. “Water, I will drown. You can’t! Mercy. I beg you, mercy! You nasty beast! You horrible, nasty, evil beast—”

  Malik pulled the doll from his backpack. The hastily tied rope had loosened around her, and fell away. Malik was resolute. He dropped the witch into the night. It fell and fell until, splash, the doll hit the water and disappeared from sight.

  The next morning, Tiana awoke. She appeared refreshed, happy. Mrs. Rice hummed and fixed breakfast. Malik’s father stayed home from work. Malik stole a moment alone with Tiana. “She’s gone now,” he whispered. “I got rid of her forever.”

  Tiana looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  Malik paused, uncertain. “The doll. Selena.”

  Tiana smiled. “You know I don’t play with dolls, silly. I like hula hoops and basketballs, rainbows and lollipops, and frogs in muddy creeks!”

  She laughed, and Malik laughed with her.

  He understood at last. She didn’t remember. It was all forgotten, like a bad dream that disappears in the warm light of morning.

  A nightmare, unremembered.

  MEOW, MEOW!

  Midnight was at the screen door. “Look, he’s back!” Malik cried.

  “He’s been fighting,” Tiana noticed. “Look at his ear.” A hunk of the cat’s left ear was missing, as if it had been bitten off.

  Malik opened the door. The cat hesitated at the threshold, sniffing the air. Midnight stepped inside, limping a bit, and rubbed against Tiana’s legs. The girl scooped him up and squeezed him tight. “It looks like you need some extra loving,” Tiana said.

  And Midnight purred.

  13

  THE GIRL BY THE RIVER

  A small, blonde-haired girl hummed happily by the banks of the river. It was a glorious morning, full of sunshine and white, puffy clouds. She had tented in a nearby campsite with her parents. Now they took a pleasant morning walk, turning toward the river to romp and splash in the cool water.

  “Look, Mama!” the girl cried. “Look what I found!”

  She fished a wet doll out of the water, where it had been caught on the branch of a bush. The doll had soggy black hair with a red ribbon in it. Her dress was ruined, though the girl could see it had once been pretty. Blue-and-white striped. One of the doll’s eyes was missing entirely. Its face was cracked and worn.

  “Can I keep it? Can I?” the girl asked.

  “No, that’s disgusting,” her father said. “It’s covered with germs. Leave that here. We’ll get you a new doll another time.”

  The girl looked to her mother. “Mom? Please? We can clean it up, can’t we?”

  The mother glanced at her husband. She shrugged. “Sure, why not? I might
even make her a new dress,” she offered.

  “Oh, thank you!” the girl said. She hugged the doll tight to her chest. “I love it. I love it so much!”

  ROUND AND ROUND IT GOES. THE ONE-EYED WITCH, TRAPPED IN THE BODY OF A DOLL, GETS PASSED FROM HAND TO HAND.

  SHE WANTS TO BE REAL AGAIN.

  TO WALK AND TALK LIKE A GIRL AGAIN.

  LOOK AROUND. ARE THERE ANY OLD DOLLS IN YOUR HOUSE? DO ITS EYES CLICK WHEN THEY OPEN? PERHAPS IT’S TIME TO FIND A BOX. AND DIG A HOLE. AND HOPE THAT NO ONE EVER, EVER DIGS IT UP.

  SOME THINGS ARE BETTER LEFT BURIED.

  LOOKING FOR MORE

  THRILLS AND CHILLS?

  DON’T MISS THE SIXTH

  SCARY TALES

  BOOK …

  BEFORE YOU TURN THE PAGE, FIRST MAKE SURE THE DOORS AND WINDOWS ARE LOCKED. IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO TURN ON THE LIGHTS. ALL THE LIGHTS, IN EVERY ROOM. BETTER TO AVOID THE DARK SPACES. THE SECRET CORNERS. THE HIDING PLACES. WE ADVISE THAT YOU CHECK UNDER THE BEDS AND IN THE CLOSETS.

  BECAUSE, HEY, YOU NEVER KNOW.

  ALL SETTLED? SNUG AND COZY? TERRIFIC. YOU MIGHT WANT TO IGNORE THE SCRATCHING AT THE WINDOW. IT’S ONLY THE WIND. NO WORRIES, IT’S JUST THE WIND.…

  1

  PLUNK, SPLAT, GLORP …

  The Dirge Chemical Plant had been dumping toxic sludge into the swamp for the past twenty-five years.

  The illegal dumping was a fact well-known to the folks in Avarice County, but no one complained.

  Most of the waste leaked into remote swampland and drained into the good earth. Besides, Dirge Chemical was owned by the wealthiest family in the state. It employed more than five hundred hardworking men and women from all over the county. Folks depended on that plant for their families’ survival. If it were shut down, they’d lose their jobs and their homes. And what then?

  So when it came to a little bit of poison sludge dripping into the ground, folks looked the other way.

  Drip, drop, splurk. It leaked into the streams and waterways, into ponds and lakes. It soaked deep into the ground.

  What about the creatures that lived in that environment? The fish and birds and snakes and gators? The animals that drank the water daily? That swam amid the burbling poisons? Well, most died off. But some adapted. Mutated. Learned how to feed off the toxic waste. Those few creatures grew stronger, bigger, tougher.

  More dangerous, too.

  The pollution was worst in Dismal Swamp, deep in the wooded wilderness. Hardly anybody lived out there. Nobody important. Some poor folks, mostly. And that’s where our story begins—with two boys, Lance and Chance LaRue. On this day, they were knee-deep in the foul, nasty water, swiping at mosquitoes, searching for frogs.

  That was their first mistake.

  2

  SWAMP PET

  Chance and Lance were brothers, and twins. They both had narrow faces, pointy noses, large eyes, and long yellow hair that had never seen a comb. Chance and Lance even shared each other’s clothes half the time, inside-out and still muddy.

  Chance was the first one born, the oldest by three minutes, and still in a hurry. Lance was the twin with a chipped front tooth and worried eyes. That’s how folks told them apart.

  “Chance is the lively one,” his mother would say. “Lance always looks like he thinks a piano is about to fall on his head. Hasn’t happened yet, though, and I’m mighty glad of that. Them pianos are expensive to repair.”

  Then she’d laugh and laugh, holding her round belly.

  It was true. Lance was prone to accidents. He was the one who spilled milk, got splinters, sat in poison ivy, and got stung by bees. If Lance stood next to Chance in a thunderstorm, Lance would surely be the one who was struck by lightning. Chance wouldn’t even so much as get wet.

  Even so, despite these differences—or perhaps because of them—the two brothers loved each other fiercely. Maybe it was the hard times that kept the boys together. They both felt that same hunger in their bellies. Life was not easy at home. They were dirt poor and lived in a broken-down trailer behind Dismal Swamp. Their daddy put it up on cinder blocks and there it remained, sagging into the mud, drained of color by the hot, Texas sun. Home, sweet home. Even worse, their daddy had a bad habit of disappearing for long stretches of time. Out hunting, or away with friends, or in locked up in the jail somewhere. Mama said he was a “ne’er-do-well.” Chance and Lance didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but they figured it was another way of saying “good-for-nothing.”

  Sad, but true.

  On this sweltering summer morning, the boys headed deep into the shaded swampland. Chance carried a metal bucket in hopes they might capture some critter worth keeping. That was a constant pursuit for the boys: They longed for a pet. Once, the twins found a stray dog, and begged their mother to keep it. She replied, “Boys, I can barely feed you two. Ain’t no way we can take in another hungry mouth,” and that was that. No dog. End of discussion.

  A muddy path skirted the edge of the swampy water. Fortified by peanut butter sandwiches, the boys felt unusually strong and adventurous. They went deeper into the woods than ever before. The trees thickened around them. Long limbs hung low. Spanish moss dangled from the branches like exotic drapes. Snakes slithered. Once in a while, a bird called. Not a song, so much as a warning.

  Stay away, stay away.

  The farther the boys traveled, the darker it got.

  Lance stopped, slapped a mosquito on the back of his neck. The bug exploded, leaving behind a splash of blood. “I don’t know, Chance,” he said doubtfully. “Getting dark, getting late.”

  Chance chewed on a small stick. He spat out a piece of bark. “Let’s keep on pushing ahead.” And off he went, leading the way, content that Lance would surely follow.

  After another while, Chance paused and stooped low, bringing his eyes close to the earth. He pointed to a track in the mud. “What you think, Lance?”

  “Too big to be a gator,” Lance said. He turned to peer into the dark, snake-infested water. “But I’d say it’s gator-ish.”

  “Real big,” Chance noted. “Heavy, too. You can tell ’cause the print sank way down.”

  “Guess you’re right,” Lance almost agreed.

  “Here’s another,” Chance said, moving two steps to his right. “Three toes, webbed feet. Weird.”

  “Never seen the like of it before,” Lance said. “Looks like it was moving fast, judging by the length of the stride—”

  “—and headed right there,” Chance said, pointing to the swamp, “into the water.”

  “You reckon those tracks were made by Bigfoot?” Lance asked.

  Chance grinned at his brother. They both laughed and laughed, until the swamp swallowed up the sound. They stood together in eerie silence.

  “Maybe we should head back,” Lance suggested.

  “I guess,” Chance said, a little mournfully. “Hold on a minute. Is that an egg?”

  He pointed to a hollow by the edge of the water.

  “Good eyes, Chance. Turtle egg maybe,” Lance confirmed.

  Chance inspected it. Cocked his head, listened, looked around. No creature stirred.

  “Let’s take it home with us,” he said.

  “It don’t feel right,” Lance said.

  “It’ll be fine,” Chance said. “You and me, we’ll be real good mamas to this little baby.”

  Lance laughed. “I’m not no mama—that’s your job. I’ll be the papa.”

  And that was that. Chance made a bed of mud, twigs, and leaves in the bottom of the bucket. He gently lifted the egg and placed it inside.

  “Carry that real soft,” Lance joked. “Like a sweet, nice mama.”

  The boys turned back and headed home, stealing away with their curious prize.

  A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK

  An Imprint of Macmillan

  ONE-EYED DOLL. Text copyright © 2014 by James Preller. Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Iacopo Bruno. All rights reserved. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, N
ew York, N.Y. 10010.

  eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  ISBN: 978-1-250-04094-7 (hardcover) / 978-1-250-04095-4 (paperback)

  978-1-250-06422-6 (ebook)

  Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto

  First Edition: 2014

  mackids.com

  eISBN 9781250064226

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