The Toymaker

by Sergio Gomez

  No apology needed, even.

  Jamie grinned at the thought.

  “You know what, little man. I may just take you up on that offer.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “To run away from Dutch County. Let Oliver be. Let you protect him.”

  “A smart choice, Jamie Harper.”

  “Yeah,” Jamie said. Getting away from the death-dealing dummy was about as smart as it got. It wouldn’t hurt Oliver. He’d already said as much. He needed Oliver and his friends to live long and happy lives for his own sake. Good. Everything made sense. “Now, I better scram on out of here.”

  He sprinted down the hallway, toward the only exist he knew. Hoping that he didn’t run into Doctor Brown on his way out.

  That would be a cruel twist for fate to put in front of him.

  The pain from his broken arm was getting much worse by the second.

  Lucas stepped out of the jailhouse through the same door he’d come in, but stopped when he realized there was only one dead body in the parking lot. It was the body of the second policeman that was still there, laying with his thigh and throat slashed open.

  Lucas followed the trail of blood and guts that went around the side of the building with his eyes. It seemed he’d only managed to eradicate one of the police officers. The other one had dragged himself off to die somewhere else.

  That was fine. Jamie Harper was free. It was unnecessary to go chasing down the first policeman at this point.

  Besides, he needed to get back to Father so he could do something about his arm.

  Lucas sprinted up the hill, back to the car, hoping Father hadn’t driven off in a panic at the sound of gunfire.

  Chapter 10

  Sheriff Harris felt the same darkness pulling at him as he entered Mr. Gibson’s home that Oliver and his friends had felt. The feeling that something had left a footprint trail of darkness behind was palpable in the air. Not a smell or a feeling on the skin, but more of something that seemed to evoke all senses at once. An otherworldly feeling.

  “Mr. Gibson?” he called out, stepping into the darkened living room.

  There was no answer.

  The contrast of the darkness inside the house to the bright daylight outside seemed to envelope him and made him forget it was only two in the afternoon. All of a sudden it felt like it was the middle of the night, and it felt like Mr. Gibson’s house was in an isolated part of the world. No longer a part of the Rosalie neighborhood, no longer even a part of Dolly Street, but existing on its own plane.

  A dark plane.

  Despite the growing fear, Sheriff Harris continued through the living room.

  “Mr. Gibson? I just want to speak…”

  Old pipes in the wall creaked, the acoustics of it making it sound like someone was upstairs. Sheriff Harris pointed his gun up the staircase.

  The pipes creaked again, and this time he heard correctly. It wasn’t anything to be afraid of.

  Right. Of course not, that’s why the children had broken in now. Mr. Gibson’s car wasn’t in the driveway either, if he needed any more evidence that the house was empty. And he lived alone, everyone in Dutch County knew that, as well.

  The dark pull of the place seemed to have squandered his investigation skills, but he wouldn’t allow that anymore and focused himself on the task.

  The door of the added-on room to the side of the living room was ajar.

  He tried one more time, just in case his intuition was wrong. “Mr. Gibson, it’s Sheriff Harris. I’d like to speak to you.”

  Again, no reply.

  Just as the children had done before him, Sheriff Harris opened the door to the workshop. He slipped inside, and stopped at what he saw.

  There were toys laying everywhere. If Santa’s workshop was a real place, it would look something like this, he imagined. The contrast of how neat the rest of the house had been versus how messy this workshop was caught him off guard. It was like Mr. Gibson was of two minds. The one he showed the world, and the one he let loose in here.

  What stood out the most was an open cabinet in the oak desk at the far wall of the room.

  Sheriff Harris stepped toward it, slow, as if expecting a snake or a rabid animal to pop out and attack him. He readied the gun, angling it so that all he needed to do was pull the trigger to stop whatever may be in there.

  As he got closer, he stretched his neck out further and further to get a look inside.

  Once he saw it, all the pieces fell into place. The rabbit mask was there. The knife specked with blood was next to it, too.

  Jamie Harper hadn’t been making anything up. He’d been telling the truth about the rabbit killer. Not just that, but it was someone that had lived in Dutch County his whole life.

  My god.

  It didn’t make a lick of sense, though. Why would Mr. Gibson suddenly start killing people out of the blue? A teenager that he probably barely knew, and his neighbor across the street at that.

  He started trying to make this all fit in his head, turning thoughts around and around, but it didn’t seem to make sense no matter how he looked at it. He needed to call for backup. He needed the State Police to come here, since they were empowered to investigate crimes like this while his department was not. He needed…hell, he didn’t know what he needed.

  His concentration was broken when someone spoke to him from behind.

  “Sheriff Harris…”

  He spun around, gun aimed, but froze when he saw Mr. Gibson standing at the doorway. By his feet was a child obscured by shadows. He could only see the boy’s outline, a tangle of messy hair on his head, and the glow-in-the-dark face of the watch he wore on his right wrist. The second hand ticked away over the shape of a lizard, counting down the seconds until...Until what?

  Sheriff Harris wasn’t sure.

  Mr. Gibson’s face he could see fine, though. He wore the face of a haggard man. His hair was disheveled, and there were bags under his eyes that Sheriff Harris didn’t think were a trick of the light.

  “It’s rude to barge into someone’s home uninvited. Even I know that, and I was born yesterday.”

  Now, Sheriff Harris was sure something was playing a trick on him, because it wasn’t Mr. Gibson’s voice that came out when that was said. It wasn’t even from his lips.

  It was the kid standing next to him who said it, but the voice didn’t sound like a child’s, didn’t sound human at all, actually. It sounded strange, like there was too much nasal reverb to it—as if the room they were in was echoey, except it wasn’t, because Mr. Gibson’s voice hadn’t sounded like that.

  “Mr. Gibson,” Sheriff Harris said, taking a step closer to him, the gun pointed at his chest, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m willing to put the gun down if you’re willing to talk.”

  “A plague,” the small figure said.

  Mr. Gibson nodded.

  Then he lunged at the Sheriff. A knife had been hidden behind his back, but now he swiped it through the air.

  Sheriff Harris hesitated too much, going against his training, and the knife cut him across the chest. But he still managed to step back, away from the swing of the knife. The back of his legs hit the worktable, and at the same time he squeezed the trigger of his gun.

  The bullet shot Mr. Gibson in the neck. Sheriff Harris watched his eyes bulge as his body began to crumple like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The old man’s heavy frame crashed to the floor with a loud thump, lifeless and still, as blood poured out from the wound and drenched the sawdust covered floor.

  Careful not to slip on the blood, Sheriff Harris jumped over the body, to try to position himself with his back to the wall. He didn’t know where the other figure had gone, the boy, or whoever it had been that had that strange voice, but he was sure it was still in the house with him

  His heart was beating at a million beats per second, pumping the blood from the wound out from his chest even faster. He started getting lightheaded, and the room began moving
on its own. Left, right, left, right, as if he were on a ship in the middle of a storm, but he had to hold strong.

  Had to figure this whole mess out.

  The small figure was nowhere to be seen. Sheriff Harris had lost track of it in the scuffle with Mr. Gibson and didn’t have any idea which way it’d gone.

  He could be behind the oak desk. There was a gap between it and the wall big enough for a child-sized person to hide behind. Or he could be coming out from behind the bookshelves that contained Mr. Gibson’s toys.

  Or it could have run out of the room and…

  “The plagues of this world must be rid of,” the voice came from outside the room, just out of the doorway, just out of sight from Sheriff Harris.

  Sheriff Harris started to shimmy against the wall, to angle himself for a shot.

  “You’ve killed poor Father,” that strange voice said. “Tsk, tsk. He sacrificed his life for mine.”

  Sheriff Harris continued to shimmy, and from this angle he could see the things shadow. The hair on its head came to a point, like a giant horn growing out of the shadow’s skull.

  The figure continued to talk as Sheriff Harris continued to shimmy along the wall to get a better angle for a shot.

  “So was his fate. But I will come alive, so that Father may smile upon me from the heavens.” The thing in the living room giggled. “Quite the irony, isn’t it? The old man wanted nothing more than companionship and now he gave up his life, leaving me all alone.”

  Sheriff Harris came into view of the figure. It was out there against the wall, facing him.

  Their eyes met, and he had enough time to see that this wasn’t a kid he was dealing with. It was something made of wood, with a wig attached to its head. Its body was covered in drying blood. One arm was busted up. In the other hand was a gun.

  He shuddered.

  One of Mr. Gibson’s creations, no doubt, but one that had somehow come alive. And was now wielding the gun he was staring into.

  It was going to be a classic western shoot off: first to pull the trigger with true aim would be the victor.

  His finger tensed on the trigger.

  The sound of the other gun going off was loud in his ears.

  It was the last thing Sheriff Harris ever heard. He’d been slower than the dummy. Slower than a toy made of wood and infused with some sort of otherworldly life.

  The bullet pierced his brain, and then there was nothing to hear, or see, or feel, or fear anymore.

  Chapter 11

  They’d ran out of Mr. Gibson’s house after having found the evidence they were looking for, because finding the rabbit mask and the knife made this too real for them. They’d panicked and jetted out of Mr. Gibson’s house before anyone showed up. Luckily, it’d be the Sheriff who saw them, but if it had been Mr. Gibson who showed up, they might still have been running.

  At the bunker, they waited until they caught their breath to speak.

  “We’re in some deep shit,” Tommy Marino said.

  “This is all your fault, Marino. If you wouldn’t have—”

  “Gina, stop. We’re all in this together now, no matter whose fault it is,” Twist interjected.

  “We need the others,” Tommy said.

  “For what?” Gina asked.

  “To send that thing back where it came from. If we brought it out, then we can send it back somehow.” It came out so matter-of-factly, that even he believed it.

  “Vic wasn’t home when I rang him,” Twist pointed out. “Neither was Jack. What do we do?”

  “I don’t know, I guess one of us should go stake the houses out and hope Sheriff Harris didn’t see us.”

  “Shit,” Twist said. “I don’t like this plan.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “I’ll go,” Gina volunteered. “If he’s going to go easy on any of us, it’s me.”

  That was true. Gina’s mother cleaned the Sheriff’s Office twice a week, so the Sheriff would know who she was.

  Not just that, but back when she was too young to stay at home by herself, Mom would take her with her to the office. She’d wait in the lobby on a bench until she was finished, sometimes napping depending on how late they were there. One time, around Christmas, Sheriff Harris had given Gina a stocking full of bite-sized Snickers and KitKat bars, so she knew he had a sweet spot for her.

  “Okay, but come back every fifteen minutes so we know you’re okay. And not…locked away or anything,” Tommy told her.

  “Like my brother,” Twist said in a small voice.

  “We’ll figure that out,” Tommy promised him.

  “Yes, we will,” Gina agreed.

  “You’re going to have to call Vic’s house until he gets home,” Twist said to her.

  “Tell me his number, I don’t know it.”

  “You gonna remember it?”

  Gina crossed her arms. “I’m good with numbers, Twist. Yeah.”

  He gave it to her, and she repeated it back to him three times. Each time was right, and then she kept repeating it in her head over and over. She would do this until she got home and could write it down.

  Hopefully a run in with Sheriff Harris wouldn’t throw her off.

  She started off, but before she got two steps, Tommy jumped up from the milkcrate he was sitting on.

  “Yo, Gina!”

  She turned to face him, and in a move she didn’t expect, he put his arms around her and kissed her, then said, “Be safe.”

  It thrilled her, and she blushed, knowing that Twist had seen all of this. “Yeah, I’ll be careful, Tommy. Don’t worry.”

  “Good. I can’t lose ya to some stupid rabbit head, Homeschool.”

  Gina smiled, and then started out of the woods.

  Tommy sat back down. Twist was looking at him as if he’d just put a fork into a socket and was surprised he’d been electrocuted.

  “Long story. I’ll tell you after this is all done.”

  Twist had no words, just nodded.

  They both went silent after that, and waited for Gina to return.

  Chapter 12

  “Rest in peace, Father,” Lucas said, staring down at his lifeless creator on the ground. The blood had stopped flowing from the bullet wound in his neck, but it couldn’t be put back in. Lucas had tried.

  Poor Father had no chance at survival. Human life was so…fragile. Here one second, gone the next.

  The pool of blood spread in one direction, following an unevenness in the floor. The edge of the puddle stretched out in streaks like crimson fingers, touching the front legs of the oak desk. In a matter of minutes, it would go around the legs, and start to roll down underneath the desk, or dry up. Whichever would come first.

  It was almost poetic enough to not make Lucas sad. To see that the very same blood that had coursed through the old man ended up in the place where he’d built his beloved toys. Where he’d spent his fondest times in life.

  In the place where Lucas had been created.

  If he had been able to produce tears, Lucas thought he would be crying.

  He put the gun on the desk and went to the corner of the room where there was a rolled-up drop cloth. He grabbed it and returned to Raymond’s body.

  Luckily, he’d taken the gun from the last officer he killed before returning to the jailhouse. That, and Father willing to sacrifice himself had saved Lucas.

  When he needed him most, the old man had come through for him. Now, it was Lucas’ turn to return the favor.

  “Until we meet again, my dear Father,” Lucas said, as he spread the drop cloth over the toymaker’s dead body.

  With that done, he grabbed the gun off the desk and headed out of the house.

  There was more work to be done.

  More plagues to rid this world of. He could sense one heading this way, in fact.

  As much as she’d wanted to stay in Wyoming with her mother and sister and spend the holiday with them, there was a lot of work she needed to get done before Thanksgiving. She’d gotten an e
mail from her sales representative that they were close to closing a deal with a huge client. She wanted—no scratch that, needed—to be there to make sure it would go smoothly.

  So now that she was back, Jenna was coming to get Jack. She just hoped nothing crazy had happened to her son way out here in the boonies.

  Her mom was okay. The kidney had to be removed, it couldn’t be saved, but even so her mom should continue living a long life. Jenna’s sister was going to watch over her mother now, and that meant there was no real reason for her to stay out there. She hopped on the next flight back home, promising everyone that she would see them in December for Christmas and New Year’s (along with Jack).

  What she hadn’t expected upon returning home was a nasty voicemail from her ex-husband. Admonishing her for making a health-conscious decision for their son, using vulgar words that only he would shamelessly use over a recorded line.

  The deal with the client had been the top priority until she sat in the kitchen listening to the berating message. Now she was more worried about getting her son away from that loose cannon.

  Jenna drove as fast as she dared through a neighborhood she knew children played in. She’d promised herself to go get Jack as soon as she could and was ready to give Scott an earful like nothing he’d experienced before.

  Him, and that hussy Latina he was with.

  She didn’t care what their arrangements had been. She was taking him today, and she’d see him in court if that’s how he wanted to handle it. No matter what, Jack was coming home with her, though.

  On the other side of town, Scott, Maria, and Jack were coming back from a late lunch. It had been a fun family outing of shopping downtown, then going to get sandwiches at a small local shop.

  They had no way of knowing that driving back into their neighborhood meant driving straight back into chaos.

  Chapter 13

  The two would have collided head first into one another if Scott wasn’t pulling into the driveway and Jenna wasn’t parking on the curb. No matter that they were divorced, fate still kept throwing them into the same pace as the other, and their vehicles turned just in time to miss one another.