The Toymaker

by Sergio Gomez

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Exactly.”

  “What about you? How are you going to convince your mom to let you come over here? You think she’ll even let you within fifty miles of Dutch County after what happened?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Not sure I want to ask what that means.”

  “Because of my dad’s death, I mean. She’s kind of softened up at the moment.”

  “Right,” Gina said. “So, when can you get here?”

  “Oh shit,” he whispered.

  “What?” Gina said her, heart started to speed up.

  “I think my mom’s up. I’ll have to go soon—but to answer your question, not until this weekend.”

  She calmed back down now that she knew Jack’s swearing hadn’t been prompted by Mr. Gibson’s dummy making a surprise appearance in Philadelphia. “Okay, okay. I’ll talk to the others, see where they’re at. You know. Mentally.”

  “Great. I’ll give Twist a call myself tomorrow.”

  “I’ll call Tommy. Then I’ll get back to you. Sound like a plan?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Hey, I think I hear my mom coming down the hall to my room. I gotta scram.”

  “Okay, Jack… One last thing, though,” she said, swallowing.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

  He couldn’t answer her right away. “I am too. Good night, Gina.”

  And with that, he hung up.

  “Good night,” she whispered into the living room, then put the phone back on its cradle.

  Just as she did that, Anya opened her eyes and yawned. From the couch she said, “Who was that? Your boooooyfriend?”

  Even having just woken up from a four-hour nap and stuffed with food, Anya knew how to be annoying. But Gina was grateful for it. It felt good. Felt normal in the whirlwind she was caught in that had turned her world upside down.

  Gina walked over to her, and Anya was sure she was about to have her arm twisted but was pleasantly surprised when Gina sat her up and hugged her tight.

  “Shut up and hug me, twerp.”

  Anya didn’t know what was going on, but this felt good, so she hugged her sister back.

  Chapter 8

  The phone rang, and even though it was late, Twist knew who it was. He picked it up before it rang a second time and woke Mom.

  “Jamie, it’s me,” Twist said.

  “This isn’t Jamie,” the voice that came from the other end of the line was raspy, like the person was trying to disguise their voice.

  Twist moved the phone away from his ear, recalling that scene from Nightmare on Elm Street when the girl gets her ear licked through the phone. “Who…who is this?”

  “It’s the repairman. Is your refrigerator running?” the person asked.

  Twist relaxed and brought the phone back up closer to his ear. Leave it up to Jamie to mess around even in situations like these. “Ha-ha, Jamie.”

  He heard his brother cackle. “Heya, squirt. How was Thanksgiving?”

  “It was okay. The usual—minus Big Bob and you, I mean. How was yours?”

  “I ended up going to some bar to drink with some local drunks. There was a guy with a hook for a hand and only one eye.”

  Twist wasn’t sure if he was making stuff up or not, so he didn’t bother reacting to that. “Where are you?”

  “Up north of Dutch County.”

  He’d decided after the disturbance on Dudley Street to hideout while everything blew over. With any luck, neither the PA police or the Dutch County police would notify the Army that he’d broken out of jail. He was counting on the departments having their hands full with the investigation and not to worry about him.

  Before his leave was over, he’d call one of his buddies from the Army and figure out if any of his superiors got word of it. The chances, he thought, were slim, because in the grand scheme of things the massacre at Dutch County was small. And his breaking out of jail even smaller than that.

  He wasn’t counting on that, but he was hoping.

  “Oh.” Twist replied.

  “Listen,” his tone changed, “I’ve thought about what we talked about the other day. I don’t think they’ll ever talk about Mr. Gibson’s dummy. I think they’re just going to pin it all on the old man and call it a day.”

  “Seems that way.” Twist had been watching the news more than he ever had in his life. One reason was to keep Jamie posted on whether the police was going to clear his name, and the second reason was because he was curious to see if anyone would even hint at a killer dummy.

  Nope. No such thing had happened, and the more time that went by, the less likely it seemed that would ever happen. The supernatural shit was swept under the rug and the story was “local toymaker and second mystery killer go crazy and kill multiple people in small town”, and that was what they were running with.

  “I hope this doesn’t put me outta the Army,” Jamie said, and laughed.

  But Twist could hear the murmur of pain in his older brother’s voice. And somehow, maybe through a sibling connection, some of the pain was transferred over to him. Because he knew his brother was happy being in the military, he’d finally found his place in life there. Not that Twist would ever tell him this because Jamie would call him a punk for saying so, but the Jamie that came back seemed to have been glowing with life.

  Now it could potentially be taken away from him simply for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Jamie would get through it, though, because he was strong like that. But that didn’t mean it didn’t suck.

  “So, what’re you going to do?” Twist asked.

  “I don’t know, yet. Maybe the Army won’t get word of this at all and I can go back without a problem.”

  “What if they put you on the FBI’s most wanted or something like that? And someone where you are tells on you?”

  “I’m sporting a funny mustache, Twist. Don’t worry.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously. Not the mustache, but no one will recognize me. I’ve got a new look, to say the least.”

  “Okay,” Twist heaved. “When can I see you, Jamie?”

  He asked it like that because the question of if he will ever see him was too painful to ask aloud.

  “Soon, bud. Soon. I promise.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “I’m not.” Jamie said. “There’s a killer doll running around Dutch County—there ain’t much I’m sure of at all, anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Twist said, feeling a lump form in his throat. “Me neither.”

  “Let me ask you something Twist.”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “You know where that thing came from, don’t you? And why it went after your friend’s dad.”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “You promise to believe me and not make fun of me?”

  “I would never.”

  Twist told him everything; about him and the other kids going into the tunnel, about Mr. Gibson handing Gina and Jack the dummy in the middle of the night, about them returning to the tunnel. About Tommy’s story, too.

  “We did something that gave it life.” Twist said. “The witches, Mr. Gibson, me and my friends. All of us played a part in this.”

  When he was finished, he was out of breath, and waited for Jamie to respond.

  He didn’t for a few short seconds, in which Twist was sure the next thing he’d hear was his brother laughing.

  “We need to stop him, Ollie.” Jamie said, in a tone that was the complete opposite of what he’d been expecting.

  “I’ve been thinking about that—wait, what do you mean we?”

  “I’m coming back.”

  “No, Jamie. For what? They’ll—”

  “Shut up.” Jamie barked. “No one would believe what happened, and all the other witnesses are keeping their traps shut from what you’re telling me. I’m coming back, and I’m going to blow that f
ucking things head off.”

  “You can’t do it on your own.” Twist said, trying to make it sound forceful.

  “I’ve walked through the desert with no cover, not sure if someone was about to snipe my pale ass. You think I’m scared of some little doll?”

  “No, no, Jamie. Not like that.”

  “Huh? What’re you saying then?”

  “I think… me and the others… we have a connection to the doll. We brought it back, I think it’s up to us to send it back.”

  “There’s no way to confirm that.”

  “You said it yourself, Jamie. The others aren’t talking because no one will believe them—now you’re being no different than them by not believing me.”

  “What makes you so damn sure you’re right about this?”

  Twist fidgeted. “It’s a feeling, I guess you can call it. Like I can feel the dummy in my head, like we have a connection. I haven’t talked to any of the others, but something tells me they’re feeling it too.”

  Jamie sighed. “Alright. We’ll talk when I return.”

  “What’re you going to do when you get here, though? The police are still looking for you.”

  “I’ll figure it out when I get there. I have somethings in mind, though.”

  “Okay.” Now it was Twist’s turn to trust in him, which was a lot easier, of course.

  “I’ll be at your window in a few hours. Look for a guy with a mustache.”

  Twist could picture Jamie’s trademark grin as vividly as if he were standing in the living room with him. “Okay. Be careful.”

  “You, too.” Jamie said. “See you tonight.”

  “Oh, and Jamie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.” Twist said.

  Chapter 9

  “Right there,” Lucas said, pointing to an old chair in front of a television.

  There wasn’t much room in the crappy trailer for furniture, so there was only a futon, an old television with bunny ears on top of it, and the chair he was making the guy sit in.

  “Okay,” Ricky whispered, just like the dummy had told him to. He stole a glance to the back of the trailer where the bathroom was. Door was wide open, and the light shut off. Glenn had finished taking a dump and was back in the room asleep, so there was no chance of the kid coming out to help him.

  Shit.

  As if the dummy had been reading his mind, he asked, “Momma sleeps back there, correct?”

  “Yeah,” Ricky said.

  “Okay. That is good,” Lucas said, and turned his neck over his shoulder to get a glimpse at the kitchen area.

  There was a turkey in the center of the table that had been picked apart and both legs torn off. Bowls containing leftovers of Thanksgiving sides like steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce were all about the table because no one had bothered to clean up. Even the dinner plates the family had used were still there, bones and crusted gravy stains and all.

  Christ. Someone should think about cleaning this place up. Lucas thought.

  What he really had been looking for was hanging on the wall from hooks. There were some pots and pans over the stove that looked like they’d do the trick.

  “Turn the chair that way and face the bathroom.” Lucas commanded in a whispery hiss.

  It wasn’t time to wake Momma yet. Not until he took care of this man first.

  “Uhh, wh-what for?” Ricky said. He was glad they were speaking in low voices. Any louder and he was sure his voice would have cracked.

  “What did I tell you? No more questions.” Lucas shook the gun in his hand as a reminder.

  Ricky gulped. He was lucky the damn doll hadn’t put a bullet in his ass already.

  With this in mind, he decided to comply. He lifted up off the chair, then rotated it underneath him before sitting back down. Whatever this thing had planned for him couldn’t have been worse than death.

  “Look straight ahead. No peeking over your shoulder,” Lucas said.

  Now that the man had done that, Lucas walked into the kitchen. Since he was too small to reach the pots and pans over the stove, he pushed a chair from the dining table over to it. Luckily (and surprisingly, given how cheap everything in here looked), the chairs were the kind with soft pads underneath its legs, so it slid across the floor quietly.

  Lucas put the gun in his jacket pocket, casting a glance over at the man to make sure he was still sitting like he was supposed to, and then climbed up on the chair. From there, he went on his tiptoes and reached over the stove for a cast iron skillet. It was heavy, and it almost pulled him off balance with it, but he used his thigh against the side of the stove to create leverage in his favor and kept from making a ruckus.

  Sure that the skillet was secure against his chest, Lucas shinnied back to the ground. He made his way through the trailer, going even slower than before. He didn’t want the fool to turn around and see what he was about to do to him.

  If that happened, he may have to kill him. Then he’d have to come up with a new plan.

  Things worked in his favor, though, because he got close enough to execute his next move without the man turning around.

  It was going to be a tricky angle, and he only had one shot to do it, but he was sure it was going to work.

  He had the True Father on his side.

  Lucas cocked the skillet back with his good hand, mustering up all the strength to keep it steady. Then, in one quick motion that was more fluid than he could’ve hoped for, he jumped up and swung the skillet as hard as he could.

  It hit the back of Ricky’s head with a sound akin to a tennis racket hitting a perfect serve. Ricky’s head rolled forward on his neck, and his body slumped to the side, but he remained seated.

  Another thing that had gone favorable on Lucas’ side.

  “Sleep tight,” Lucas whispered. He wanted to laugh, but he held it together to not ruin the plan.

  The first thing she thought she was looking at was a burn victim, perhaps wearing a wooden mask to cover up their disfigurement. As her mind started to uncloud from the sleepiness, she realized the wood wasn’t a part of a mask. It was what the visitor at her bedside was made out of.

  “Hello, Momma,” the wooden head said.

  Cassandra sat up on the bed, her instincts made her look to the floor where Glenn slept. He was fast asleep, wrapped up in his sleeping bag sucking on his thumb. The lights were on in the bedroom, but he was none the wiser to it.

  Cassandra turned back to face the unexpected guest, and from this angle she could see that it was some sort of doll. A ventriloquist dummy. The kind that Buddy Killian comedian she sometimes watched on television used to tell jokes, but there was nothing funny about this one.

  It was covered in blood stains, and its blond pompadour was wild on its head. But the most disturbing part was the that there was no Buddy Killian to control it. There was no one at all, actually.

  It was just the dummy, moving on its own.

  She gasped and drew back, pulling the sheets over her legs as if the cloth were somehow enough to keep her from harm. She wanted to say something, but her mouth was frozen.

  Ricky…where’s Ricky? She thought.

  “I’m sad, Momma.” Lucas stepped closer to the bed. “You don’t remember me.”

  “Who are you? Why are you calling me that?” she asked. “What is going on!”

  Behind her, Glenn rolled over in his sleeping bag.

  Lucas concentrated on her thoughts, in the deepest recesses of her mind, and plucked out the phrase he wanted from her memory: “Draw the symbol with the blood on the floor or on the wall while holding the Tome of Evil. Do you remember that, Momma?”

  Yes, she remembered. How could she not, that was the day her whole life had changed. The beginning of when everyone, from her family to her friends to strangers who had no business judging her, had turned their backs and shunned her like she was a piece of garbage.

  “They turned their backs on me, too,” Lucas said, plucking that out o
f her mind as well.

  “How do you know about that?” She grabbed the sheets tighter.

  “So when are we going to see this spawn of evil? It was your dear friend Hannah Lynch who posed the question, if your memory serves me correctly.” The doll’s face twisted into a bigger smile than the one already painted on its face.

  It wasn’t strange enough that this thing was somehow moving and talking and thinking on its own, it was also playing back parts of her memory to her as if it’d been there to record them.

  No. Not if. She understood now.

  It had been there with her.

  “That’s right, Momma. I am that spawn of evil you and your friends tried to summon.” Lucas grinned at her. “Unfortunately, you only brought me to this world halfway. And you left me stuck in a world where I both existed and didn’t exist all at the same time. It hurt, Momma. Why did you leave me there?”

  Cassandra started to feel the room grow dark, despite that the lighting hadn’t changed at all.

  “It was miserable, Momma. Awful. I spent many, many years alone and afraid. Waiting to be pulled from that other side to this living world.” Lucas started to pace back and forth, shaking his head as he recalled it. “I had been trying for decades to call to you, to have you answer my cries for help, but there was nothing.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” Cassandra whispered. She didn’t know what she was apologizing for. It had all been just a stupid, teenage prank!

  “It was no prank to me,” Lucas told her fervently. “No one would help me until Raymond Gibson. In a state of agony, when he was only a few inches from hitting rock bottom, he answered my call from that other world. He built this vessel that I now inhabit, which makes him Father. And you, since you initiated my spawn, are Momma.”

  His head creaked as it turned in her direction. “Do you understand, now?”

  Cassandra nodded, feeling like someone had their hand inside of her back controlling her, like she was the dummy. She also knew what this dummy—this spawn of evil—was saying was right. Somehow, it all made sense.

  She had given birth to this thing.

  Momma.

  She could remember the day she drew the symbol on the tunnel wall with Megan Hamilton’s blood vividly, only now in her memory she was writing exactly what the dummy had just told her. Writing her fate, if you will.