Ugly Little Things

by Todd Keisling

  He felt that familiar chill tip-toe across the back of his neck and onward to his shoulders. The little girl wasn’t the only one staring now. One by one, the other children looked up from their meals, all dark-eyed and frowning, beaming their hatred toward him. I’ve entered the Village of the Damned, he thought, before easing off the brake and making a left. The GPS chimed, announcing his destination was two miles away. Felix stepped on the gas.

  ***

  “And to your left is the head assembly line.”

  Felix followed Sheila’s finger and peered through the Plexiglas window, watching as pale, dismembered doll heads rolled their way down a conveyor belt. The previous highlight of the tour had been the section of the process in which arms and legs were affixed to torsos with machine precision. He’d toured numerous factories during his years writing for Toys in the Attic, and there was a universal constant at work in all of them: they put together toy parts. Usually, when toy makers stranded him on a factory tour, they’d either forgotten their appointment, or they just didn’t give a shit.

  He checked his watch and frowned. He’d been at the factory for almost two hours—the first of which was spent in the front lobby—and Miss Maggie Eloquence had yet to make an appearance. His story was supposed to be about Miss Maggie, not her manufacturing process, and based on what he’d seen so far, he suspected his article would not be very flattering.

  Old Jerry at the Dalton R&R piped up in his head: They say Miss Maggie tailors them herself, out of her dreams. Watching the expressionless doll heads roll their way down the conveyor, Felix decided the old innkeeper hadn’t bothered to take a tour himself. I still have to hand it to Miss Maggie, he thought. She knows how far a little mystique will take her product. Speaking of which . . .

  Felix raised his hand, interrupting his elderly tour guide. Her wrinkled lips pursed into a frown.

  “Yes, young man?”

  “Sheila, this is all incredibly interesting, really, but I was wondering when I would get to sit down with Maggie Eloquence?”

  “No one meets with Miss Maggie.”

  He forced a smile. “Her publicist assured me I would be able to interview Ms. Dalton. It’s why I’m here in the first place.”

  “No one meets with Miss Maggie,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing into thin slits. “If there’s a problem with the tour, young man, I might suggest you speak with management.”

  Felix chewed his lower lip for a moment, sizing up the icy old crone while his cheeks flushed with heat. Larry spoke up between his raging thoughts, reminding him to keep his cool. Kill ‘em with kindness, Larry quipped.

  “No,” Felix said through clenched teeth, “there’s no problem, ma’am. I was wondering, though, if you might show me to the gift shop. I think I’ve seen enough of the assembly line for my article, and I’d like to purchase one of these nice dolls for my daughter.”

  Sheila shrugged her shoulders as if to say “Suit yourself,” and pushed past him into the next observation room. He followed her along a series of corridors that ran parallel to the assembly line, and by the time they reached the exit to the gift shop, completed dolls were rolling down the conveyor belt. He paused for a moment, watching their androgynous faces regard him with blank, accusing stares. That unsettling feeling crept into the pit of his gut once more, treading a line between fear and anxiety, and he jumped when the old woman called after him.

  “Coming,” he said, all too eager to turn away from the Plexiglas window and the black eyes watching him from beyond.

  ***

  The gift shop was a menagerie of Dalton’s primary export. Hundreds of dolls sat upon shelves numbering five high all the way to the ceiling, their hands positioned over their eyes, forming their signature “pouting” look. More of them stood along the wall, pointed away from any patron brave enough to enter, frozen forever in a permanent expression of sorrow and apology.

  Felix noticed the smell immediately. Pig shit, he thought. The room was so rank with that sour stench that his eyes watered. He wiped his tears on his sleeve. If the old woman noticed, she made no mention of the odor, nor did she apologize for it. Felix thought of inquiring about it but didn’t want to be rude. The last thing he needed was word getting back to Larry about his manners. And besides, weren’t the Dalton Pig Farms the source of the town’s secondary export?

  “Another customer, Sheila?”

  An elderly man stood behind the counter, watching them with a big grin. The old woman pointed to him. “Craig will set you right up. He’ll help you pick something out for your daughter.”

  Felix wiped his eyes and nodded, smiling. “Been a real pleasure, Sheila.”

  She offered a grunt in return before doubling back through the factory exit.

  “Don’t mind her,” Craig said. “Dana’s our usual tour guide, but she’s off today. Sheila’s not used to being around young folks like yourself.”

  “Young folks, huh?” Felix leaned against the counter. “That’s kind of you to say. I must be wearing forty rather well.”

  “Forty, eh? I remember those days. That was a good age, that ‘un. I remember back when . . . ” Craig rambled on, shuffling his feet in anticipation as he waxed nostalgic. Felix was a hundred miles away, piecing together the article he would write, slamming the Dalton Dollworks for the smell in their factory. The article was supposed to be about the history of the dolls in the owner’s own words—a character piece, really—but all he had to go on now was a factory tour, a crotchety old tour guide, and a room reeking of shit.

  “Aww, listen to me ramble on. I’m sorry, mister. You need a doll for your daughter, right?”

  Felix blinked, torn away from his angry reverie. He shot the old man a confused glance for a moment before remembering his lie. He turned, staring at the dolls in their simple clothes. He didn’t have a daughter but supposed that if he did, she’d want something girly. There were plenty of those dolls to go around—the pale figures were arranged girl-boy-girl all the way around the room, their faces turned away, dressed in simple country clothes. The girls had red bows tied up in their hair, and the boys wore denim overalls with red rags sticking out of their back pockets.

  “I’ll take that one,” Felix said, pointing to the blonde doll with the blue polka-dotted dress. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone but stopped when he felt a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Each doll’s special,” Craig said. “They choose their owner, not the other way around. You don’t get a second chance.” He was still smiling, but the sound of his voice was cold. Felix was sure he was just imagining it, though—after all, he was worked up over the lack of an interview. Maybe he was just projecting his anger upon this old man.

  “Sure,” Felix said, smiling. “I’m sure my little Jenny will just love this one. Blue’s her favorite color, you know.”

  Craig nodded. “As you wish, mister. If you give me just a few minutes, I’ll go get you a box and some wrapping paper. We’ll make it super-special for your girl.”

  “Sounds like a plan, my man.”

  Felix held his smile and waited until Craig had disappeared into the back room before lifting his cell phone to his ear. He chewed his lower lip, listening to the rings chirp one after the other and exhaled when Larry’s voicemail picked up. When the recording beeped, Felix discovered he was so angry his hands were shaking.

  “Larry, it’s me. This whole trip was a waste of time. Not only did she stand me up, but these dolls—” He paused, looking over his shoulder for Craig. The old man was still in the back room rummaging for wrapping paper. “—these dolls are fucking ugly little things. They smell, too. Anyway, I’m going to see if I can dig up something else before I head back to the airport. Call me when you can.”

  He ended the call, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and was about to turn back toward the counter when something caught his eye. One of the dolls—a boy with curly brown hair—sat on the third shelf with his legs dangling in the air. He stared at Felix, expressionless, unb
linking, his black eyes glaring downward in a gaze of silent accusation. For a moment Felix was frozen in place, his knees weak and feet cemented by a sudden fear that this child—no, this doll—had heard what he’d said. Hadn’t it turned around to watch him? Weren’t they all turned away from him just a moment ago?

  Preposterous, he thought. The doll’s just above the doorway. It had to be sitting like that when I walked in and I just didn’t notice it. Relax.

  Craig placed a small box and a tube of red wrapping paper on the counter. He took the doll with the blue polka-dotted dress from the shelf and put her in the box. Felix thought she looked like a child in a casket, ready to be lowered into the ground. His morbidity ushered a chill across the threshold of his shoulders. That chill crept all the way down to his toes, and by the time he was ready to pay, he found he could hardly steady his hands.

  “One more thing,” Craig said, his smile faltering for a moment. He stared at Felix, holding his gaze with an alarming intensity. “Miss Maggie crafts her dolls a special way. Sometimes, if you talk to ‘em, I swear by God they’ll listen to ya. And maybe if you’re lucky, maybe they’ll talk back.”

  Felix offered a faint smile. “If I’m lucky?”

  “Oh yes,” Craig said, his eyes welling up with tears. His jaw quivered slightly for a moment before steadying itself. “You might say all of Dalton’s lucky, mister. Maybe you will be, too.”

  Felix thanked the old man, tucked the wrapped box underneath one arm, and offered the gift shop a cursory glance before making his way for the door. He was about to push his way out into the lobby when the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

  Can’t be, he thought.

  He turned back once more. An entire row of dolls was turned to face him, watching his exit with their empty, black eyes. Felix blinked, shook his head, and made his way out of the building with long, fast strides. He didn’t look back.

  ***

  “What do you mean she canceled?” The phone’s tiny speaker sizzled with Larry’s agitation. Felix started the car and threw up his hands, immediately feeling foolish for doing so. His only audience was the doll, and she was wrapped up in a box with a big white bow.

  “She didn’t just cancel, Larry. She didn’t show at all.”

  “Well didn’t you ask to see her?”

  Felix scoffed. “Of course I asked to see her. Apparently, no one sees Her Majesty. Ever.”

  “Bullshit,” the phone hissed. Cellular reception really was shoddy out here in the mountains. “That doesn’t make any goddamn sense, Felix. They called us, remember?”

  He did. Maggie Dalton’s publicist had called three weeks ago, raving about an article he’d written on the recent trend of “Time Out” dolls. Felix offered to schedule a phone interview, but the publicist wouldn’t have it. “Miss Maggie only interviews face to face, and she wants you, Mr. Proust. She wants you.”

  And yet here he was, traveling on Maggie Dalton’s dime with nothing to show for it—except for an overpriced doll and a lot of wasted time.

  Larry seethed through the phone’s speaker, and Felix knew better than to chime in at this point. After working with Larry for more than ten years, Felix knew that once his editor got going, nothing would stop him until he ran out of steam.

  Larry was putting a lot on the line by sending Felix down here. Falling off the wagon had done more than ease the pain of divorce; it had nearly destroyed his career, and Felix had struggled to regain his editor’s trust ever since. Felix knew this was his chance to redeem himself, to prove he could be trusted again. When the assignment landed in his lap, he couldn’t turn it down—even if it meant traveling to Hog Shit, West Virginia.

  “Larry,” Felix cut in. “Look, I’m getting a lot of static here. I’ll poke around town, see what I can stir up from the locals. Maybe I can still get a scoop on Maggie Eloquence. One way or another I’ll get you an interview. I won’t let you down.”

  “You do that,” Larry said. Felix could see the veins popping out of his editor’s forehead even from 700 miles away. “Text me when you have something.”

  “Will do,” Felix said, and ended the call. He buckled his seatbelt, looked over at the wrapped box in the passenger seat, and shook his head. “Not a word, little girl. Not a word.”

  ***

  Meyer’s Diner seemed like the best place to start—if for no other reason than his growling stomach. He’d skipped lunch in favor of getting ahead of Charleston traffic, and after getting worked up over at the Dollworks factory, he was feeling particularly famished. He parked along the curb in front of the diner and went inside.

  A blonde waitress leaned against the far end of the counter, chatting with the cook while an older man sat in a middle booth, spooning soup into his disaster of a beard. A jukebox stood to his right, but it wasn’t plugged in, and the quiet murmurs of the diner staff carried across the tiled floor. Felix took a step across the threshold and paused.

  A trio of dolls—two boys and one girl—occupied the nearest booth, positioned with their elbows on the table. They sat glaring at one another, expressionless, their dark eyes exuding a chilling nothingness that made Felix’s skin crawl. While he watched them with cautious curiosity, that familiar stench found his nostrils. The odor of pig shit wafted over the diner’s otherwise appealing aroma, smothering the scent of burning grease and frying oil.

  “Howdy.”

  Felix turned away from the dolls. The cook approached the near side of the counter, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

  “Hi there,” Felix said, displacing a wad of cotton from his throat. His voice sounded oddly weak, distant. “Not very busy today, huh?”

  “No, sir. Have a seat. Diane here will take your order.”

  The blonde waitress gave him a wink. Felix nodded to her in return, taking a seat one booth away from the diner’s single bearded patron. A new aroma met his nose, underscoring the pig smell and stirring up unpleasant memories.

  He’d spent time with his fair share of winos back in the day. This was after his divorce and imminent DUI, after proclaiming that his ex-wife may have taken his money but not his balls, goddammit. One crash and Breathalyzer later, Felix found himself serving probation for a first offense, working in a soup kitchen to fulfill his mandatory community service hours. There were plenty of drunks milling down the line with their hands out, paper plates ready for whatever was on the menu that day—and they always reeked of malt liquor. The smell made his mouth water.

  Felix made eye contact with the old man in the next booth, offering a gentle nod to greet him, but the bearded fellow stared through him.

  “What can I getcha, hon?”

  The waitress walked over and stood beside the table with a notepad in her hand. Felix smiled up at her while trying to find his appetite. His hunger was down in his stomach somewhere, buried beneath the town’s stink and the lingering scent of booze, the latter of which tickled the back of his tongue something fierce. His mouth watered.

  “What do you recommend?”

  “I can have Maynard whip up one of his famous Dollface Burgers. Comes with a side of Doll Fingers and a pop. How’s that sound?”

  Dollface Burgers and Doll Fingers. Appetizing.

  “Uh, sure. Sounds great.”

  “Comin’ right up, hon.” Diane plucked his ticket from the pad and stepped away from the table. A few moments later Felix heard the hiss of the grill, and his appetite returned with a fury all its own, pig stench be damned. He turned his attention to the picture window beside the booth, staring out into the looming shadows brought on by a late afternoon sun.

  The window looked out onto an empty side street. No cars or trucks. No people, either. Just the shadows and an occasional clump of dry leaves caught in a breeze. He’d grown up in a small town like this, spending his early days dreaming of ways to make his escape to the big city. Back then the streets usually cleared out after business hours, everyone gone home to their families or other errands. That was over thirty years ago. These
days, even his hometown was crowded at all hours, bustling with a population of just fifteen thousand people.

  He looked at his phone, noting the time was barely six o’clock. Dalton should’ve been alive and kicking at this hour, and the fact that it wasn’t made him feel very uneasy.

  Enough of that, he told himself. Most of the businesses in this place have dried up. You saw that on your way in. All that’s left is this little dive, the R&R out by the highway, and the Dollworks. He sniffed, grimacing at a whiff of the underlying stench of the place. Even the scent of grilled meat couldn’t overpower it. There was still the Dalton Pig Farm. He couldn’t forget that place, and there was no telling what other little Mom & Pop shops were scattered about the town, places he hadn’t seen from Main Street. There had to be more here for people to make a living. Why else would they stick around?

  His editor’s voice piped up again, chiding him: Stop scaring yourself, Felix. This is just a Podunk town out in the sticks. The people are weird and the town smells like shit—what else is new?

  Movement caught his eye, tearing him from his reverie. The old man rose from his booth and dropped a few singles on the table. He caught Felix’s gaze and nodded, then quickly looked over his shoulder. Felix followed, noting that the waitress was occupied at the cash register, and Maynard was still preparing his meal.

  “Mister,” the old man whispered. He took a step, leaning over Felix’s table. The smell of liquor surrounded him like a cloud. “You need to git.”

  A cold nail drove itself into his gut, pinning him to his seat, and that familiar lump of cotton returned to his throat. “What?”

  The old man’s eyes widened, straining to make his words clear. “Git out of here, boy. Before they pick you.”

  “Sir, I don’t—”

  The drunk took his wrist and squeezed. “Eat yer food and meet me round the corner. Don’t do nothin’ stupid, neither, or else they’ll be on to us. I’ll be waitin’. Tell ya what you need to know so’s you can tell everyone else.”