by Ron Ripley
“I didn’t know,” Grant protested.
“Then you should have educated yourself prior to doing something stupid!” Jeremy yelled. He seethed for a moment and then added, “Now I must retrieve the teapot. It needs to be done quickly, else Anne will hear.”
Grant stiffened at the doll’s name.
Jeremy gave him a curt nod. “You’re right to be afraid. The locked door won’t stop her now. Can’t you feel the power here? You must sense it.”
Victor shook his head, saying, “No, Jeremy, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Jeremy relaxed at Victor’s statement and then patted the younger man on the arm. He focused on Grant once more.
“Do you think you have the courage to enter your own home with us?” Jeremy asked.
Grant hesitated, then nodded. His face was set in a rigid mask of fear, but there was the glint of determination in his eyes.
Victor admired the man, in spite of his foolishness with regards to the haunted doll. Grant didn’t have to go into the apartment. He had no personal stake in it. The man had not lost his wife or any loved one.
A deep hate smoldered in Victor, and he looked forward to the day when he could punish the man who had set the likes of Rolf and Anne on the world.
“Victor,” Jeremy said, “will you help me here?”
He nodded.
“I am going to open the door in a moment, and we will have to look upon the dead Mrs. Ducharme,” Jeremy explained. “If we are fortunate we will not have to see anyone else.”
“Alright,” Victor said, swallowing a dry lump in his throat. “What do you need me to do?”
“You will carry the coffin and open it for me. I will pick up the teapot and place it in the coffin. At that time you will close it, and we will back out of the apartment, post haste,” Jeremy said with a tight smile.
Grant, who seemed to have gotten grasp of his fear, straightened up and said, “Sounds pretty straight forward.”
“It does,” Jeremy agreed, “and it never is.”
Grant blanched and cast his gaze to Victor.
Victor shrugged and said, “Since you’re not going in with us, maybe you could keep an eye on your apartment door and make sure Anne doesn’t come out to say hello.”
Without waiting to hear Grant’s response, Victor tore the paper off the coffin, seeing the object for the first time.
It was brilliant and beautiful, and utterly depressing all in one heartbreaking moment. The sides and lid were made of faceted glass, each pane set into beautifully wrought brass. It could not have measured more than two feet in length, less than half of that in width and depth. The interior held what looked to be a satin pillow and bedding of the same material. There were stains upon all of it, and Victor had the terrible suspicion that the coffin had at one time been used. Where the original occupant had gone to, and what had become of the child’s remains, could only be surmised.
“Best not to think about it,” Jeremy said in a soft voice. “There is nothing of the child here. The spirit has moved on. This is nothing more than glass and metal. Lead keeps the glass in place and serves as a buffer between the upper and lower parts. It will keep the dead trapped within it.”
Victor could only nod, remembering the hopes Erin had once harbored for children of their own.
“Grant,” Jeremy said, “watch your door, as Victor suggested, and get us immediately if you even suspect the doorknob of beginning to turn.”
Grant nodded, wide-eyed, and fixed his gaze on the door in question.
“Are you ready, Victor?” Jeremy asked.
Victor snorted a laugh, shook his head, and said, “No.”
“You’re a wise man,” Jeremy said, turning back to Mrs. Ducharme’s door. “Let us hope that this next task can go as smoothly as possible.”
Hope in one hand, spit in the other, Victor thought as the older man reached for the doorknob, and let’s see what fills up quicker.
The door swung wide, and a little girl smiled at them before she slammed it closed.
Chapter 41: Unwelcomed and Unwanted
Jeremy shook his head at the door as he took out a pair of white, cotton gloves from a pocket and pulled them on. He made certain they were on securely, sighed and reached out for the knob. His hand passed through a wall of cold, the metal painful to the touch even through the fabric as he grasped it. Clenching his teeth, Jeremy gave the knob a sharp turn and forced the door open.
His eyes darted around the room, ignoring the teapot on the table in front of the dead woman.
When he didn’t see the little girl, he fixed his attention on the Wedgwood, letting his gaze go out of focus as he did so. In a heartbeat, he saw her, off to the left, pressed close to the wall as she watched him.
“Victor,” Jeremy said, “I want you to stay close to me, and to look only at me. Nothing else. No matter what you hear. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Victor answered, and Jeremy was impressed with the strength he heard in the younger man’s voice.
Jeremy took a deep, measured breath and advanced towards the table.
The girl took a small step away from the wall, anger and curiosity warring for domination of her expression.
Anger won out.
“Get away from there!” she shouted, and all of the glass exploded in the picture frames on the walls.
Jeremy ignored her and continued towards the table.
“Stop him!” the girl shrieked, and the corpse at the table jerked upright.
Victor gasped behind him, and Jeremy could only hope the man would do as he had bidden him.
Mrs. Ducharme’s face was twisted and pressed against itself, a Salvador Dali impersonation of humanity. The stench of death rolled off her, the putrid scent of bile and sickness permeating the air.
“Get him, now!” the little girl commanded, and Mrs. Ducharme got to her feet.
She tottered towards Jeremy, and while she shambled like a zombie from a B movie, he knew she was dangerous. Her strength would be terrific, and he would be little match for her.
So when she was close enough, he lifted his cane and lashed out with it. The blow caught her in the head and caused her to stumble. He reversed the swing of it, brought the cane back, and hooked her ankle with the handle. With a grunt, he pulled up and took her feet out from under her.
The dead woman landed with a crash that shook the teapot on the table and caused the teacup to roll onto the floor.
Howling with fury, the little girl charged at him.
Yet Jeremy had been waiting for her to do exactly that, and when she reached him, Jeremy lashed out with the cane.
A triumphant grin appeared on her face, but it vanished along with her.
“Quickly, Victor!” Jeremy shouted, stepping over Mrs. Ducharme’s corpse and hurrying to the table. He ignored the pain that shot through his fingers as he snatched up the teapot and spun around.
Victor, pale faced but steady, held the coffin open, and Jeremy dropped the offensive piece of Wedgwood in. With a snap, Victor closed the lid, secured the lock, and let out a long, shuddering breath.
A glance at the floor showed that Mrs. Ducharme was indeed nothing more than a corpse again.
“Jeremy,” Victor said.
“Hm?” he replied, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
“That was terrible,” Victor said.
Jeremy nodded his head in agreement, adding, “And it is only going to get worse. Now we need to see Anne.”
As the name left his lips, he heard Grant scream from the corridor.
Chapter 42: Not Seeing Things
Grant’s scream stopped as the doorknob to his apartment completed its turn, the click of the catch loud and frightening in the sudden stillness of the corridor. The door opened inch by inch, stopping and starting as it revealed the darkness of his home beyond.
A heartbeat later, a small doll’s hand reached around the edge of the wooden portal, grasped it with porcelain fingers that creaked and groaned, and tugged the door o
pen the rest of the way.
Anne Le Morte stood on the threshold, framed by the deep black of the apartment, and a sigh of happiness escaped her and washed over Grant.
She spoke to him in French, rapidly fired words with a lilt both beautiful and frightening. His stomach turned and clenched, threatening to push the last vestiges of food up his throat.
By the elevator, the tabby cat that had escaped from Mrs. Ducharme’s apartment let out a long howl of fear and desperation that Grant empathized with.
Grant opened his mouth to speak, but only a small, pitiful moan escaped his lips.
Victor stepped out of Mrs. Ducharme’s apartment, the coffin in his hand. Jeremy stepped out behind him, the older man’s face showing signs of exhaustion.
Anne pointed a finger at Jeremy, snarling as she spoke.
Jeremy shook his head, responding, “Mademoiselle Anne Le Morte, I am afraid I do not speak your patois. Or any French, really.”
The doll’s face twisted into a grimace, flakes of porcelain dropping to the floor.
By the elevator, the cat meowed again, and Anne’s head snapped to look at the animal.
A low, guttural sound came from the doll and Grant looked at the cat.
From the feline’s throat came a strangled shriek as the pet was lifted up by an unseen hand.
Before any of them could react, the cat’s protest was cut short by a loud snap, its body going limp.
“Oh my God,” Grant whispered, then he recoiled and tried to shrink within himself as the cat flew down the corridor and smashed into the back of his head.
The blow knocked him to the carpet, and Anne’s strange, high laugh filled the room.
She spoke in French to Jeremy again, but the old man’s response was to Victor, not the doll.
“Are you ready again?” Jeremy asked.
“Sure,” Victor said, his voice small, “why not. This one’s even worse, isn’t she?”
“She certainly is,” Jeremy agreed. “But that doesn’t make her invincible.”
Fighting back the rising terror, Grant struggled to get to his feet. But as he gathered himself together, Anne raced toward him. Paralyzed with fear, Grant found he couldn’t move as she neared him.
Victor could.
Still holding the child-sized coffin in his arms, he sprang forward, lashing out with a foot that caught Anne squarely in the stomach.
The doll flew backward from the force of the blow, passing over the threshold and landing with a crash in Grant’s apartment. He felt an absurd desire to yell out, Goal! But he restrained himself, biting his tongue until it bled.
Anne reappeared a second later, screaming at them all.
The walls of the corridor shook, and the lights above them flickered and popped.
They were left in complete darkness.
Above the sound of his own ragged breathing, Grant heard two noises.
The first was the patter of Anne’s feet on the floor.
And the second was that of a long, drawn out scream which he realized wasn’t hers, but his own.
Chapter 43: The Battle in the Corridor
Jeremy, Victor decided, was prepared for every eventuality.
Within seconds of the lights having been put out in the corridor, the older man had cracked several glow sticks, their combined glow illuminating the doll.
She was terrifying.
Victor and Jeremy moved towards Grant, who lay prostrate with fear on the floor. Yet even as they did so, Anne raced towards them, her small legs moving terrifyingly fast. As she neared them Jeremy swung his cane, and to Victor’s surprise, the doll dodged it, as though she had expected the attack.
Again and again, Jeremy lashed out at her but her quick, deft movements kept her free from harm even as Victor and Jeremy attempted to do the same for Grant.
“Grant,” Victor snapped, “get up!”
The only response he received from the other man was a pathetic moan.
Then, Anne darted in between all of them, reaching out and grasping a full chunk of Grant’s hair in her porcelain hand while racing by. The man’s head snapped back, bloody foam spilling out of the corners of his mouth as his eyes flicked madly from left to right in opposite directions.
He was twisted around and would have gone further if his hair hadn’t suddenly torn free from his scalp, leaving her with a bloody clump.
Anne let out a high, pleased laugh and ran into the apartment.
She left the door open.
Victor tried to take hold of Grant’s arm and the man scrambled away from him, crawling on all fours toward the elevator.
“Don’t worry about him,” Jeremy said coldly. “We have to contend with Anne. He is on his own.”
Before Victor could respond, Anne raced out of the apartment, something bright glistening in her hands.
Jeremy lunged, struck her hand with his cane, and fell to the floor, landing with a loud thud as a piece of broken glass spun out of her hand. Somehow, the man managed to keep the doll in the light of the glow sticks.
The doll let out an invective in French and came to a sharp stop, turning her attention to Jeremy, who was open to attack on the floor.
“Don’t,” Victor said, stepping towards her. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Be careful,” Jeremy said, his voice tight with pain.
A loud bang sounded, and all eyes turned to the elevator, where Grant had pulled himself up and had begun to pound on the metal doors.
Anne laughed and sped towards the man.
Grant twisted around, a fresh scream exploding from his throat as he saw the doll. He clawed at the carpet, trying to dig his way into it.
Victor put the coffin down as quickly as he could without shattering it and ran after Anne. While his stride was longer, she had too much of a lead on him, and she reached Grant first.
The man threw his hands up in front of him, protecting his face, but the doll took aim at his groin. She stamped down with a small foot, and the piercing shriek that launched itself from his lips caused Victor to wince.
As he neared her, the doll’s blows continued to land with precision and ferocity.
Victor heard Grant’s teeth break and jaw snap. Flesh was torn from one cheek, and two fingers were mangled. When Victor reached them, Anne had taken Grant’s chin in one hand, and before she could be stopped, the doll plunged her free hand deep into the man’s left eye.
She jerked it back, pulling the mangled orb with her as he slumped to the floor, passed out from the pain. The doll faced Victor, squeezed the plucked eye into jelly and let it drip from her fingers.
In a soft, sweet voice, she asked him a question in French.
“I don’t know what you want,” Victor replied, “and I don’t care.”
He stepped up to the doll and ignored Jeremy as the man shouted, “Stop, Victor!”
There was pain when he grabbed a fistful of the doll’s hair and lifted her up. It felt as if he had thrust his hand into a bucket of dry ice and every second he held onto her the sensation worsened.
Anne laughed again, swinging merrily by her locks. Her mirth ended when she discovered Victor still held on in spite of the pain.
She screamed at him in French, kicked out and tried to grab his hand. But her hair was too long and her arms too short. She could no more force him to let go than she could take a breath of air.
Victor gasped, sucked in breath through teeth clenched against the pain and focused on the coffin. Yet as his eyes locked onto it, the temperature plummeted and Jeremy’s glow stick suddenly dimmed. The corridor was plunged into almost pure darkness, the fading glow sticks adding nothing more than a hint of light.
“What do you think that did, Anne Le Morte?” grumbled Victor. “I can still see where your coffin is.”
“Walk quickly,” Jeremy called. “You’ll lose your hand if you don’t.”
Victor heard the sound of someone scrambling on the floor, a sound swiftly followed by the click of the coffin lid as Jeremy unl
ocked it.
Anne howled with fury, jerking her entire body to either side. She tried to free herself from Victor’s grasp, but he had no intention of releasing her. The French that spewed forth from her mouth sounded like a recording sped up. Grant let out a scream, the pain of his wound registering and waking him.
“Ignore it all,” Jeremy said as Victor drew closer, the glow sticks flickering their dim, fading light across the floor “Worry only about coming to the coffin.”
Victor struck an object with his foot, and Jeremy let out a gasp of pain.
“You’re here, Victor,” the older man hissed, “just put her in the coffin now. If that was your foot, then you’re less than a foot away.”
Victor didn’t have time to respond. Objects struck him in the small of the back while several glanced off the side of his head. He knew the door to Grant’s apartment was behind him, and Anne was launching household items at him.
Glass shattered, and furniture crashed. A heavy object clipped the back of his skull and caused him to stumble as stars exploded in front of his eyes.
“Find the coffin!” Jeremy commanded.
Victor obeyed and dropped to his knees. His free hand found the cold metal and glass of the coffin, and he lifted the lid. The girl from Mrs. Ducharme’s apartment let out a foul litany of curses as he thrust Anne into the receptacle. As he extricated his hand, both the doll and the girl attacked him and it felt as though thousands of needles were buried into the tender flesh of his palm and the skin between his fingers.
Letting out a shout of dismay, Victor fell back, the lid dropping back into place with a large clack.
He lay on his back, warmth returning to the corridor. His hand was an agonized mass of punished flesh, and he wondered if he would ever be able to use it again.
The groans and whimpers issuing from Grant were clear and aggravating in the darkness. There was a scrape and a hiss as Jeremy moved. Victor listened as the man locked the coffin and then sighed.
“Victor,” Jeremy said, “are you alright?”
He laughed and shook his head as he said, “No. Not at all.”
“I thought not,” Jeremy said.