Demon Dolls

Innocenta stands against the breathtaking backdrop of the German countryside. As the sun rises, the hills seem to be rimmed by reds and pinks, washing over the lush green hills and sweeping towards us. The scene brightens and as it does, Innocenta picks up her brush again. One could almost believe that she has called out the sun to model its splendor as she dips her brush into different colors and splashes them across the canvas, recreating the colors of the sunrise into a dress for the woman depicted in her painting.

In the past couple of weeks, I have become more accustomed to seeing Innocenta at work, creating beauty from the inspiration of nature as well as from within. Something about it is so soothing that I have spent hours and hours just watching her in silence. She seems to remain oblivious to my invasion of her space. She, too, may enjoy the gentle peace of a friend close at hand should words need to be said or moments shared. I reflect on this as Innocenta's brush rustles across the canvas. Occasionally, she stops to address a question or a comment to me. We spend many hours like this until we both realize that hunger has stolen in our solitude.

As we walk toward the house, we say very little. We have no need to speak. We have created a rhythm in the brief time I have been here. I look at the house with its dark curtains that keep out the light and ponder the irony of the peaceful darkness that awaits us. I have grown accustomed to the darkness that shrouds her house. It is not a forbidding darkness. Nothing hides in it waiting to pull me under and drown me in filth. Nothing waits around the dark corners. Or does it?

As I open the door and step inside, I feel as if something has changed in the dim interior. The darkness has taken on an oppressive deepness. The air seems to have a tinge of decay that slips along my nose and into my throat. I reach back to hold the door open for Innocenta and her canvas. As my eyes meet hers, I see the same question in them that the atmosphere about me elicits.

"Something is different." She says this without needing to hear my concerns.

We step into the interior together, subconsciously putting our backs together and surveying our surroundings. I turn to her, looking for a sign that she feels our worry was too hasty. Her dark eyes glitter for a moment before the door swings shut, but they still hold fear in their depths just as she still clutches the canvas in her hands like a talisman or, if need be, a weapon.

Something rustles in the darkness. I feel Innocenta lean forward to pull aside one of the dark curtains. Bright rays of sunlight filter into the room. Something is out of place, but I can't place it for a moment as I peer into the corners of the room. Then it hits me. The Quasimodo doll that Innocenta had given me is in the corner. The misshapen face looks sinister in the dark light as if the friendly features have warped into a scowl.

"Bella, what did you do with the doll I gave you?" Her voice is tinged with dread.

"I left it upstairs, but now it's in the corner."

"That's not your doll," she says slowly. "Nor is this one."

Turning slightly, I can see that another doll is observing her from an end table across the room. I glance toward the stairs and see a few more. All of them have the same unfriendly leer. I imagine that their expression is more evocative of the image Hugo tried to portray in his novel than the one children of today have grown to accept. Of course, that leer would have been a result of his disfigurement in Hugo's vision. These expressions come from some evil that has brought the inanimate to life.

Defying all logic, they all begin moving toward us. They jerk across the room like marionettes yet I can discern no strings. Surely, a puppetmaster would have to strap themselves to the ceiling to work them in this room. Looking up, I can see no one and no hint of a control device. Yet these dolls move. They move astonishingly quickly, closing the distance between us. They can not move as fast as Innocenta, however. She makes a frightened keening sound as she grips my wrist and pulls me toward the door.

The peaceful landscape has changed in the brief time that we were inside. A flowing wave of various dolls from dainty porcelain to chunky plastic stumbles across the hillside. The house is surrounded. As we step outside, a noise goes up on the air like whispering, but no words come from this whisper. It is like sinister, fluttering bird wings.

Innocenta points a hand at the doll closest to us, bringing her hand upward in an elongated brush stroke. The doll seems to disappear in a swirl of color, fading out. She does this a few more times, clearing a path. None of the dolls step into these openings. They seem unaware that their companions have disappeared. Some would argue that dolls have no awareness. Some would also argue that dolls can not move without the help of some outside force.

I know these dolls have an awareness. It is not awareness as we know it. It is not within them that the awareness exists, but the some power possesses them. When Innocenta and I bolt into the path she has cleared, they are aware of us. They jerk around to face us. They try to rush us, but we are moving too fast for them. Even with some impure power guiding them, they are held back by the shortness of their legs.

Somehow, one of the porcelain dolls manages to grab onto my ankle as we run. The porcelain of its hands feels as if it has just been fired in a kiln. The silk ruffles of its sleeves feel icy in comparison. I shudder and scream in pain, but Innocenta does not give me a chance to break stride. The power of her grip intensifies. If I stop moving, I fear my arm will not.

I hear the beep of an automatic door lock as we near the car. Innocenta releases my wrist to grab the door and the dolls swarm around us. One of them touches her now and she screams. Both fear and pain are echoed in that scream as she pulls the door open. I turn to look at her. Her face is every horror director's dream. Wide eyes look as if tears have been scared permanently from their ducts. Her mouth is opened wide to scream again--a voiceless scream. The pallor of her face could put vampires to shame. No color remains even in her lips. She could be made of wax, awaiting the expert touch of a painter to bring her face to life.

In fact, she is now frozen as the dolls should be. The dolls are swarming closer, more of them reaching out their hands to grab for us. I push her backward and she tumbles ungracefully into the car. I slap away the dolls that have latched onto her pants legs and push her into the interior. Luckily, the dolls are too short to leap into the car. Their tiny arms seem to lack the ability to pull them into the car though they hang on with surprising fortitude when they catch hold of either of us.

Innocenta is moving again. She is moving in slow motion, but she is moving. Being released from the touch of the dolls seems to have given her the strength to preserve our lives. I get into the car, grabbing the doll that is still wrapped around my ankle in order to pull it off and fling it from the car. I wince as it pulls free, leaving burns in the shapes of its tiny hands on my ankle.

Before I have a chance to swing the door closed, Innocenta has started the car and put it into gear. I hear porcelain shattering and the whispered communications becomes a muted roar. The force of the car moving forward, slams the door shut on the clutching hands of a few stalwart pursuers, shattering the porcelain. I look to Innocenta who is focusing on the road as if she has never driven it before. Her violet black hair looks so much deeper against her still pale face. Her eyes are riveted to the road, scanning it again and again. I dare not speak. I dare not ask. Yet I must know what secret she knows of these demon dolls.