An Evil Gepetto

Pleasantly, Miss GIlda agreed to accompany me on a walk around the grounds of my mansion.

“Do you think we should add a pool to the grounds?” I asked, by way of introducing any topic other than the obsessions that had begun to form in my mind.

“I don’t know,” said Miss Gilda. “I don’t think it would make the house very happy. You know how places like these are-- they retain the shadows of the things that have come before.”

“I’ve never thought of you as a spiritualist,” I said, trying to poke fun. But Miss Gilda nodded.

“I can’t unsee what I have seen in the past. And there is something about this house that makes me… uneasy.”

“BUt we all like it so much--”

“Isn’t that a little scary, too? We didn’t think much about what the house was or do any research before we bought it. We just moved in. Then we learned the history. Isn’t that backwards? And don’t they have to tell you if a house is haunted?”

“No one ever said it was haunted. Just-- a lot of bad stuff happened here.”

“That still gives it negative energy.”

“Negative energy? What are we? Come on, we’re modern people. We know that these things don’t exist.”

“Don’t believe if you don’t want, but who are you really trying to convince?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I never really thought about these things. Maybe I am trying to prevent myself from thinking the same thing. You saw those dolls I was working on, right?”

“Yes,” she kicked a stone in front of her as we arrived at the small grove with the lampshade. It seemed closer to the house, somehow. “You get the feeling distances and places around here are shifting?”

I shook my head. We both sat down. A silent moment passed.

“Want to make out?” Miss Gilda asked. I shook my head again.

“Things are weird here,” I said. “It’s not like it was when we first viewed the place. But I keep thinking maybe it’s all those stories the officer’s told us yesterday.”

“They were really pretty, weren’t they? Prettier than your wife. Prettier than me.”

“Yes,” I said, then remembered who I was speaking with. “I mean, no.”

“It’s okay,” said Miss Gilda. “I doubt we’ll see them again. Tell me about those dolls. They seemed familiar.”

“You know who they are, right?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Well, the male one appears to be Hurry Hendrickson. And the female one-- if you look close, you can see her eyes are xed out. I think it’s Memoria.”

At this, Miss GIlda stood up. There was the scared look in her eyes. She nearly ran away, out of the grove. I stood up too, and tried to run after her. I tripped over the small engraved stone.

“We shouldn’t have this conversation here,” said Miss Gilda. She grabbed my hands and dragged me out of the trees, behind the house. “What on Earth made you carve them? Don’t you know what that could do?”

“What do you mean, it’s just dolls,” I said.

“You’re a toymaker! You must have some magic in you,” she yelled. “Haven’t you ever read The Indian in the Cupboard? Any of that series.”

I confessed that I hadn’t. She gave me a quick rundown of the plot, and it did send me to read those books on my own, later. But I didn’t quite follow her point.

“You chose to breathe life into that story,” she said. “Like an evil Gepetto.”

“It wasn’t me,” I protested, “something made me make those dolls.”

“Then you should destroy them,” said Miss Gilda. “There can be nothing good about representing such a horrible story.”

I had to agree. We decided that there was no time like the present, and holding hands, we went back into the house. I found the dolls I had just carved and picked them up. I had all the intention in the world of destroying them at that moment. Miss Gilda separated herself from me and went to the living room to light a fire. I looked at the dolls, at the carving tools set, and then back at the dolls. This was a present from my mother. I couldn’t just destroy them, I thought. This was something she had taken the time to send me, something meaningful to her. It would be a dishonour to myself to so callously destruct things that arrived in my presence out of love.

The dolls themselves seemed to speak to me, too. It was the same voice as before, the same little sound that ran through my head. This time, the voice said, “don’t destroy something made out of love. If you destroy us, you must destroy all those other dolls. We only want to live.”

I tucked the dolls into my shirt pocket, next to my own doll. But I still needed something to throw into the fire. Something to appease Miss Gilda. I looked around the kitchen for something that would provide a scapegoat for those dolls. In a **** search I found two potatoes, which I quickly carved into doll-like shapes. I hid them in the palm of my hand.

“Come on,” called Miss GIlda from the other room.

I entered as quickly as possible to find a fire roaring to life. The heat caressed my face with a sudden sort of warmth. It was almost like something holy, something purifying. I thought about the dolls in my pocket and did indeed think I would gather the courage to throw them into that fire. But the voice continued to plead me to let the dolls live. So I gathered the potatoes in my hand and got ready to throw them in the fire.

“Why aren’t you showing them?” asked Miss GIlda.

“And let you see their faces? If they are as evil as you say we can’t take that chance,” I lied.

“Good thinking,” said Miss Gilda. She motioned for me to throw the dolls away. I threw the potatoes in and watch them as they began to crackle and burn in the fire. Miss Gilda sniffed, but said nothing. We watched the whole of the fire burn down, holding hands, cuddling, and stealing quick kisses. It was a wonder that no one came in to interrupt us. Things progressed as one might suspect they would and when we were on the floor Miss Gilda happened to glance over at the dollhouse and the coffee table. There she saw my wife’s doll on the floor.

“That’s strange,” she said. “It’s almost like she’s spying on us.”