Ante Mortem

HUNGER PAINS Myrrym Davies

Early evening sunlight filtered through slatted ceiling vents, highlighting the cobwebbed rafters with a dim, orange glow. The rest of the attic lay shrouded in shadows; moldering boxes and cast off furniture lining the walls like cloth-draped sentinels, guarding the room’s hidden secrets. Sarah ran the beam of her Barbie flashlight over stacks of dusty crates and discarded sundries, a satisfied grin creeping onto her face.

There was bound to be some cool stuff buried there. It was just a matter of finding a way past those bulky boxes and boring old furniture.

She swung the flashlight in a slow sweep and spied a couple of crates she felt she could squeeze between. Her grin widened to a smile of anticipation as she headed towards the back of the room. Today, she would find something really special.

She could feel it.

Sarah might have missed the box had the beam of her flashlight not glinted off its latches. It lay in the farthest corner of the attic, half hidden behind a stack of brittle newspapers, its leather top coated in a thin layer of dust. Sarah blew a stray lock of dirty, blonde hair out of her face and aimed the light at the box, a grin dimpling her cheek as she inspected its cracked, brown casing and tarnished hinges.

Treasure!

Setting the flashlight on the floor, she grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled. Excitement bubbled in her belly as she dragged the trunk from behind the papers, revealing a row of discolored catches along the front. Images of possible treasures flitted through her mind: photographs, curling and yellow with age; clothes from a forgotten era; colorful costume jewelry. The box could contain anything. She would not know until she cracked the lid and peeked inside.

Sarah released her grip on the handle and circled to the front of the trunk, examining the pitted catches. Four simple lever clasps—easy enough to open, provided they had not rusted shut. She lifted the first three with no trouble and gazed at the fourth, a grin spreading across her dust-covered face. This was the part Sarah loved most: the moment of discovery. She loosened the final clasp, reached for her flashlight and raised the lid.

A cracked, wooden face surrounded by blonde curls gazed up at her from a bed of black velvet.

Cool…a doll!

Sarah shone the light over her newest find. It was a pretty thing, with golden hair and a pink satin dress, and much larger than most of the dolls she owned—about the size of a two-year-old child. It looks really old, she thought, reaching in to prop the toy up. She repositioned the flashlight and studied the wooden face. Cracked and flaking shellac marred the doll’s features, giving it an almost diseased look. The retractable eyelids appeared glued in a half-lidded state, adding to the toy’s sickly appearance. Twin lines ran from the corners of the Cupid’s bow mouth, curving to meet underneath the chin.

Maybe the mouth opens and closes, she thought, brushing a renegade curl from the doll’s face. Like those dummies the ventriloquist guys use. Sarah pressed a finger against the doll’s lower lip, but the lacquered teeth remained firmly clenched. She reached around to the back, feeling for some kind of lever or button that might operate the jaw.

The doll’s eyes clicked open.

Sarah jerked her hand away and giggled, silently chiding herself for being such a scaredy-cat. She shone the flashlight at the doll’s face, taking in its glassy, green eyes. “Cool,” Sarah said, leaning in for a closer look. The eyes were intricately detailed—from the golden flecks in its glass irises to the delicate lashes on the lids.

They almost look real…

“Sarah? Where are you, hon?”

Sarah flinched and craned her head over her shoulder. “Coming, Momma,” she said, scrambling to stand up. A chill washed over her as she considered what Momma would say when she learned of Sarah’s whereabouts. Technically, she was not allowed to play in the attic (not until Daddy could inspect it for spiders, rusty nails and anything else he felt little girls should not be exposed to), but Daddy wouldn’t be joining them until the end of the week, and Momma had made it clear Sarah was to stay out of the way while she unpacked…

“Sarah?”

Sarah sighed and cupped her hands around her mouth. “In a minute,” she yelled.

She stooped to retrieve her flashlight when a dull clack snapped in the darkness. Sarah whirled around and aimed the flashlight at the leather box, thinking the doll might have fallen to the floor; but there it sat, propped against the velvet interior just as she had left it. She eyed the toy, a combination of curiosity and unease tickling her mind.

Something’s different, she thought, taking a step towards the box.

Sarah shone the light over the wooden face and frowned. The doll’s mouth hung slack, the glazed teeth glinting white against the dark, rectangular opening. She took a step towards the box and froze, a definite chill creeping down her back.

The doll’s eyes flashed yellow.

“Sarah!”

Sarah jumped, nearly dropping the flashlight. She fumbled for a moment before steadying her hand to cast a beam of light onto the doll’s face. The eyes glittered green. A burst of nervous laughter exploded from her mouth. It’s just your imagination, stupid, she thought, tucking the flashlight into her back pocket.

Still chuckling, she lifted the doll from the box and made her way to the attic door.

Getting the toy down to the main level took a lot longer than Sarah thought it would. The doll’s large size and unbending limbs made navigating the stairs difficult. Sarah reached the landing between the second and first floors, hitched the doll to her hip, and cautiously made her way down the remaining flight of stairs.

“Sarah? Where is that child…”

Her momma’s diminutive figure appeared in the kitchen door just as Sarah rounded the balustrade, her foot tapping a short-tempered rhythm on the hardwood floor. Behind her, Sarah’s little sister Laurie squirmed in her highchair, chunky fingers gripping a two-handled sippy cup. The baby banged the cup against the tray a few times, then tossed it onto the floor.

“Where have you been, girl?” Momma said, a taut scowl darkening her normally cheerful face.

Sarah had seen that expression a lot since the move.

“Huntin’ treasure,” she said, turning the doll about and holding it up for inspection. “I found a doll. Cool, huh?”

Momma gave the proffered toy a cursory glance and turned to retrieve Laurie’s sippy cup from the floor. “Looks kind of like that old Suzie Sez doll I had as a kid,” she said, placing the cup on the child’s tray. “Only mine was made of plastic, not wood. Where’d you find it?”

“In the attic,” Sarah said, returning the doll to her hip.

Momma crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “What were you doing in the attic?”

Sarah shrugged and looked at the floor, her toe tracing an invisible pattern on the polished oak planks. “Staying out of the way?”

Momma closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose with a thumb and forefinger. “Look, hon, I’m too tired to argue with you right now, so I’m gonna let it slide this time,”—she shot Sarah an I’m-not-messing-around look—“but you can’t go back up there until Daddy does his ‘safety inspection.’ You know how he is about stuff like that.”

Sarah nodded. “Okay.”

“Good. Now go put that doll in your room and wash up. I’ll make us a couple of sandwiches for dinner.”

Sarah’s stomach grumbled at the mention of food. “Can I have peanut butter and jelly?”

“Sure. Grape jelly okay?”

“Yeah.”

Sarah shifted the doll to the other hip and mounted the steps. She reached the landing at the top of the staircase and turned left, heading for her room. The doll’s wooden cheek rested against her shoulder, its glassy gaze seeming to bore into the side of her neck. Sarah’s scalp began to prickle, as if she really was being watched…

A sharp, stinging pain flared in her shoulder. Sarah grimaced and slapped at her arm, but the doll’s head seemed to be resting on the very spot that hurt most. She pushed at the toy, trying to move it away from the tender spot, and the pain intensified. Sarah twisted her head to the side and gasped.

The doll’s teeth were embedded in the sleeve of her shirt, pinching the skin of her shoulder between its gradually tightening jaws.

Sarah grabbed the doll’s hair and yanked, whimpering as the lacquered teeth scraped across her flesh. Her arm freed, she released the handful of hair and let the doll drop. It hit the floor with a clatter, a faint, yellow gleam shimmering in its eyes, and the mouth snapped shut with an audible click.

Sarah’s legs buckled. Leaning against the wall for support, she peeled back the sleeve of her shirt and prodded the abraded shoulder with the tips of her fingers. The skin hadn’t been broken, but she could see the indention of the doll’s teeth outlining the beginnings of what was sure to be a spectacular bruise come morning-time.

She turned her attention to the doll, eyeing it with a mixture of curiosity and dread. She nudged the doll’s arm with the tip of her sneaker and quickly drew her foot back, half expecting the wooden hand to reach out and grab her. The doll rocked slightly, its eyelids fluttering with the motion. With a shuddering sigh, Sarah picked the doll up and—keeping it at arm’s length—made her way to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Her mood lightened tremendously the moment she crossed the threshold. Sarah loved her new room. The rose-colored walls and white wicker furniture made her feel like she had just stepped into Malibu Barbie’s beach house. A Disney Princess poster and perfect attendance award hung on the wall, the only adornments she had found time to hang up. White lace curtains framed a large picture window, the gauzy material fluttering lazily in the evening breeze.

Sarah sat the doll in the white rocking chair and knelt down, studying the cracked, round face. Hazy sunlight trickled through the curtains, staining the doll’s teeth a dingy orange. Sarah leaned forward and looked closer, inspecting the lines running from the sides of the mouth. She brushed a tentative finger across the lower lip, as if expecting the mouth to snap open at the slightest touch. Maybe the mouth part is broken, she thought, applying some force to the doll’s bottom lip.

The teeth remained firmly clenched.

Momma’s voice drifted to her from downstairs. “Sarah? You gonna eat this sandwich sometime tonight?”

Sarah rose to her feet. “Coming, Momma,” she said, dusting off the knees of her pants. She glanced over at the rocking chair and froze.

The doll’s eyes flickered yellow and blinked.

Sarah stepped away from the rocker, a rash of goose bumps puckering the skin of her arms. She backed across the room, her gaze never leaving the wooden face. The doll’s eyes—now back to their customary shade of green—seemed to follow her as she moved. Unease settled around Sarah, filling her with a sudden urge to bolt from the room. Turning her back on the doll, she hurried to the door.

A soft click echoed through the room. Sarah paused at the threshold, gripping the doorframe tightly enough for her fingernails to indent the molding. She swallowed hard and craned her head over her shoulder.

The doll’s mouth hung open.

Sarah jerked awake and sat up, a ragged gasp catching in the back of her throat. Groggy, she blinked away the remnants of a nightmare and squinted at the glowing hands of the Barbie clock hanging above the dresser. Quarter past five.

She groaned and flopped back against the pillows. She had not had more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep all night.

A shiver coursed through her body as she recalled the nightmare that had woken her this time—one in which some shadowy predator stalked her through an endless maze of cloth-draped furniture and dusty crates. Sarah was not sure which part was scarier: being lost in the maze or being chased by something she could not see. She shuddered and patted the pillow next to hers, seeking Mr. Roar, the ratty stuffed lion she had slept with since the day she was born. Lions were supposed to be brave, and holding Mr. Roar made Sarah feel more secure.

Where is he?

A soft creak startled Sarah from her search. She sat up and pulled the covers to her chest, her head turning in a slow sweep. The creak came again and Sarah froze, her heartbeat pounding triple-time in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glint of silver, like moonbeams reflecting off a mirror. Sarah’s head whipped around, eyes widening as they locked on the rocker in the corner of the room.

A girl no older than ten sat in the chair, an oversized doll in her lap and a silver hairbrush in her right hand. Soft moonlight slipped through the window, ebbing and flowing over the girl’s form as she rocked to and fro. Long, blonde curls hung around her face, shadowing her features to an indistinct blur. Seemingly oblivious to Sarah, the girl moved the brush over the doll’s locks, her foot occasionally kicking at the floor to set the rocker in motion.

Sarah cocked her head. “Who’re you?” she asked, her tone more curious than frightened.

The girl paused her brushing. A pair of green eyes shone briefly from behind the wall of curls, disappearing as the girl turned her attention back to the doll. “Amanda," she said, resuming the steady pass of brush over hair. “Amanda Stilton.”

Sarah scoured her memories for a connection and frowned. She didn’t know anyone named Amanda. “Um, I’m Sarah Wilkes. We just moved in yesterday.”

“I know.”

“Oh.” Sarah’s fingers twisted nervously in the hem of the bedspread. “So, do you live around here or something?”

Amanda shrugged, seemingly too absorbed in her grooming duties to respond. Sarah turned her attention to the doll in the girl’s lap. It looked a lot like the one she’d found in the attic. “I like your doll,” she said, more to break the silence than out of any real admiration. “What’s her name?”

Amanda flinched, nearly dropping the silver brush. “Her name’s Beatrice.”

“Cool. Where’d you get her?”

“I found her in the attic.”

Sarah sat up straighter. “Really? That’s weird. I found a doll in the attic too. She’s—” Sarah’s words drifted off, her brow furrowing in confusion. She distinctly remembered setting the doll in the rocking chair when she brought it upstairs. Her eyes narrowed to a squint, trying to see through the wash of shadows hovering around the girl.

“Hey, where’s my doll?”

Amanda either did not hear the question or chose to ignore it. She sighed and held the doll up by its arms. “I hate her, you know,” she said, giving the toy a good shake.

Sarah blinked, confused by the sudden shift in topics. “Hate who?”

“Beatrice,” Amanda snarled, returning the doll to her lap. “She’s mean.”

Sarah’s brow shot up. “She’s just a doll. How can she be mean?”

Amanda tossed the hairbrush to the floor and shook her head, the curtain of blonde locks swaying with the movement. “You don’t believe me, either,” she said, sliding from her seat. “Nobody does.” She walked to the foot of the bed and bent over, disappearing from view behind the wicker footboard.

Sarah pushed the covers off and crawled towards the foot of the bed. “I didn’t say that,” she said, peering over the footboard.

A cold knot of dread twisted Sarah’s stomach as she watched the girl settle, cross-legged, onto the floor. Pale light poured through the window, highlighting the black welts covering Amanda’s arms from wrist to shoulder. A tattered hole in the girl’s sleeveless smock revealed a gaping wound in her belly, her insides bulging through the gash, glittering sickly in the moonlight. Amanda looked up at Sarah and smiled, black ochre oozing from the ragged holes in her face and neck.

Sarah gagged and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she gasped, her nose crinkling in disgust. “What happened to you?”

Amanda shrugged her shoulders and looked away. “She got hungry,” she said, her voice sounding hushed, as if she were telling a dirty secret.

Hungry? Sarah gulped and gripped the footboard a little tighter. “Who got hungry?”

Amanda picked the doll up and extended it to Sarah. “Beatrice.”

Sarah recoiled as the doll’s eyes rolled in their wooden sockets and locked on her, the irises flaring an incandescent yellow. The mouth snapped open, vomiting chunks of grey, maggot-riddled meat. Sarah shoved away from the footboard, a garbled scream bursting from her lips.

Amanda dropped the doll and stood up. “I told you she was mean,” she said, hoisting herself onto the bed. She crawled towards Sarah, her mouth twisting into a smug sneer. “Now do you believe me?”

Sarah bolted upright in the bed, her bleary-eyed gaze flitting from one shadowed corner of the room to another, seeking any sign of Amanda and her deadly doll. The tick of the Barbie wall clock clicked loudly in her ears, keeping time with the ragged in and out of her breath. She rubbed her eyes and peered at the wicker chair.

The rocker was empty.

Sarah released her grip on the comforter and sighed. Just another nightmare, she thought, settling back against her pillow. Closing her eyes, she rolled onto her side and pulled the covers over her shoulder, trying to shake the nagging sense of alarm growing in the back of her mind.

It felt like she’d missed something—something important.

The rocker.

Goose bumps prickled her arms. She had left the doll in the rocker when she went to bed, and now it was empty. Sarah’s eyes popped open, a gasp hitching in her throat.

The doll stared back at her, its head resting on the pillow next to hers. Sarah yelped and scrambled to sit up, shoving the doll away with as much force as her terrified muscles could muster. The toy slid across the satiny covers and fell to the floor with a thud.

Sarah kicked the covers off her legs and reached for the bedside lamp, her fingers fumbling for the switch. The light clicked on, bathing the room in a soothing glow. Sarah glanced around the room, taking comfort in the light’s revealing glare. Her gaze swung from the walls to the mattress, eyes narrowing as they settled on a handful of fluffy, white scraps.

What is that?

She plucked a piece from the mattress and held it up. It looked like the stuff Momma kept in her sewing box—the stuff she used to fill Mr. Roar when his padding got too squishy…

A giggle stole the moisture from Sarah’s mouth. She froze, the scrap of fluff falling from her hand. The click of wood striking wood sounded from beside the bed and then stopped. Swallowing hard, Sarah crawled to the edge of the bed and peered over the side.

The doll was nowhere to be seen.

A tangle of brown yarn peeked out from under the dust ruffle. Sarah glanced up and down the length of the bed, looking for any sign of the doll. Seeing none, she reached out and snagged the knotted mass from the floor. Tears pricked the corner of her eyes as she held it up.

Mr. Roar’s mane.

Sarah dropped the tattered mane, clambered to the other side of the bed and looked over the edge, searching for the doll. Nothing there. She moved to the end of the bed and peeked around the footboard. The floor was bare.

Where is she?

Sarah shifted uncomfortably, the cold knot in the pit of her stomach twisting even tighter as her brain began to draw the obvious conclusion.

She’s under the bed.

Sarah’s imagination kicked into overdrive, envisioning a pair of wooden hands reaching from beneath the dust ruffle to clamp tightly around her ankle the moment her foot touched the floor. She shuddered, skin crawling at the thought of the doll’s touch.

What am I gonna do?

Sarah gulped and turned to look at the door. If she could get out of the room, she could curl up with Momma until morning. Momma would be more than a match for some old doll.

She squinted at the door, trying to discern the distance between the bed and salvation. One good jump from the edge of the mattress would land her halfway. A few more steps and she would be out the door. Sarah stood up and stepped to the edge of the bed, hands shaking as she hiked the long nightshirt up to her knees. She looked at the door and took a deep breath. Just get out and go to Momma’s room, she thought. Ready? One… two…

Sarah leapt from the bed and ran for the exit, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. The whisper of rustling fabric sighed through the room, spurring her on. She reached for the doorknob, gave it a twist and pulled.

The door would not open.

A scrabbling sound sent a cold shot of adrenaline surging through Sarah’s veins. She glanced over her shoulder, throat constricting as a pair of yellow eyes glared at her from under the bed. Biting back a shriek, Sarah grabbed for the doorknob and pulled as hard as she could. “Please open,” she whimpered, hazarding another glance at the bed.

The doll clambered from beneath the dust ruffle and scuttled across the room like some misshapen crab.

The door popped open with a grating screech. Sarah flung the door aside, stumbled into the hallway and skidded to a stop. She whirled around, jaw dropping at the sight of the ravenous toy tottering towards her, and lunged for the door, pulling it shut. With a soft sob, she backed away, her shoulders bumping into the wall behind her.

Can it open doors? Sarah did not think so, but then she hadn’t thought dolls could eat stuffed animals, either. She tilted her head, listening for footsteps, expecting to hear the rattle of the doorknob any second.

Minutes passed with no sound of pursuit. Sarah stepped away from the wall and tiptoed to the door, pressing her ear against it. A sharp snap followed by a grinding crunch reverberated through the wood panel.

Sarah dropped to her knees and peered through the keyhole, a disgusted frown forming on her face. The doll sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, a length of flesh-colored plastic clamped between its teeth. A shudder rippled down her back.

The doll was eating her Malibu Barbie.

Sarah scrambled to her feet and bolted for the safety of her mother’s room.

A tinny-sounding wail pulled Sarah from a restless sleep. She sat up and blinked at her surroundings, disoriented by the sight of the pale green comforter and bamboo blinds. Across the room a door stood open, revealing a beige countertop littered with an assortment of shampoo bottles and shower gels. The splash of running water burbled from the room.

Oh, I’m in Momma’s room.

The water shut off and Momma exited the bathroom, drying her hands on the hem of her tee shirt. She switched the baby monitor off and sat down at the edge of the bed. “Mornin’, Sarah,” she said, leaning over to pull on her shoes.

Sarah ground a knuckle against her eye and yawned. “Mornin’, Momma.”

Momma finished tying her shoes and stood up. “Wasn’t sure if I was sharing a bed with my daughter or a mule; you kicked me pretty hard a couple of times, there.”

Sarah yawned again and frowned, trying to recall how she came to be in her parents’ bedroom to begin with. She remembered the Amanda dream and some of the scarier parts of the other nightmares she had suffered, but there was something else. Something to do with…

The doll.

The doll had devoured Mr. Roar and her favorite Barbie. It wanted to eat her. Sarah glanced up at her mother, debating whether to tell her about the doll’s carnivorous intentions. She wanted to tell her, but…

An angry wail cut through the walls. Momma sighed and regarded Sarah with a weary frown. “Your sister’s teething again,” she said, wincing at a particularly ear-splitting shriek. “Between her crying and your kicking, I barely got any sleep at all.”

Sarah bit her lip and looked at the comforter. She knew how Momma felt. “Sorry, Momma.”

“S’okay,” Momma said through a yawn. She reached out and brushed a tangled lock of hair from Sarah’s face. “I’m not mad at you, sweetheart. Just tired is all. I don’t mean to be so cranky.”

Momma patted Sarah’s cheek and turned towards the door. “You want some breakfast?”

Sarah slumped against the pillows. “I guess so. Can I have waffles?”

“Sure. Go get dressed and brush your hair. Waffles should be ready by the time you get done.”

“Okay.”

Sarah slipped the covers off and got out of bed. Still dazed, she shuffled out of her mother’s room and headed for the stairs, the tatters of last night’s events flittering through her mind. Maybe I just dreamed all that stuff, she mused, wrapping her fingers around the handrail. She supposed it was possible. Momma always said she had a ‘vivid imagination’. Sarah was not sure what ‘vivid’ meant, but figured it had something to do with the way things always seemed so real to her, even when they weren’t.

She reached the landing and turned to the left, staring at the door to her room.

But what if I wasn’t dreaming? Sarah did not want to risk going in there until she knew for certain. She sidled up to the door, knelt down and peered through the keyhole.

The doll sat in the rocking chair, looking much as it had when Sarah went to bed. Its golden curls gleamed in the early morning sunshine, not a lock out of place to indicate it had even moved, much less eaten her toys. Sarah sighed and stood up.

See? You just dreamed it, she thought, reaching for the doorknob and giving it a twist. The door creaked open. Sarah pushed it wide and stepped into the room. The dresser stood by the opposite wall, next to the window over the rocking chair. She glanced at the doll out of the corner of her eye, and then marched across the room.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she neared the rocker. Don’t look at it, she thought, just get your clothes. You can get dressed in the bathroom. Eyes on the floor, Sarah continued past the chair and opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. She pulled out a pink tee shirt and a pair of shorts, and turned to leave.

A silvery glint caught her eye as she hurried past the rocker. Sarah paused and looked directly at the doll for the first time since she entered the room. The shimmer seemed to be coming from somewhere near the doll’s right side, peeking out from between the satiny folds of the dress. Sarah took a step back and tilted her head.

There appeared to be something in the doll’s grasp.

Chills snaked across Sarah’s shoulders. With a quivering hand, she reached down and quickly flipped back a fold of pink material. The shorts and tee shirt fell from her grasp, forgotten, her eyes widening as she gazed at the object clasped in the doll’s fist.

Amanda’s hairbrush.

The doll’s mouth clacked open. Sarah jumped, her wild-eyed gaze swinging from the brush to the cracked, wooden face. Bits of cotton batting and flesh-colored plastic spilled over the doll’s lower lip and rolled down the front of the satin dress.

Sarah backed away from the rocker, the tightening of her throat reducing her shriek to an inaudible gasp. Not waiting to see if the doll would move again, she turned on her heels and ran out the door.

“Momma!”

Sarah barreled into the kitchen and threw her arms around her mother’s waist, nearly knocking the woman over. The plate of waffles fell from Momma’s hand, crashing to the floor and startling the toddler in the highchair. The baby jumped and began to whimper.

“Sarah! What the hell is wrong with you, child? I—”

Sarah began to babble, the words tumbling from her lips in an incoherent stream of sobs and sniffles. Trembling, she told Momma everything: about the Amanda dream and the doll’s glowing eyes; about Mr. Roar and the silver hairbrush. All of it.

Momma pried Sarah’s arms from around her waist and held her by the shoulders. “Calm down,” she snapped, giving her a little shake. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Sarah sniffled and explained it again, trying to keep the hiccups and hitches out of her voice with little success. Momma’s brow arched higher and higher as Sarah went on, the look on her face shifting from concern, to incredulity, to one of annoyance. With an upraised hand, Momma cut her off. “Okay, Sarah, that’s enough,” she said, her tone as grim as her expression. She gestured at the teary-eyed baby and the stacks of boxes strewn about the room. “I have a lot of work to do today. I don’t have time to play games right now.”

“It’s not a game!”

Momma sighed and buried her face in her hands. “Look, hon,” she said, massaging her forehead with the tips of her fingers, “I know things have been crazy with Daddy’s new job and the move and all, but you can’t act out like this. I—”

Sarah shook her head, her blonde hair whipping about her face. “I’m not making it up,” she shouted, stomping her foot. She hitched the sleeve of her nightshirt up, revealing the purple bruise on her shoulder. “See? That’s where she bit me!”

Momma peered at the bruise and dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “It looks like a normal bruise, hon. You were digging around the attic all day yesterday. You probably just bumped into something and—”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Sarah—”

“Go upstairs and look if you don’t believe me!” Sarah yelled, slamming a clenched fist against her thigh.

Momma gaped at her, as if shocked by the vehemence of her outburst. Sarah wiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks and fixed her mother with a pleading look. “Please, just go look.”

Laurie shrieked and slammed her fists against the tray. Momma turned and pulled the baby from the highchair, shushing the child with a series of half-hearted coos. She turned back to Sarah and scowled. “Alright,” she said, settling the baby on her hip. “Show me the doll.”

Sarah sighed with relief and led the way up the stairs. Momma would see she was not lying once she saw Mr. Roar’s tattered mane and the chewed bits of Barbie doll. She bounded up the last few steps and opened the door to her room.

“Over there,” Sarah said, pointing to the rocker.

Momma brushed past her and strode across the room. She stopped in front of the rocking chair and looked down at the doll, a confused frown creasing her haggard face. She turned to Sarah and crooked a finger at her. “Come here.”

Sarah hesitated. Even with Momma at her side, she didn’t want to go in there.

“Now, Sarah.”

Sarah gulped and took a tentative step into the room.

Momma’s patience must have reached its limit for she stalked across the room, grabbed Sarah by the upper arm and marched her to the rocker. With a small shove, Momma released her and pointed to the doll. “What am I supposed to be looking at, exactly?”

Sarah looked at the doll and blanched. Its mouth was closed, the plastic fragments and bits of fluff nowhere to be found. She flipped the pink material covering the doll’s hand.

The hairbrush was gone.

“Well?”

Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes. “I… it was just here,” she said, dropping to her hands and knees. She tilted her head and peered beneath the rocker, her hand sweeping the floor under the seat.

Nothing there.

Standing up, she plucked the toy from the chair and shook it, half-expecting the evidence to fall from the folds of the satin dress. Setting the doll back in the chair, Sarah looked up at her mother, her expression pleading for the woman to understand.

Momma sighed and swung Laurie around to her other hip. “Sarah, you’ve got a wonderful imagination—and that’s a good thing to have—but you’re really taking it too far this time. Honestly, girl. A doll that eats toys?” Momma shook her head.

“It’s not my imagination!”

“Look, sweetheart, I’ve really got to get those boxes unpacked,” Momma said, turning to leave. She paused at the threshold and fixed Sarah with a stern look. “No more games.”

Sarah did not trust herself to answer, so she said nothing. She looked at the floor, tears of frustration coursing down her face.

“I’ll call you when lunch is ready, okay?”

Sarah cast a sullen glance in her mother’s direction and nodded.

Momma turned and exited the room, her footsteps growing fainter as she made her way down the staircase. Sarah sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m not making it up,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. She turned her head and glared at the doll.

“I hate you,” Sarah spat, her eyes narrowing with revulsion. “I wish I’d never found that stupid box. I….”

Her words drifted off as an idea began to form in her mind. The box still sat in the attic. She could put the doll back inside, lock it up tight and tuck it away behind the stack of newspapers, just like she’d found it. Surely the latches would hold the doll in place until Daddy got around to discarding all the stuff up there.

She would just have to make sure the box made it to Daddy’s junk pile.

Yeah.

A grin found its way onto Sarah’s face. She looked at the doll and, for once, didn’t feel quite so afraid. She scooped up the pants and shirt she had dropped earlier and quickly changed into them. If she hurried, she could…

“Sarah?”

Momma’s voice startled her. She flinched and turned towards the door. “What?”

“Come here.”

Sarah groaned and trudged across the room. She peeked around the doorframe to find Momma standing in the hallway, a stack of boxes balanced in her hands.

“What is it, Momma?”

Momma set the boxes on the floor and turned to Sarah. “I need to put the blankets up,” she said, opening the door to the linen closet. “Laurie’s downstairs in her swing. Keep an eye on her ‘til I’m done, okay?”

Sarah twiddled her fingers. Now that she had a plan, she was anxious to get started, but she couldn’t very well sneak into the attic with Momma standing within easy view of the staircase. “Okay,” she sighed.

“Thanks, hon.”

Sarah headed down the stairs and into the living room. The baby swing sat in the corner of the room, Rock-a-bye Baby chiming from the mobile mounted to the top of the frame. Laurie appeared to be dozing. Her eyes fluttered open as Sarah passed and then drifted closed again.

“Aw, she don’t even need watchin’,” Sarah muttered. She moved a box of Momma’s romance books from the couch and flopped onto the cushions. Tucking a throw pillow behind her head, she leaned back and waited. The minutes crept by. Sarah’s eyes began to droop.

I hope she hurries.

Sarah had not realized how tired she really was until she sat down. She sat up a little straighter, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand and trying to blink the creeping lassitude from her eyes. Sarah did not like taking naps, and she certainly didn’t want to fall asleep before taking care of that doll.

The rhythmic click of the swing seemed to keep time with the lullaby’s tinkling refrain. Sarah leaned against the pillow and yawned again. Her eyes drifted shut even as she warned herself not to fall asleep, too tired to protest when Momma lifted her from the couch and carried her up to her room.

Sarah could not breathe. She struggled against the pressing mass on her chest, her lungs burning with the need for oxygen. The weight shifted, allowing her to suck in a couple of wheezing breaths before settling painfully against her sternum. Her eyes cracked open, widening at the sight of Amanda Stilton’s bruised and bitten face.

“I wish you hadn’t opened the box,” Amanda said, her voice tinged with regret.

Sarah arched her back, trying to shift the girl’s knee from her chest. Amanda clamped her hands around Sarah’s upper arms and pushed herself up, dropping her other knee into Sarah’s stomach. “I didn’t wanna hurt anybody,” the girl said, her blackened mouth twisting into a macabre frown. “I wanted to stay asleep. But then you woke me up and—.”

Sarah tried rolling over, hoping to dislodge the girl, but Amanda’s grip held fast. Gasping for air, Sarah’s eyes rolled in her head.

“—and I’m so very hungry,” Amanda said, leaning forward.

Sarah’s eyes bulged as Amanda’s teeth locked onto her throat, tearing through skin and cartilage with the ferocity of a starving jackal. Pain rippled through her body as the girl jerked her head to the side and ripped a chunk of flesh free. Sarah’s arms flailed—more out of instinct than any conscious effort on her part—and landed a blow to Amanda’s ribs. The girl toppled from her perch and rolled onto the bed. Sarah wheezed through lungs filling fast with blood and tilted her head towards her attacker.

The wooden doll stared back at her, a bloody hunk of meat clenched between its jaws.

Sarah’s vision narrowed as the doll began to chew. In a bemused haze, she watched the stilted limbs bend and flex. The doll’s little hand clamped onto the comforter and pulled, awkwardly hauling itself across the bed, its eyes blazing yellow.

The cupid’s-bow mouth clacked open, and Sarah’s world went dark.

The grating creak of metal on metal pulled Sarah from an endless sleep. Her eyes snapped open, perceived nothing but an impenetrable blackness, and drifted closed again. She hoped the noise would stop soon. She wanted to rest, to return to the peaceful, dreamless nothing of eternal slumber. The alternative was pain.

Pain, and a feral hunger that burned from the inside out.

Another metallic screech pierced the inky confines of Sarah’s mind, followed by a muted pop. Brilliant, white light punched through the darkness, stinging her eyes behind the slumber-laden lids. In the pit of her stomach, the hunger—so long-repressed by the cold comfort of sleep—stirred to life, burning through her limbs like battery acid.

“Wow, what a cool doll!”

Sarah’s eyes cracked open, her half-lidded gaze staring into the freckled face of a chubby red-haired girl. The girl reached into the velvet lined box, propped Sarah up and shined a flashlight in her face. “I think I’ll call you Casey,” she said, running a stubby finger down Sarah’s cracked cheek. “Do ya like that name?”

Sarah’s vision blurred and then snapped into focus, the glassy blue eyes burning yellow with hunger. Her mouth sprang open, the ache in her stomach blossoming into a relentless desire to consume. Only one thing could quell her appetite and stop the searing pain…

Flesh.

…And the red-haired girl seemed to have plenty of it.