The Doll Page 7

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  The dark silhouette of the dilapidated wooden shed stood against the purple sky like the shadow of a crumbling tombstone.

  I should’ve come in the morning…

  But she hadn’t wanted the doll in her possession any longer than necessary. Without stopping to check into her hotel, she had taken a taxi from the airport straight to the pier to make the last tour of the day.

  The hut’s door, a series of planks roughly lashed together – no handles or knobs – was shut today. Joyce lifted the simple hook latch securing the door and pulled. It creaked as if in warning, and she stepped into the humid mustiness of the hut. With the scant evening light, the interior seemed darker and more foreboding than before. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the altar before her with its display of dolls.

  Her breath caught at the sight of the pair of burning black candles, their sparse light piercing the gloom like the glowing eyes of a demon.

  She surveyed the claustrophobic space, the nape of her neck prickling. Was someone watching her?

  Go. Just dump the blasted thing and go.

  She reached into her bag with trembling fingers and pulled out the Mexican doll. The candlelight danced off its eyes, creating life in its inanimate pupils. Perhaps it was her fear playing tricks on her, but Joyce could have sworn that the doll began to thrum with some internal energy. The darkness seemed to envelope her, coiling around her like a giant snake, threatening to swallow her.

  With a strangled cry, she half placed, half hurled the doll onto the altar. It threw up a puff of dust as it landed, before slouching sideways, head tilted.

  “There, it’s done…it’s done…” Joyce murmured aloud. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy, and her heart felt like it was about to punch a hole through her ribcage. In the still silence of the hut’s shadowy interior, her pulse sounded like waves of rolling thunder. The next few seconds stretched out into eternity, as she stared at the lifeless doll, every muscle fibre within her so taut they felt ready to snap.

  Finally, she straightened and exhaled, loud and long, expelling the tension from her body.

  What was I expecting? A ghost girl materializing and reclaiming the doll? A booming voice announcing that all is forgiven?

  What she definitely hadn’t expected was the sudden, icy breeze that started blowing through the confines of the hut, whipping up decades-old accumulations of filth into a miniature dust storm. The candles flickered and sputtered before extinguishing, plunging the room into a claustrophobic darkness.

  Joyce stood rigid with fear.

  Just the wind, she tried convincing herself, struggling to control her runaway breathing. Door’s open, after all...

  She yelped when the candles lit up again on their own accord. This time, they no longer cast illuminating, reassuring yellow light.

  They were burning a dark, sombre purple.

  The strange flames bathed the room in a surreal haze, creating lengthened shadows that appeared to creep along the walls. The shadows congregated around the altar, surrounding the dolls in a dark, shifting aura. As she watched, tendrils of shadow detached themselves from the two-dimensional confines of the wall, coiling around each doll like a wriggling nest of black snakes. One wispy tentacle circled the central doll, Taylor’s Mexican doll, the Nganga, twisting its way up the doll’s torso until its black tip appeared to climb up the doll’s nose. The doll shifted and sat up, its blazing green eyes staring straight at Joyce.

  Joyce screamed, breaking out of her paralysis and nearly tripping over her own feet as she rushed for the door. Another gust blew the door shut with an ear-shattering slam, so hard that dust rained down from the overhead timbers. She pushed at the door. It clattered in protest.

  Had someone latched it from the outside?

  “Somebody please let me out!” she cried, pummeling at the door with her fists. More dust drizzled down from the ceiling, and the door shook in its frame.

  Then she heard the most unlikely sound coming from behind her.

  A child’s laugh.

  She peered over her shoulder. The Nganga doll had moved from its place atop the altar, and now stood in the centre of the small room, its eyes gleaming in the darkness like the eyes of a panther stalking its prey.

  With a strangled cry, Joyce reared back and slammed her shoulder into the door, throwing her entire body weight into the rotting planks. It responded with a loud CRACK! The wood twisted, then gave, bursting in a shower of splinters. The force sent Joyce tumbling out onto the dirt. Picking herself up, she took off in a run down the path leading to the dock. Low hanging branches whipped at her face. Loose pebbles underfoot threatened to trip her over. Her lungs were burning by the time the trees fell away, revealing a purpling sky and the rippling waters of the Xochimilco.

  And the trajineras pulling away from shore.

  “Wait!” she called, flailing her arms in wide arcs as she sprinted to the dock. Another gust of wind rose, stealing her cries from her lips and carrying them away from the shrinking craft.

  “Wait! Please! Hey!” Joyce raced beside the water’s edge as she tried to run alongside the boat. Squelching through the muddy bank, she screamed and waved frantically, praying that someone on the boat would see or hear her. Her call for help morphed into a surprised shriek when her foot slipped sideways in the mire, sending her sliding down the bank and into the canal. The water was frigid, surprisingly so in this climate. With a gasp, Joyce splashed and kicked until her feet found purchase. Water rained from her body in sheets as she stood, waist-deep in the canal. The trajineras was fading into the twilight, its dark silhouette dissolving into the descending darkness.

  “No!” she howled, her insides consumed by terror. She waded towards the disappearing boat, forging a path through the thick reeds. She was going to swim her way off this island if she had to.

  Something snagged her ankle, sending her splashing face first into the water. She shut her eyes on impact, but brackish water flooded her open mouth. She kicked her legs to free herself, but her bindings held firm. Lungs twisting from lack of air, she craned her neck towards the surface, arms thrashing, but something had a hold on her wrists, and whatever they were, they did not feel like reeds.

  They felt like tiny hands.

  A child’s hands.

  Joyce opened her eyes in the brown sludge. Amidst the floating dirt particles and swaying forest of cattails, a pair of glowing green eyes appraised her from the murky depths.

  She screamed, occluding her own vision with a curtain of bubbles.

  And then her brown world darkened to black.

  *****

  “Some people say that after so many years alone, little Salvadora longs for human company. They say that she lured Don Santana to his death, so that his spirit will join hers.”

  Pablo the tour guide was on a roll. Every pair of eyes on board the docked trajineras was on him. His story had his audience entranced. A seasoned storyteller, he paused, creating a deliberate lull for the necessary dose of suspense.

  Then he continued:

  “Just last month, an American tourist drowned here, over there in that very canal.” He pointed to a tangle of cattails along the shore. “The same canal where Salvadora and Don Santana’s bodies were found. So what do you think, mis amigos? Coincidence? Or Salvadora?”

  *****

  No! Joyce thought as she listened once more to Pablo’s story. That’s not true!

  I’m not dead!

  She watched as the tour group filed out of the fluorescent trajineras and dispersed across the island.

  “That is such a tragic story,” she heard one woman remark.

  “Not to mention spooky,” her male companion agreed, surveying the army of hanging dolls. Suddenly, the woman gasped, grabbing the man’s arm.

  “George!” she whispered, pointing. “I could swear that doll just moved!”

  George raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really, Nancy? Are you serious?”

  “It – I’m not sure. I
t’s just that…this is so creepy. Look at their eyes. They almost look alive. I could swear they’re watching us.”

  Joyce watched as the man laughed – a bit too loudly – before shrugging the woman off. “Nancy, I think our guide’s ghost story has gotten to you.” He tugged at her elbow. “Come on, let’s go.”

  No, don’t go, Joyce pleaded. Help me! But her cries were silent, and when she tried to wave, her arms hung limp by her sides. All she could manage was a near imperceptible twitch in the fingers on her left hand. She could only watch helplessly as the woman cast one last nervous glance over her shoulder.

  She looked straight at Joyce before the couple disappeared into the surrounding foliage.

  And Joyce was once again alone.

  Well, not exactly alone.

  A cluster of dolls beside her parted, as if moved by unseen hands. Then an invisible force nudged her, making her swing from the rope round her neck. She heard a giggle, so soft it sounded like the sigh of a gentle breeze.

  “Dora está muy feliz. Dora tiene una mamá de Nuevo,” a child’s voice breathed in her ear. Joyce’s Spanish was rudimentary at best, but she had learned enough from Maria to understand.

  “Dora is very happy. Dora has a mama again.”

  ~THE END~

  *****

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  J.C. Martin is a displaced Malaysian living in South London, England, with her husband and three dogs. After working in pharmaceutical research and in education as a schoolteacher, she decided to put her 2nd degree black belt in Wing Chun to good use. She now teaches martial arts, and writes whenever she can.

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  Thank you for reading!