Wake the Wicked by Christian Baloga
I snatch it out of the water and scan the lake, hoping by chance my bag is floating nearby. The water is dusky, though, and the only things I see are bouncing ribbons of seaweed.
I lean back and peer at the water-soaked doll. I squeeze its stomach, but it makes no noise. The stuffing isn't as firm now that it's wet, and I feel something rigid inside. I squeeze it again, this time burrowing my thumbs deeper into its stomach. Water trickles down and the fabric rips under the pressure of my thumbs, yet no sound emerges. I immediately tear open the doll and pull out stuffing. Along with it, I draw a long crimson bone from its stomach. The bottom half is broken, though I feel the other piece still in the right leg.
"Jools . . . really, really, gross," I whisper, disgusted by the freaky thing. I chuck it way out into the lake and right before it sinks I hear the mumbling sound go off. Wind crashes the boat against the dock and startles me half to death.
With Wade and the others nowhere to be found, I head back to the car and take out my cell. I want to get in touch with Jools to see what the hell is up with that doll, but her number rings until voicemail picks up: "Hello, you've reached Jools. I can't come to the phone right now, so leave a message at the beep." I could tell she was smiling while she recorded the message.
"Jools, it's me. Call me back when you get this. I was cleaning out your room with mom and found a freaky doll of yours. I hope you don't want it back because I threw it away. Sorry. I'll explain later. Anyway, give me a call back when you can. Love ya." I end the call and drive away.
Once home, I return to Jools's room to help mom clean up so I don't have to tomorrow. "Mommy," I call out for her. The house is silent.
I open the heavy top of the wooden trunk. It's empty, except for a few dust balls and a scuffed up plastic eye. I move over to the dresser and start clearing off the knickknacks. I throw them into one of the plastic bags scattered throughout the tiny room. While gathering the dust in my hand, I bump a ceramic table lamp that's too close to the corner. It topples down and smashes onto the floor. Great . . . another thing to clean up.
Then I see a rolled up piece of paper under the rubble. I take off a rubber band that holds it together and unroll it. The first thing I notice is a hand drawn image of two figures bound together by red rope, two bones resting inside each of their bodies, like the doll I threw into the lake. Underneath each figure were two names written in red. The figure to the left reads Jools and the left Wade.
I start laughing till tears swell my eyes. "Jools," I speak to the paper, "I can't believe you had a crush on Wade. How cute. I laugh. "He's mine now . . . sorry."
Below the figures, written in ornate script, I read on:
I bind you, Wade, to this doll,
As the sun sets, emotions crawl,
Moon and shine, let us grow,
Into worship, this I sew.
I never knew my sister was a creep. Wait till I show Wade. He's going to be weirded out. Since there're two dolls, I wonder which one I found. There's got to be another one around here. I rummage through the dresser drawers and under the bed. I sift through the closet. Mom might have thrown it out.
I remember I hadn’t gone through the whole trunk so I return to it and yank out stuffed animals and old clothes, books and decorations.
I hear a soft mumbling coming from one of the bags, then I find the grubby thing and pull it out. A metal object dangles from its right leg where stuffing puffs out of a long jagged tear. I remove the metal and study the raggedy thing. It's identical to the other doll, except for one thing; there's no glass bead attached to its grubby head.
Then it hits me. I glide my finger into the tear and can feel something rigid, a red bone. I reach into my pocket and dial Wade's number. He picks up after the first ring.
"Hey, Wade." I pause, thinking about how crazy he'll think I am if I tell him I've got a doll here with the same injury he's got. I stumble for a while, then ask him, "How's everything? Just wanted to make sure everything is good."
Wade replies, "Yeah, how 'bout you get your butt back here? We got a bonfire goin' . . ."
He garbles on and on and my mind begins to drift. I pick the doll up and walk to the kitchen. I hear him ask me, but I don't answer.
I light a candle and hover the doll's head over the flame. I listen.
"Fuckin' hot," Wade yells. "Gettin' out of here, man."
I pull it away from the flame.
It must be a coincidence. I have to disprove it, so I stick the entire grubby head into the candle. It catches fire at once. It singes the straw hair and chars the dirty fabric. I hear Wade on the other end, screaming in the distance. I rush to the sink and spray cold water over the damned thing until it extinguishes. I step back, frightened.
"Klaudia," someone whispers behind me, and a hand presses against my shoulder. I scream and turn around. It's mom.
I give her a hug. “Don’t sneak up like that.”
I still hear screaming coming through the speaker of my phone, but the look on my mom's reddened face makes me ignore it. She had been crying. She hugs me back and whispers into my ear, "Jools passed away today."
"What?" I step away from her embrace.
"She drowned. She was upset and drowned herself."
"Drowned herself?" Tears glide down my face. My stomach churns. She didn't kill herself. She wasn't upset. Jools is never upset. My throat turns acidic and I run to my room. I don't know how to deal with this. I tell myself this is not happening.
Mom walks in and hands me my cell, then a doll; not the one I set on fire, not the one I threw into the lake, but one painted with freckles.
"I found this today. I think she made it for you."
"No," I reply. "She made it as me." I remove it from her hands as if she gave me a newborn baby. Mom looks at me as if I'd spoken in an alien language. She then sits beside me on the bed.
"I want to be alone," I tell her, slamming the doll beside me.
I feel an instant gut-wrenching blow to the stomach and keel over on my side. I don't think mom sees how much pain I'm in. She closes the door and, after I hear it click shut, I get up. I feel dizzy and crouch over, holding onto the side of the bed until I feel better.
I lift myself up and pull out a metal lock box from under my bed. It's unlocked. I take out the key, put it on my key ring, and turn the box upside down. Paper spills out. I replace it with the doll and crouch to the door. I wait till I hear mom's door close, then I race out, box in hand, to the kitchen sink. As I ring out the thing, I place it into the box and head out to my car.
Again and again I keep calling Wade, but he's not picking up. With every bump, I hear mumbling on the seat beside me from inside the box. I still can’t understand what it’s saying, if anything at all.
Odors from the fresheners worm their way into my nasal cavity. I feel dizzy again and don't know if I'm going to make it to the lake. My phone rings. It's Wade.
"Wade, Wade." A whirlwind of panic takes over my mind and I don't know where to start. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, caught on fire and jumped into the lake. Got no hair, but could be worse."
"I'm almost at the lake. I want you to meet me at the dock. Alone." The mumbling beside me gets louder. My heart thumps faster.
As I pull toward the dock, I see Wade meandering along the side of the lake. I race out of the car, box in hand, and cry, "Please help me bury this."
He stumbles, nearly falling into the cold water. Judging from his charred skin and seared head, he's not okay.
"What?" he asks. His eyes are crossed.
I look up at his head. Tiny strands of hair stand straight up, and a few are heated to tight curls from the fiery blaze. His eyelashes and eyebrows are singed to stubs.
I hurry him into the woods and explain as much as I can, starting with my sister's high school crush. I run like a deer during hunting season. Wade, still drunk, seems to be stumbling over every rock and every tree limb.
I feel we're far enough away from any paths now, so I start
Because my eyes are blurry with tears, I claw at his hands by accident and make him bleed, but it doesn’t stop us. We keep digging. The murmuring from within the box starts again. It gets louder. It makes my blood pump faster through my tense body. I try to hum over the sound, but my sanity is running thin.
After we dig about a foot down, Wade brings over the box. I hold him back with my open hand and explain, "No, it's not deep enough. It's not deep enough. We can't let anybody touch this ever, ever again." I continue digging. My humming no longer blocks the eerie mumbling.
Fifteen minutes or so later, I feel it's at the right depth. I lower the box down as if I were a mother laying her baby down to sleep. It's getting dark. The sounds of cheerful birds melt away. Like madmen, we shovel and kick the dirt back into the grave. The mumbling turns into moaning and gets louder the more dirt we throw on.
I stomp down on the loose dirt, compacting it until it's hard as cement. It needs to remain untouchable. Wade helps me haul a thick log over the grave. I begin to cough and feel lightheaded.
"Let's go," I say to Wade.
We teeter through the shady forest. It feels as though air is escaping my lungs. Something’s wrong. I gasp for air. Behind me, Wade does the same.
We reach my car. I check my pockets for my keys. It's getting difficult to speak, but I tell him, "I'll take you home." I hold my key ring to the center car light and notice a tiny black key. Fuck, I forgot to lock the box. And without another thought, I race back into the woods.
"Klaud—" Wade gasps for air. He topples out of the car and splashes into the lake.
I don't hear him. It's too late. I'm already too far into the woods now. I need to lock the box. I need to lock the box. Twisted limbs catch on to my skin and rip out chunks of my hair and claw at my eyes. My breathing is rapid, but despite how many deep gulps of air I suck in, it's useless.
I now fear we’re no longer just racing back to lock the box; we’re racing back so we don't suffocate.
The mumbling is more powerful than ever. I must be close. I stumble on something. My chest lands on a fallen tree trunk and takes away my breath. I feel my lungs collapse.
As I lift my head I realize where I am. Freshly dug dirt is below me. I haul the thick log off the grave at once and plow my hands deep into the compacted soil. The dirt is much looser than the first time though, making it a much easier dig.
I feel a heavy mass lean against my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I see Wade tumbling next to me.
Without a word, he joins my endeavor.
My vision begins to blur and I’m afraid I might soon pass out, then I notice Wade. His arms shovel out dirt like it’s light as cotton. It inspires me to keep alert.
I tunnel faster.
The murmuring is getting louder. We must be close.
We pass the halfway mark in no time; I slap myself across the face to jolt my consciousness back to a semi-normal state.
Our fingers hit something hard. We scrape the dirt off the sides, latch our fingers around the box, and lift it to the surface.
The sound of incoherent drones from within decays into silence the moment I flip the top open.
I take a deep breath and topple over. Wade does the same and asks, “So you want me to lock it now?”
As I lie there trying to catch my breath, I shake the open box and I speak, “No. These’re going back where I found them.”
* * *
I drive to my house with Wade. Wade helps me move the wooden toy trunk into my room and we lower the dolls like we’re putting two newborns to bed.
I close the lid. Wade reaches his long arms around me and I fall to pieces in his embrace.
END
Ripped to Ribbons
The TV screen turned blue and Grace knew, even before the abrasive siren blasted, there had been another abduction in town, the third this week. A thin red bar appeared at the top of the screen and words too small to read trailed over it from right to left, and a woman's voice interceded over what sounded like a scratchy police scanner, "This is an amber alert message from the Pennsylvania Highway Patrol. A child abduction occurred on October 29 at 3am in Ketchum, PA. The child's name is—"
Grace had had about enough of hearing about missing persons for the day, so she picked up her eReader off the granite-topped island and shut the chattering flat screen off before another sorrowful word erupted. The screen door at the front of the house swung open, as if somebody had darted in or out. Then came an earthy stench of mold. Grace stabilized the swinging door and peered outside.
"Aubrey?" Grace yelled. "Is that you?" Grace didn't expect Aubrey, her younger sister, to return so early. Grace remembered Aubrey specifically saying she wouldn't be coming home till sometime this afternoon. And other than Aubrey and herself, nobody lived there.
Grace stepped outside onto a large stone porch. Her emerald green slippers glinted in the morning sunlight. She looked around. The street was quiet, as always. Even during its busiest hours, there were no more than a couple vehicles driving by at one time. Faded lead paint siding from neighboring houses could be seen through the fence of pine surrounding the yard. The houses, however, were far enough away to lie out naked as a bird in the back yard.
A feather of wind glided through Grace's long red hair, which eased her mind of the mysterious swinging screen door. Yes, it was the wind, she assured herself. It didn't explain the awful smell, but she felt safer now, despite the recent child abductions in her town. After all, at 35, she was no child.
Grace took a seat on a wicker armchair, rested her feet on a matching ottoman, and began reading a newly published book from her favorite author. It had been way too long since she set aside the time to read. Working nightshift at the hospital left her feeling each morning as if concrete had been poured in her skull and left to dry.
A faint scraping sound in the distance snatched Grace's attention. It came from somewhere down the road. A gang of squirrels, she thought, and continued to read. Her mind melded with the story again.
The scraping turned into a constant shuffling. It was getting louder. Whatever it was, it was coming closer. Her eyes shifted up, annoyed.
Trees rustled at the edge of the property, near the road. A moment later, a haggard-looking man came stumbling out of the brush, aluminum can in hand. Grace watched as he shifted a tattered cloth satchel from over his shoulder. It clinked and clanked. He threw in the can, tossed the bag over his shoulder, and limped along the road, closer to Grace. She knew this man. Well, since she moved to Ketchum, she often saw the man scuffling up and down the road collecting garbage. Her heart went out to him, though. Her mind flashed back to a statistic she remembered from psychology class in college. He must be severely mentally ill, she thought. After all, it’s the third cause of homelessness for single adults in America.
Clouds of dust scattered behind him as tattered shoes drug over the neglected pavement. He appeared to be, from where she sat, a stiff legged sideshow clown. As he walked, pant legs flapped like spider webs caught in the wind. Underneath an open plaid fleece shirt, a yellow and brown stained tank top clinched to a frail torso. His hairless, powder white skin left Grace with a sour taste. Soot was smeared over his mouth like he'd kissed two handfuls of ash. It also encircled his eyes, enhancing the appearance he had many nights of unrest.
He looked up from the road with a smile, as if he'd already spotted her staring at him, and tipped his short black top hat, revealing a bald head. All he needed were sunflowers and a rainbow band around the hat and he'd be ready for the circus. The thought made her feel guilty. She clenched her mouth and gave him a hesitant grin.
She immediately peered down at the words lining the page, pretending she'd gone back to reading. Her attention, however, followed the waning sound of shuffling feet. Where did this man, whom Grace saw at leas
No. No. She was making excuses. That's all it was, and she knew it. She felt a moral obligation to find out where, or if, he had a home. And now was the perfect time to unveil the mystery. She might be able to help him, get him back on his feet or at least direct him to proper shelter.
She balanced her eReader on the seat of the wicker armchair and stood. The shuffling and clanking had faded by now, but she knew she wouldn't be too far behind. Those sea legs of his, as she called them, appeared to only move at a laggard pace.
She walked out into the road and saw him ahead, making a turn onto Tin Lane, a dead end dirt road with a single home, a Victorian with a projecting porch and bay windows. No wonder she never saw him leaving his house. She'd only been up the road once, when she made a wrong turn.
She felt silly for the story she’d made up. Poverty-stricken? Not in a Victorian. He was probably a hardworking guy enjoying his time off. He's probably a construction worker or a similar laborious, down and dirty job.
Grace had walked past two neighboring houses as she neared Tin Lane. She should go back to her house and read her book before Aubrey gets back. But something stalled her. Something deep in her gut pushed her forward. And she obeyed.
She turned onto Tin Lane. The road extended over a hill she couldn't see past. First she listened, then ran up the hill until she saw the man in the distance. She could see the Victorian on the right, ahead of him. She knelt on the dirt road and watched him shuffle. The satchel on his back shook with each stiff-legged step.
She felt like a lioness stalking a maimed wildebeest. And she was waiting for the perfect time to pounce. Why did she feel this way? She wanted to help the man, not attack him, right? Grace's intense stare was interrupted by a swarm of gnats buzzing around her head. She swatted at them, like any creature of the wild, and continued down the path as he walked past the Victorian.