I hated those dolls, hundreds of them all over the house. Some small, others as big as a child. We’d been married for ten years my wife loved them, she had collected them all of her life.
They were everywhere. On chairs, shelves, even the bed. Quaintly dressed china dolls. I found it hard to even set foot in my home.
I had enough one day and just put them all into boxes. She went ballistic.
“Where are my babies what have you done with them”?
Her babies! We argued for hours, the dolls came back out. Their mean little eyes following me around the room.
One day at breakfast my wife explained.
“They have stories to tell don’t you feel it? They are so old, have seen so much. Happy events and I suppose terrible things too.”
I was a little taken aback. This woman I had lived with all of these years was telling me toys had feelings.
“I feel their pain and joy. They speak to me in quiet moments, telling stories of their past. They are happy here and want to be left alone. Do you understand”?
Understand! I didn’t know what to do, my wife must be unwell. How could I live with her and not know she was communicating with dolls. Dolls with the thoughts and memories of dead people.
Soon the arguments started, things began to go downhill. I got an ultimatum, live with the dolls or leave. My wife went to her sisters for a few days.
I did a foolish thing; I should her I wish I had. I put them all back into boxes. No voices or messages from the dead just five boxes crammed with old dolls, taped up tight.
This time though I got in the car and drove them straight to the landfill. They were coming between us; it was for the best. I wanted to help but doubt set in almost immediately. An hour later I was back, the skip had been emptied. My wife’s beloved dolls incinerated.
I headed home and got drunk. What was I going to do? For now, though I had the house to myself and was soon sound asleep.
The noise woke me. Children talking, laughing, shouting, screaming. Happy and sad, some were playing, one having a tantrum. I heard adults too, shouting, having fun, angry. The room was cold, it must be a bad dream.
I sat on the edge of the bed. It was then that I saw them, fifty dolls in their quaint outfits. All around me standing staring with their wicked little eyes. They were angry with me, very angry indeed.
That’s my story, I’m not sure how long it has been now. I hear my wife talking to them. She seems so happy.
Me, well it’s hard to explain. No one misses me and it’s so dark in here. If I had to guess, I would say I’m a doll stuffed in a box taped up tight. At the bottom of our wardrobe.