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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young man struggles with his phobia of dolls. This was written in response to the prompt "Phobia."

Submitted: June 18, 2016

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Submitted: June 18, 2016



When he closes his eyes, all he sees are dolls. Pale blue faces and eyes red as the blood moon on a clear night, with stitches for lips sewn in crooked smiles and needle-felt hair tousled in every possible direction to elude any iota of a controlled style.

But, it is only when he dreams that the stitches tear to reveal sharp, razor-like teeth beneath a seemingly harmless smile. The dolls come to life in such a haphazard and eerie way, crawling about at his feet and tugging at the hem of his pants with their wicked grins and empty laughter bouncing around in his brain without any hope of curtail.

“Garry.” They call his name with such vigor that it almost sounds friendly and inviting. Red, unblinking eyes stare into his own until small droplets of paint leak from their tear ducts and onto his floor, staining his once blue carpet a dark indigo. “Garrrrrry!”

“Stop!” He cries back, covering his ears and clenching his eyes shut so tightly that he can feel them pulse beneath his eyelids. “Leave me alone!”

And for just that brief, suspended moment, the incessant tugging at his pants comes to a halt. The soft ringing in his ears, likely brought on by the ceaseless call of his name, fades away into white noise. He waits just a minute longer, counting the seconds beneath his breath. He wants to be sure they have gone away before he dares open his eyes.

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose and prepares himself for what he might see. Surely they’ve gone now, having grown impatient of his blatant disregard to their schemes and left to find a more feeble victim.

With much hesitation, Garry opens his eyes. The sight he sees is one that chills him to his core, following the sickening drop of his stomach to the heels of his feet. Thousands of tiny dolls no longer surround him, but instead have compiled together to form one towering monster nearly three times the size of Garry himself.

It tilts its head at Garry, stitches tearing one by one as a loose thread is pulled from the fabric. The size of one crimson eye matches that of Garry’s entire head, taunting him with vicious animosity.

“No, please!” Garry gasps out, stumbling back into the wall until he has pinned himself away from safety. The doll laughs at him, loudly and animatedly, and without allowing even a moment for respite or grave realizations to sink in, it lunges forward and captures Garry between its jaws.

And he screams. He screams until his throat is raw and his lungs burn for oxygen. He shoots straight up in his bed, knees curling to his chest as he attempts to make himself as small as possible.

The room is dark and otherwise silent without his shrill screams echoing off the walls. His phone blinks rhythmically beside his head, indicating unread notifications from worried friends and coworkers, but he is far too frightened to lift even a finger.

Across his room, a doll rests on his dresser. She’s made of porcelain and stuffing, with eyes painted so realistically that they could fool anyone into a second glance. They are blue as the afternoon sky, in contrast with the dark green of her velvet dress and the golden, silky curls that tumble from the crown of her head. He makes eye contact with her, and for just a moment he’s almost certain he can see her rosy lips turn upwards into a knowing smirk.

The next morning, he packages her up just the way he bought her and immediately drives her to a donation facility across town. The bottom of her box reads “Mary” in gold etching, and when he spares her a departing glance, a drip of red paint spills from her tear ducts.

When he goes home that night, he settles into the comfort of his bed and the air in his room feels almost lighter. With Mary gone, he sleeps peacefully once more - dreams void of unpleasantries and dolls with razors for teeth.

But when he wakes again he sees Mary sitting in the empty space on his dresser, smiling more vibrantly than he can remember. The room fills with the sound of a child’s laughter as Mary tilts her head…

And Garry screams.

© Copyright 2019 forthediehards. All rights reserved.

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