Saturday, January 25, 2014

Wordy Day; The House of Damaged Dolls!

A while ago, I decided arbitrarily that I would create a story for someone that I knew at the time. I don't like them much anymore but I still like the story idea. See this former friend had recently purchased a house and when he ventured up to the attic in the garage, he found a variety of (somewhat disturbing) toys, a few of which were disfigured which only added to the level of creepy.

I thought that this was interesting and, perhaps quite unreasonably, decided that he would appreciate a novella about toys emerging from his attic and...Doing things. I never did finish it. The beginning wasn't very good and the tone was a little dry, still, I did work on it a bit and I guess, as I don't know when I'll finish it, I can post an excerpt. Enjoy creepy stuff. I'm pretty sure you have no idea what the conclusion of the story is. Perhaps I'll finish it soon and we can all know exactly what happens to the couple living in; The House of Damaged Dolls! (Title might be tweaked a bit, heh...)


They had come with the house. The Realtor had even told him they were up there, but who doesn’t buy a house just because of creepy doll? They’re harmless and you get a story out of it. It isn’t as if any doll, by itself has ever been a threat to anyone in real life. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about if a person buys a house that just happens to have dolls trapped in the attic. Well, unless you happen to leave the door open on your way down. Phil hadn't, thankfully. He’d shut the door to the attic quite firmly but, when he closed a door in another part of the house, the attic door frame jumped and the door clicked open, silently wavering above the steps.
The day passed with great successes. Items were packed and suitcases were double-checked, lunch was eaten and errands were run. There was nothing special about the day, really, except for the fact that it was a day off and would be enjoyed for that if nothing else. As the hours crept by, the attic door occasionally swung gently back and forth, only once oozing a soft creak. The sun set at sixish but Phil was not an early sleeper. He stayed up far past dusk, composing, watching things and generally enjoying his dwindling freedom. At the end of a documentary, long past midnight and with the light from the television blinking across his closed eyelids, Phil blinked himself awake, rubbed his face and crawled to the bathroom before he fell into bed.

The door was almost closed. its hinges had quieted. There was no movement and there was no light. All was dark. But at the corner of the door a spot of shine flickered in the light of a passing car, somehow shining all the way up there and through a garage window. The car passed, dragging the light with it until the garage was again dark. 


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