Page 43 of Fed By Fear

“Are you sure? We can take you somewhere else, but you might not like it more,” we warn, hoping she takes the bait.

“I’ll like it if it doesn’t involve water and meat hooks.” Her grumpy face is adorable.

Gator smiles behind her, giving me the go-ahead to change rooms. “Alright, we will show you one of our favorite places.” This works out perfectly. We were hoping for another chance to scare her.

Githany screams as we’re plunged into darkness. Water evaporates and chains turn to dust. The four of us settle into the pitch black.

We feel most at peace when the light disappears. Githany does not. Her scent is anxious, her heartbeats quicken by the moment. She can’t see in the dark. We like that.

It’s quiet in our current room. That doesn’t mean we’re alone.

A sharp gasp tells us Githany has picked up on the presences in here. We keep the lights off. Waiting.

“What do you feel?” Our curiosity about her abilities has been piqued since we saw her conversing with that spirit.

“What’s in here?” she whispers. Her fear escalates. We take a collective breath, drinking it in.

“You tell us,” we tease. This place is quite terrifying. Even Hunt and Gator usually avoid joining me on my little visits.

“Haunted.” She swallows loudly. “We’re amongst haunted things.”

“Very good. Can you be more specific? Tell us what we want to hear and we’ll turn the lights on.”

“Dolls.” Her answer is swift. Very impressive.

We reward her with the lights. Her eyes briefly adjust to the brightness, blinking rapidly before blowing wide. The scent of her fear pours down our throats. We guzzle it down, our insides expanding with the purity of her terror.

“What is this place?” Her head moves ever so slowly as she takes in the full scope of the new room.

“My private collection.” The hundreds of haunted dolls lining the walls of the small room turn their heads toward us as one.

Githany stumbles back. “Fuck.”

We imagine the energy is quite overwhelming for someone as sensitive as our ghost girl. The dolls are beautiful, even with their hidden and vile natures. We only collect the best of the best. Which means these dolls are the worst of the worst. Each one has a great and terrible past. They’re harbingers of dark energy. Vessels for evil entities.

They’re here, and yet they aren’t. The dolls are visitors to my room. Their physical forms are still tied to the mortal world. This is but an astral haven for them to gather with others, to feed and fuel their energy. Touching any one of my pretties will show me where they reside. The red-haired ragdoll is currently on display in a paranormal museum. She’s a fearsome creature. We wouldn’t want to be on her bad side when her glass case is opened. Many have died. Many more will meet their gruesome fates. She’ll never stop. They may contain her, but nothing can stop a thing like her.

The porcelain pretty with black ringlets and jade eyes belongs to a haunted collector. He grows madder by the day. A foolish but brave man who believes himself to be worthy of the title “keeper of haunted relics.” Probably thought he was doing the world a favor. That he could handle what others ran screaming from. He can’t see how much damage his proximity to those items has already done. The half-rotted corpses of his unfortunate family might as well be invisible. Pretty doll keeps them in his blind spot.

When the bodies are discovered and he’s taken to jail, she’ll get a new owner. The cycle will begin anew.

Children are victims even more often than adults. The sad-faced baby doll with the yellow bow belongs to an equally sad child. How long will it take for her cries for help to be believed? She’s told her parents of the doll’smovements. Screamed for them when the doll looks her way while the lights are off. Parents chalk everything up to imagination. It will be their downfall. The mother and father are in great peril and don’t even know it. Dolly plants thoughts in the little girl’s mind when no one is watching. Knives become appealing. Authority figures become the enemy. Her only friend is the one keeping her awake at night. The less she’s believed, the closer she grows to the doll. Soon, she’ll be as dangerous as the entity itself.

Every doll has a story. When we encounter one that intrigues us, we offer it a place here. This way the dollies are never alone. Not the ones in glass cases or the closets of churches. The ones who have been buried underground and dumped off of cliffs. They live on. Here, they live amongst their peers.

We come here when we are eager for a boost. Imagining the things they are doing in the places they reside gives us a small taste of the fear on the other end of the connection. We love our dollies.

Despite our relationship, we still wouldn’t trust them in person.

“I don’t want to be in here anymore.” Githany’s fear keeps ratcheting. Could it have something to do with the small straw doll that has shimmied off its shelf and moved her way? Maybe it’s the faceless baby with outstretched arms currently wobbling toward her.

“You want to go back to the butcher shop?” we ask, feigning disappointment.

“Yes.” She moves closer to us.

“Mama.” One of the dolls drags itself nearer.

The surge in fear nearly knocks us back. “And you’ll do whatever we say? Give us whatever we want?”