Page 1 of Miserable Marionette

1

A Doll That Cries

Audrey, Seven Years Old, 1975

Cool raindrops pelt my face as I clutch the small box in my arms, trying to make sure my sketchpad and the nice colored pencils Uncle Rodney got me for Christmas a few years ago stay dry. They’re almost nubs now, so I try to avoid sharpening them as much as I can.

“Auds, what do you think?” Dad calls from the white-wrapped front porch, a huge smile eating up his face.

I do my best not to frown at the big house in front of me; it’s fine. I mean, it’s nice. I should be grateful, and I’m trying to be. The cardboard creaks in my arms as I clench it tighter, fighting the strange tightening in my chest. The one that always comes when things change. A messy bundle of dread and tiny pinpricks of pain, a misery for the way things were. Even if it affects me very little either way. Like when Mom started having the house cleaned on Tuesday instead of Thursday. It didn’t matter; I knew it didn’t matter, but it felt like it might. Dad says I’m too excitable, so I smile and give him a little nod, even though my stomach is swirling.

If I’m being entirely honest, I missed home weeks before we left. I don’t care about Dad’s new job at the sheriff’s department or that Mom wanted a fresh start. Away from the town gossip and the man Dad caught in our house this summer. I can still see Dad's face, beet red, his veins bulging in his forehead as the man gathered up his clothes. The man’s private part flopping around while Mom screamed at Dad to calm down and for me to go back to bed. Seems an awfully strange thing to happen, then never speak of again, but I’d never seen Dad that angry… or angry about anything, come to think of it, so I kept my mouth shut. Now we’re here in Swindon, Michigan. A billion-hour-long car ride from everyone I’ve ever known, my teachers, friends, and the soda machine I’d visit every Monday after school.

Another fifty trips from the blocky off-white U-Haul to my new home, and my arms and legs are aching. The rain finally settling into an annoying mist that makes my hair stick to my face as I let myself fall heavily onto the porch swing. My Krissy doll sits forgotten in my lap as a tall man shouts from across the street. “Hey neighbors!”

Dad claps his hands together loudly, signaling the end to whatever task he was working on before he greets the man, now followed by a slight woman in a dark dress, her hair pinned up in a severe bun. Dark black, frizzy strands hovering around her head like the playful sprites Uncle Rodney used to draw pictures of. He said they came from the woods. Nothing about the woman demurely huddling behind the tall man screams she sets foot in the woods.

Dad meets him halfway down the small drive, his wide smile eating up his tanned face as he turns to usher Mom and me along with him. “Nice to meet ya. My name's Manard Fisher. This is my wife, Emma, and my daughter, Audry.” I smile up at the couple, their faces looking aged, if not a little tired. Mom says that’s how Uncle Rodney looked at the end too, tired and old. Despite him being younger than her.

“Some people are born miserable, Audrey, and they don’t want to be any other way.”

Uncle Rodney never looked particularly miserable to me.

“It’s a pleasure. I’d been meaning to catch you on your other trips up, but duty calls.” The stranger claps my dad's hand in a loud shake, smiling brightly. “Jason Bell, this is my wife, Abigail. My son Gideon is around here somewhere. How old is your little one? They might be good friends.” He says the words to my dad but casts his warm smile at me. I can’t help but return it. The prospect of a friend making the whole thing more bearable. Maybe the loss will feel like less of one if I gain something in return.

“Jason…” His wife chuckles, but she doesn’t look happy like her husband. Her lips are cracked and raw, but it doesn’t take away from her prettiness. She looks like my Krissy doll with her rouged cheeks and dark hair, just sadder.

“She’s turning eight in a few months. They spring up like weeds…”

My eyes land on a flash of color in the sticky gray mist. The bands on a boy’s bright striped sweater as he stalks from behind the house across the street. I can’t stop my frown this time as my eyes land on the cracked sign hanging just outside.

Bell Funeral Home.

Great, our new house is haunted.

I flinch as Mr. Bell’s laughter bolsters. “Don’t worry, kiddo, there aren’t any ghosts around here.” My eyes snap from the newly creepy building, wondering how I ever thought it looked normal thirty minutes ago. The windows are darker; the white paint eerie. It’s probably filled with bodies as we speak. My heart jerks to life in my chest as the sight of Uncle Rodney comes unbidden to my mind. He’d been so cold… so fake-looking. Mom said he’d look normal; he didn’t. I can’t shake it, no matter how hard I try to see him the other way; it’s just him tucked inside the silky lining of his casket.

“Hey Gideon, come meet the neighbors!”

The boy’s dark hair matches his mom’s, but it’s cut shorter on the sides, and he’s… handsome. If not a little… spooky like the house. When his deep blue eyes meet mine, I decide I don’t mind if he lives in a funeral home, my cheeks flushing as he stares. It’s uncomfortable how long he seems to take everything in, impolite, but I can’t help but smile at him as he comes closer. Clutching Krissy tighter to my chest.

“Miss Audrey, this is Gideon. Gideon, meet Audrey.”

My smile widens, making my cheeks ache as I brush a frizzy wayward blonde hair behind my ear. “Hi.”

He only nods, those deep eyes falling on my Krissy doll. I saved up my allowance for months to get her two years ago. All my friends got theirs for Christmas, but that was before Dad got his new job.

We stand there in awkward silence, but by the end of it, I realize I’d stopped fretting so much about the new house. When I finally pull my eyes away from Krissy’s spiral curls, Gideon is staring at me still. Our parents are gone, heading toward the new house. Dad booms about the renovations he started as he leads Mr. Bell inside. Our moms talk quietly as they settle on the porch.

“She looks like you.”

My head snaps back to him, my brows furrowed. “Who?”

“Your doll.”

I glance down at Krissy. Not seeing it at all. Her hair is silky and dark; her eyes bright green. I shift on my feet, feeling every bit as excited as I am nervous. “How old are you?”

“Nine,” he answers, his eyes still boring into me. He doesn’t seem like any of the kids I’m used to. There’s something grown up about him that makes me feel small. Well, smaller.