February 02, 2006
Helen
Gather 'round, boys and girls. Today, I'm going to tell you the story of Helen.
In March of 1996, I married my Future Ex-Husband (FEH for short). As yet unaware of the crippling poverty his drinking would soon bring us, I happily agreed to and planned a 10-day trip to the Smokey Mountains for our honeymoon.
We rented a secluded log cabin in the hills, with a fireplace and outdoor jacuzzi -- very romantic. March isn't exactly tourist season in that area, so lots of places were closed until April. Also, the county we were in was dry. As in NO BOOZE. So we had to get creative with what we did to fill our time. Me -- I slept twelve hours a day.
Not very creative, but much needed, after the anxiety of planning a wedding. Other creative activities included petting cows on the side of the road, visiting a quilt shop on the top of a mountain, and counting how many refridgerators and/or recliners we saw on front porches.
Much of the time, we just drove around. Mountains are a big, fuckin' deal when you live on the flatest surface of the planet. It's like, when God was making Earth, he dropped it, and it landed Illinois-side-down.
Anyhoo, one day while I was sleeping in, FEH got really freakin' bored and went off exploring on his own. Which is fine, since it made the cabin quieter, and he wasn't poking me in the back with FEH Jr.
He was back by the time I woke up, and he had a present for me. Gleeeee! Love prezzies! It was a beautiful antique doll in her original dress and shoes! Not mint condition -- she had a few cracks around one eye -- but that's how he was able to afford her.
Now, at that point, I was still years away from the massive Barbie army I have now. However, I had (and still have) several dolls that were my mother's, which I've always displayed lovingly, including two Storybook dolls and a very old Raggedy Ann. So an antique doll was a very sweet and thoughtful gift.
I hated that thing from the moment I saw it.
I looked at her face and thought, "I really don't want this doll."
I told myself that I was being an idiot; it was just the cracks around her eye that made her look a little off. I was just being stupid and superficial, and I should be able to look past that to the beautiful and heartwarming gift that she was. I hugged FEH and thanked him profusely.
He asked me what I was going to name her, and I decided on Helen, which was the name of the 106-year old lady on top of the mountain, from whom we had bought a GORGEOUS quilt, sewed entirely by her 106-year old hands.
So we went about our day. And, as so often happens, day was followed by night, which induced a feeling of sleepiness (even though I'd only been up for 12 hours). We went up to our bedroom, and there was Helen, standing on the dresser.
Now, granted, I'm a weird bird. We currently have three Gene dolls, a plush moose, and half a dozen carved folk-art Santas in our bedroom. When I was a teen-ager, I had countless Tiger Beat posters on my walls and a stuffed animal collection. And you all know about the 100+ Barbies that presently fill three IKEA shelves floor to ceiling.
Point is, I've never had any trouble sleeping with beady, soulless eyes staring at me.
Until Helen.
I couldn't sleep with her watching me, anymore than I could tolerate Chuckie, the clown from "Poltergeist," or *shudder* one of those damned sock monkeys.
Helen had those weighted eyes that close when you lay the doll down, so that's exactly what I did. And I babbled something like, "Helen has to go to bed, too." Hoping that FEH would find it adorably charming and not delusionally paranoid.
We laid in bed, and FEH goes, "You laid her down because you don't want her looking at you."
Pause. "Yeah."
"You don't like her, do you?"
Pause. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm going to wake-up in the middle of the night to find her cold, dead eyes glittering in the dark, and every time I look at her, she's going to be a little closer to me, until finally she's on the bed with a knife at my throat."
"Wenchie, you have dolls and stuffed animals all over our room at home."
"I know. But this one's evil."
FEH thought about that for a moment. He knew I believe in ghosts and aliens and paranormal shit, but he also knew that I'd never claimed to have witnessed any of these things, nor did I ever hope to.
"You wanna take her back in the morning?" he asked.
"Can we?"
"Sure."
"I'm really sorry. She's a gorgeous doll! She's just... possessed or something. I don't know. I just don't want her near me."
"You want me to put her in the car?"
"In the trunk. It's harder for her to escape."
Uh-huh, we actually had that conversation. About an inanimate object.
The next morning, as promised, we drove to the antique store where FEH had bought the doll. The old guy at the counter explained that he sold on consignment, and while he couldn't give us our money back for the doll, we could buy something from the same seller.
I ended up with a beautiful antique doll bed, which I still have to this day because it isn't possessed by the souls of the children it killed. We got the bed packed up and were all set to leave when the old guy told us that that was the third time that doll had been returned.
"One time, from outta state, and they didn't even ask for their money back."
Well, I about crapped my pants. He and I just looked at each other for a moment. He knew that damn thing was haunted! And he sold it anyway! Well, I couldn't exactly blame him for wanting to get rid of it.
Was he messing with us? It's possible. If he was, he had the best damn poker face in the world. But it's certainly possible. Still, I felt vindicated -- I wasn't the only person to hate that doll! I'm not crazy!
When I attend doll shows now, it's not without some apprehension. I'm not afraid of all dolls. I'm just afraid that Helen will turn up on one of those shelves, seeking revenge for the night she spent in a cold, dark car trunk in the middle of March. Like the cold, dark grave she belongs in!
I can't include a photo of Helen because I didn't take any. If I had, I'm sure they either wouldn't have developed, or there'd be other shit in the photos, like floating, shadowy figures standing right next to her even though there was no one else in the room.
I am not going to be able to sleep tonight.
Comments
Oh, good story! Goosebumps and all. Thanks
Posted by: Jo Gillis at February 2, 2006 02:18 PM
This is your insomnia cure? No wonder you don't doze
Posted by: qfe23 at February 2, 2006 02:56 PM
Yikes! Good story!
Posted by: Careswen at February 2, 2006 08:18 PM