The Doll's Eyes

Š 2014 Ronen Divon, All Rights Reserved.

It all came down to those China Blue eyes, the sort only dolls and retouched photos of supermodels have. It occurred to him that in horror stories, toys always start moving by their own accord when something spooky is about to happen. A doll with such a pair of eyes would blink; stare right at you and say, "Mama, mama." Only it would happen without anyone pulling the string and would sound completely creepy. When that happens, thought Bernie, you know all hell is about to break loose.

Staring at the doll on the shelf opposite him, Bernie willed himself to believe the blinking eyes he just witnessed were a figment of his imagination. Somewhere outside a cat howled a lonely wail making Bernie aware of how quiet the night was. A horror movie with the audio muted, he thought.

The doll stared right at him. Her curly blond hair and white dress eerily glowing in the dark. Her eyes glittered in the faint silvery moonlight, shining through a half open window. It gave Bernie the chills. A movement to his side startled him; a naked woman was lying by his side sound asleep. Her arm lay across his chest, strapping him down like a death-row inmate on a gurney, awaiting lethal injection.

Where was he? Who was this brunette? Bernie had a vague recollection of some hours prior, but it was washed out, made of single snapshots, like a scratch DVD skipping damaged areas, showing only occasional frozen frames from a plot in which he plays the lead character: a neon sign reading Last Stop Pub, whisky tumblers, a brunette sitting nearby, her red lips parting an invitation, her hand resting causally upon his forearm, fingers playing a symphony of temptation.

Bernie looked around. Nothing seemed familiar. Must be her place. How did he get here? A faded memory of lovemaking veiled by thick alcoholic fumes. Awakened just moments earlier, Bernie was gripped by terror, a dream still fresh in his mind: a little girl watching him, her face a mask of fear, her eyes telling him something horrible was about to happen.

Š 2014 Ronen Divon, All Rights Reserved.

God damn it, his mind raced, I must get the hell out of here. He reached to remove the brunette's arm, gently lifting her wrist. Her arm weighed a ton. He pulled harder, no longer caring if he woke her; nothing. His eyes widening under the effort, he noticed the doll staring right at him, her shiny pale blue spheres blinking. Cold sweat formed along his forehead. Then he heard it: a squeaky, mechanical voice, "Mama, mama." His panic peaking, Bernie pulled the strapping arm with both hands; no use, it would not budge. His heart racing, adrenaline pumping, no longer thinking, controlled solely by fear, Bernie grabbed the bedside lampstand's metal bar, lashing at the woman. The scene rapidly became bloody. All the while the doll's eyes kept blinking, her mouth moving, whispering silently to him.

Gloria woke up in a start, screaming, "Mummy, mummy!" The door to her room shot open as her mother rushed in. "The bad dream?" she asked her eight year old daughter. "Yes," sobbed Gloria uncontrollably, "it happened again." Martha held her daughter tight. "I watched it all," Gloria wept, her words barely audible, "through the doll's eyes. A man, a woman, in bed. I tried calling him. He didn’t hear me. He hit her. Lots of blood. So scared, I'm so scared." "Now, now," said the mother, "it's only a bad dream. I'll sit here until you fall asleep." She kissed her daughter's forehead, holding her hand.

Back in her bedroom, Gloria's dad, half asleep, mumbled to his wife, "again?" "Yes," she replied, her voice tired, "another doll's eyes dream." "It's the sixth one," he said, "and so far each and every one turned out to be a real murder case. I'm dreading reading about it in tomorrow's newspapers. You still think we shouldn’t tell the police about her visions?" "And label her a nutcase?" answered Martha agitated. "We've been through this already, the answer is no. It will all be over when she turns eight next month." "How can you be so sure?" he asked. "I just know," she replied, "call it a mother's intuition. Now let's go to sleep. It's very late." As Martha turned off the light, she glanced with weary eyes at an old doll, a relic of her own childhood, her eyes closed, resting on a shelf opposite their bed.

Š 2014 Ronen Divon, All Rights Reserved.