It had been another tiresome day at work and I desired a mellow house to come home to. The house was silent. I called for my wife but was unanswered. ‘Maybe she is taking a siesta,’ I thought, so I went upstairs. At the top of the stairs I was greeted by my wife’s body turned almost inside out, her innards hung pathetically from the banister. Her face wore a distorted look and her hand was clutched tightly to the long, bloody carving knife that lay by her side. My breathing was non-existent and my eyes burned like a blazing furnace.
As I pen this horrific sighting, I am filled with total grief and disgust. At that moment my son sprang to my thoughts and I tore down the corridor to his chamber. A sight there was more terrible than the first. His bedroom was vandalised, everything torn, smashed or burnt. Blood was smeared over the walls and stained the carpet. And there was my son’s head. It lay apart from his body and an iron fire poker impaled it from the top of his crown to the back of his throat and out through his mouth.
Absolute shock overcame me; I fell back onto the landing, crying like a new-born baby. But then my eyes came to rest on something lying by my wife, and then my crying stopped. It was the china-faced doll. Even in the midst of my sorrow and suffering, I became mesmerised by its loose, rolling eye that now glowed a bright red colour. My mind lost control over my body. I brought myself to my feet and snatched the knife from my wife’s hand. Unwillingly but still in a hypnotic trance, I started to press the machete into my chest.
At the moment that it began to pierce my skin, the police came bursting through the front door, and the feeling came back to my body and my arms fell to my side. I glanced at the doll whose smile was now an apparent frown. It only took one look at me, from the police’s perspective, knife in hand standing over my wife’s slaughtered body before I was handcuffed and knocked unconscious. And so it was inevitable that I would be sitting here, in my prison cell, formulating my nightmares into words of terrific horror.
After all who would believe that a doll was responsible for over twenty consecutive deaths. But be merciful. Deal me death, not isolation where for every minute of every day I am to mourn my losses and live in misery. Maybe I am mad and I did just think the whole thing up. But I think not. I think that I am right and other people must now face the consequences of a detective’s disbelief. The doll has been passed on and somewhere, somehow, someone is always dying.