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"Here it is,” he said.
He pushed a couple of half-finished beers aside and placed a small dollhouse on the bar.
“It’s pretty beat up,” someone said.
“Hey!” he responded. “It’s not beat up, it’s old!”
Nine-Finger Louie abandoned his piano bench and pushed through for a closer look. “I thought this was a bar, not a Day Care center. What’s so scary about some beat up old toy.”
“It’s not beat up,” he repeated. “It’s old.” He paused, and then added, “and it’s haunted.”
“Yeah, right,” Said Mac from behind the bar, refilling Louie’s beer. “A famous eleven inch fashion doll was murdered in there and now her bubble-headed ghost goes bump in the night.” |
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“Cut it out,” he interrupted. “I’m serious. This thing scares me. It makes noises and it just feels, well, wrong. I can’t get rid of it, it’s a family heirloom.” He looked away, disappointed. “I was hoping you guys could help me.”
Finally I made my way through for a close look - a small one-room dollhouse. Obviously hand made, but well made – a labor of love. Probably the pride of several generations of young girls. But it was old. Not beat up, just poorly maintained. The paint was peeling and the corners of the tiny windows were filled with dust, inside, a couple of pieces of furniture and a fireplace.
“At one time, this was beautiful,” I observed. “In fact, it still is beautiful.” The teasing stopped. The crowd in McEntire’s bar knows when to quit.
"OK, tell us the whole story,” I said and everyone settled down
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“It all started when I inherited this stuff,”.he began. “The
dollhouse, this deed,” (he pulled an envelope from his pocket) “and a
few old books. All this belonged to my Great Grandfather, but over the
years - my mother had the deed, her sister had the books and Mom’s older
brother had the dollhouse. As everyone died, these things came to me. And
then it started.”
What started?” I asked, but he ignored me.
“October 31st, 1895. Halloween night,” He continued. “A small town
in southern Missouri, St. Genevieve it was called.”
“I can almost her the children celebrating, I can almost smell the
leaves of autumn burning, and then - disaster. The New Madrid Fault let go
and an earthquake destroyed most of the town. My Great Grandfather had a
farm nearby, the Cottonwoods, but the quake struck. The Mississippi River
actually ran backwards for a couple of days.”
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“Here’s the deed to Cottonwoods,” he tossed the envelope on the bar. “But it’s no good. The land is underwater now. The river changed course and wiped us out.”
“So what’s this got to do with the dollhouse?” Louie asked, tinkling idly on his piano.
Ignoring the interruptions, he continued. “Strangely, very few people were killed. The ground shook, buildings collapsed but the significant changes were slow, almost as if the evil behind the quake was prolonging the agony. My family was unhurt, but the farm was gone. Not much was salvaged; a few books, clothes, some tools from the barn. For the next few months they lived in a cave. My great Grandfather did what ever he could. He salvaged, from the wreckage of the town or even from the floodwaters, enough wood to build simple furniture, shelves and…” he paused. “This dollhouse. He made it from wood pulled from the floodwaters.”
“Maybe it was commissioned for someone in town,” Mac Volunteered. “Or maybe…”
“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “It was never delivered. It turns out that the wood in the floodwaters came from coffins. The flood destroyed the local graveyard. The wood washed ashore and Grandfather picked it up. At the time, it was simply –
"supplies.”
“Interesting story,” said Cassandra, “But so what? Haunted?”
As I watched, something appeared at the dollhouse window. Almost like a tiny someone, or something, looking at us from inside. Louie was focused on his piano, but Cassandra was wide eyed. “Did you see?” she said.
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Silently, he placed an old, very worn book on the bar next to the house. The title was not readable and it was badly water damaged.
“This one of the books Grandfather managed to save. In fact, he used it as sort of a diary. The details of the days in the cave as he called it, are written in the margins.” He turned to the Bartender, “Mac? Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil?” He handed the book to Cassandra. “Open this and choose a word from any page.”
He pulled gently on the front of the house and it came free, revealing the dark interior. A miniature table and a
two small chairs sat in front of a small ornate fireplace. He folded the paper, put it inside with the pencil, and replaced the front of the house. “Listen” he said. |
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You could hear a small scratching sound, like miniature mice. He snatched the front of the house off and the pencil fell, almost as if dropped from an invisible hand. Carefully, he reached in and picked up the folded note. He unfolded it. In a shaky childlike hand, a single word: “disaster.”
“That’s the word I choose,” said Cassandra.
Everyone unconsciously moved away. As the space cleared, Wilma pointed and exclaimed, “Look!” The tiny table quivered and scooted to one side of the house. It stopped, quivered again, and then floated back to its original place.
“Haunted,” said Elijah. “No doubt about it.”
Into the silence I said, “I can fix it.”
Everyone turned to me and I continued. “The book and the Deed. The spirit learned from the book and is bound by the deed, very simple. Release the spirit from the deed”
“What should I do?” He said, “Burn it?”
“No, that won’t work,” I said. “If you simply destroy the deed, that would be like throwing the key away. This is a miniature spirit, in a twisted way just like the ghost of an eleven inch fashion doll.” I looked towards Mac. “It has to be destroyed on a scale that this ‘miniature ghost’ will understand.”
“Tear a square off the corner of the deed and put the rest back in the envelope,” I said. “Now put that piece, that miniature deed, in the dollhouse fireplace. He carefully put the scrap of paper on the tiny logs and stepped back. A few seconds later, a flash of fire, and the scrap was gone.
“It’s done,” I said.
“What do you mean, it’s done?” he asked.
“Open the envelope, “I said.
With trembling hands, he opened the envelope and looked inside. The deed was gone. He dumped the contents on to the bar – ashes.
“It’s done,” he agreed.
“Now fix that thing up and give it to some nice little girl. I’ll bet you inherited your Grandfather’s skills.”
He drained his beer, picked up the house, headed for the door. “Thanks,” he said with a grin.
Everything slowly returned to what passed for normal in McEntire’s Bar. Nine Finger Louie played a bit of Scott Joplin, Cassandra and Elijah resumed their debate, Mac polished his already spotless glasses and I just looked at the ashes from the deed, still on the bar.
The ashes formed a word.
“Thanks!” it said. |
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