Broken Dolls
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~ Maddie Scahill
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I taught myself to like scary things—things that make people slap their hands over their eyes or walk on the other side of the street. Growing up precocious meant I had constant security; never any bad grades or frustrated parents who begged for ambition. I searched for fear and uncertainty to feel like someone besides the prodigal daughter. I remember finding a $10 porcelain doll at a neighborhood garage sale with stiff red curls and a lacy green dress that smelled faintly of smoke. I begged my mom to buy her, promising I wouldn’t get scared of her glassy green eyes that followed me like a Victorian portrait. I propped her up against the wall facing my bed, looking up at her every few seconds throughout the night to ensure she hadn’t lifted an arm or scurried across the room. After the dark bags under my eyes became too noticeable, the doll was donated to Goodwill.
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I would lay awake at night wondering how she would seek her revenge on me for disregarding her in a pile of unwanted toys. I imagined she would watch the movie Annabelle obsessively, taking notes on demonic possession and terrorizing little girls. Is there a way to assert dominance over a doll? I figured if worse comes to worse, I could punt her across the room or lock my bedroom door. She was definitely too short to reach the handle.
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At age 9 I began my horror exposure therapy. I forced myself to watch scary movie trailers and read cheesy stories about evil inanimate objects. I started reading the Goosebumps series to convince myself that being scared was fun. But god, what a stupid book. The Abominable Snowman of Pasadena was my latest R.L. Stine read, which left me utterly unshaken. It couldn’t hold a candle to Night of the Living Dummy or Welcome To Horrorland which I had re-read nearly every day. The various books lived in bright blue cubbies that lined the wall along the windows. The Goosebumps books sat with creased pages that no one dared to touch; everyone knew those books were mine. Most of them were gone anyway, a sizable stack built up in the dark crevice attached to the underside of my desk. My third-grade teacher rambled on about tree frogs and rainforest humidity, while my eyes frantically darted between her and the book tucked under the table. The allotted 45-minute independent reading time wasn’t enough; I desperately needed to know how the story would end. A curt “Ahem” jarred me from my furious scanning.
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“Maddie,” the teacher began, “Are you paying attention?” I was not.
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“Uh-huh,” I stuttered, tossing my book into the dark slot of my desk.
“Then pick a frog to research please.”
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I absentmindedly scanned over the choices. Everyone had chosen the poison dart frog or the glass frog, two classically beautiful animals. The only frog nobody had signed up for was the horned bullfrog: a brown lumpy amphibian with spiky eyes. I chose the bullfrog because it scared me, and I was nothing if not committed. Later that day, the teacher privately called me over to her desk, rubbing her temples with exhaustion.
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“Maddie, you can’t keep reading under your desk while I’m teaching.” She sighed, “And please don’t read Goosebumps books anymore, they’re below your reading level.”
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All I could do was agree mindlessly and pick up a book that was twice as challenging and twice as mind-numbing. I didn’t want to learn about tree frogs or the weather in Guatemala. I didn’t want to be smart. I wanted to be afraid. I wanted to control that fear. During lunch, I told my friends what the academic dictator had ordered, and recounted R.L. Stine’s chilling books.
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“Just write your own stories!” One friend suggested.
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Another chimed in, “Yeah! And you could read them to us!”
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“We could make a secret club,” said another, “The teacher won’t find out.”
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Why hadn’t I thought of this before? I had consumed so much media that I had to be able to conjure something even slightly scary to entertain my friends. The group was aptly named, “The Broken Doll Club” and we met every lunch hour in a circle under the table. They all listened to my stories with rapt attention, eyes wide in anticipation.
The circle began to grow, with nearly half the class tuning into my daily recountings. After hearing about the club, some people in my class claimed they “hated” scary books and movies. But like clockwork, they would eventually climb under the table and listen to me with undivided interest. For most, it was more of a compulsion than something they genuinely enjoyed. It’s like jumping out of a plane; you don’t necessarily want to do it, but you know you’ll feel something indescribable if you do. We continued undiscovered for a while, clambering under furniture and shuffling in hushed darkness. But it all came crashing down when one club member’s mother visited the principal.
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We’ll call this member Molly. Because that was her name. Molly Kenyon does not deserve anonymity. I wouldn’t call Molly a friend necessarily, but I certainly wouldn’t have pegged her as a snitch. According to her mother, Molly had supposedly woken up in the middle of the night, screaming like a bat out of hell, because my stories gave her nightmares. I was summoned to the principal who calmly explained that I needed to disband my club immediately to prevent further “distress” among students. Who did this girl think she was? Joining the club, my club, and proceeding to blame me for her cowardice. I sulked back to class, trudging along in defeat. I avoided Molly for the rest of the day, glancing at her with distaste in my periphery every chance I could. The next day when lunch came around, I sat miserably at my desk thinking of all the terrifying things I’d never get to say. I felt the chair next to me scratch against the floor as someone pulled it from under the desk. Molly hesitantly sat down, never meeting my eyes. She leaned in close to me, and glanced around nervously before whispering, “Tell me another story.”