---

Emily

by Alexander Hewitt

The bell jingled as we left the creepy little doll shop. The store owner smiled from behind the counter, one of those off-putting, ‘I know more than you do,’ kind of smiles. Her old, crackly voice didn’t help.

“Take care of her now, won’t you?”

She was a witch.

She was absolutely a witch.

If ever a witch there was, she was that witch.

“Of course!” we replied cheerily, while dashing out the door before she could trap us and bake us into pies… or whatever it was witches did. The doll was in my arms, and Sarah leapt into the driver’s seat.

“Remind me never to go in there again,” I said to my wife as she stepped on the gas. “Gives me the shivers.”

“The shop, or the shop owner?”

“Both,” I replied. “I could have sworn all those dolls were watching us.”

“They’re just dolls,” Sarah chuckled. “They can’t watch you.”

She didn’t sound convinced. We’d both seen too many scary films.

But I guess that hadn’t stopped us.

I held up our purchase, an antique porcelain doll in a white and blue chequered dress, with dark hair, and green eyes. Her face was moulded in a cheeky smile–that might have been what I liked about her–her limbs only bent at the hips and shoulders, and she had a tag around her wrist that said: ‘Hi, my name is Emily.’

“Nearly home, Emily,” I jokingly told the doll. “You’re going to like it there, your room is all ready, and your sister arrives in a month. I’m sure she’ll love you!”

“We hope she arrives in a month,” Sarah corrected me. She was always the more realistic of the two of us, especially after so many adoption agencies had burned us before.

“She will, don’t worry,” I said as we pulled into the drive. “It’s just one more review, that’s all. If they want to see our house, they can. The room’s finished, the place is kid-proof, and we’re awesome parent material. Everything will be fine this time. We’re ready.”

“I hope you’re right,” she replied, and kissed me on the cheek.

We went inside and brought Emily upstairs to the nursery. It had stuffed toys, a fluffy duvet on the bed, and animals painted on the pink walls. Sarah was the real artist, but I was rather proud of my little duck by the door.

In the corner was a wooden rocking chair–we both had dreams of reading bed-time stories in an old rocking chair–and that’s where we left Emily, ready for her adopted sister; sitting in the chair, where she could see the whole room.

That was the last thing: the room was now ready for a kid.

Our kid.

We were almost parents!

Actual parents!

I’m not freaking out. Who’s freaking out? Not me, certainly. And definitely not in front of Sarah. I was calm, for her sake.

…But I was excited.

As we left, with a thousand images running through both our minds, Emily watched us go.

I was downstairs that night when I heard it: a creaking, back and forth above me. It sounded like scratching nails trying to burrow through the floorboards. I followed the sound up the stairs, and down the hall. The scratching, creaking, grew louder and louder with every step. It felt like something was calling me, and I found myself at the open nursery door. The rocking chair was lurching back and forth with a vengeance.

I couldn’t see Emily anywhere!

The window was open, and the breeze was gushing through, thrashing the chair about. I ran over and slammed the window shut, worried about Emily. She must have been thrown off. I hoped she wasn’t damaged!

The chair stopped moving as the window closed, and I turned to find where Emily had landed. But instead of the floor, where she should have been launched, there she was, sitting on the bed: safe, and looking at me.

“Now how did you get there?”

Emily didn’t respond. She was a doll.

I couldn’t figure it out though. Maybe Sarah had moved her? That’s all that made sense. Dolls don’t move themselves.

…Right?

Why I did what I did next, I couldn’t really say. I guess I wanted the practice? I put on a brave face in front of Sarah but, with just a month to go before our girl arrived, I was getting anxious.

What if I messed it all up? What if she hated me?

I’d take any prep time, any advantage I could get before then.

So, I sat next to Emily, on the side of the bed, and tucked her in. Her body was under the covers with her head on the pillow, facing away where the light wouldn’t wake her. Before I left, I kissed her cheek goodnight.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Emily,” I whispered, and stood up to leave.

It felt nice, putting her to bed like that.

When I reached the door, I heard a rustling, and turned back to see Emily’s face. She was still in bed, head on the pillow, but she’d rolled over somehow, watching me go. Her bright green eyes were focussed on me, smiling, as always.

But no, she couldn’t have rolled over. I must have lain her down facing the door after all. That was it. I was just tired and making up false memories.

I left the door slightly open, so it wasn’t too dark for her.

I didn’t ask Sarah if she’d moved Emily from the rocking chair. Maybe I should have. At the time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

The next morning Emily was in the chair again, with sunlight shining over her. I thought nothing of it.

That night I found her back on the bed, ready to be tucked in. The rocking chair was motionless, the window still closed, but I checked it, nonetheless. I tucked her in again and kissed her goodnight. That became my new routine, and soon it felt natural.

I needed the practice, didn’t I? We had a kid on the way.

I could feel someone watching me each night. I just thought it was Sarah, and I didn’t want to spoil the game by asking her.

Soon, Emily appeared in other places too. I never saw her move, but I’d find her in the lounge one moment, then the office the next. When we moved to the kitchen, there she’d be on the back of the sofa, with a good view of us both.

I joked about it once to Sarah. She just grinned, and shrugged mischievously.

After dark, I’d find Emily back in her room, on the bed, where I’d tuck her in and kiss her goodnight. Always facing me as I left, watching me go.

A week or so of this had gone by when I was home alone for the evening. Sarah was out working late, just me in the kitchen, with Emily upstairs. I hadn’t tucked her in yet and was passing the time by sorting through a box of old toys. It was a gift from relatives: the kind of relatives that think they know kids, but perhaps not those born this millennium.

I was inspecting a rattle and wondering just how much lead was in its paint, when I heard a high-pitched giggle. I looked down and saw Emily standing next to me.

Her eyes were wide, and green like flames. Her mouth was open, teeth bared in a silent, grinning scream. One arm was raised above her head, and in that tiny hand was gripped a carving knife, point down, ready to strike.

Had any of this happened just weeks earlier I probably would have screamed, run for help, likely while being chased by the demon doll. Cue: first death in the horror flick.

For whatever reason though, I did not do that. I wasn’t afraid of Emily. I was, however, terrified she might hurt herself!

So, I did the most rational thing I could.

I yelled, “Emily! No!” and took the knife from her hand. Apparently, she’d not expected this development.

“You don’t play with knives!” I said, wagging my finger at her. “They’re not toys, they’re very dangerous!”

The doll looked at her now knife-less hand, and back at me.

Back to her hand, moving it up and down in a stabbing motion, her arm still unbending.

Then back at me.

It took a few tries of doing this before she understood that the knife wasn’t coming back, and started crying.

Now, all kids can cry, I’m sure, but our Emily had some pipes! The walls were shaking, and the windows cracked. Splinters shot out from everywhere, caking the carpet.

“No! Stop! It’s okay!” I yelled, trying to calm down the screaming doll. “Please stop crying! You’re not in trouble, you’re alright!”

This didn’t help. More screaming. Her mouth was locked open.

I tried hugging her, but she only grew louder. More splinters. My ears hurt.

Crap, what do I do? How do you calm down a wailing demon toy? No one ever told me that! Why didn’t they tell me that!?

I almost gave her back the knife, but, no, bad plan. Knife. Dangerous. Little kid. Not a toy.

I reached for the nearest other thing I could find, the rattle, and shoved it into her hand.

The screaming stopped, my ears left ringing in the sudden silence.

Emily’s eyes, redder than before, stared down at the rattle, uncertain, but curious. She tried the same stabbing motion, and the rattle did what it did best: it rattled.

Emily closed her mouth, back into that cheeky smile.

I didn’t even know her face could move like that!

She shook it again and giggled. She had a very sweet laugh… when she wasn’t trying to murder you.

Then she sat on the tile floor and played, laughing, rattling, while I washed the knife and put it away, and hid the knife block in a very tall cupboard.

When Sarah came home, we were playing with some toy cars from the box.

I gave Emily back her rattle and ran to intercept Sarah before she spotted the haunted doll-child. I explained as quickly I could that Emily was alive, and that’s why all the windows were cracked, and the house was now slightly unstable. Sarah raised one eyebrow at me, and I’m sure was about to ask if I’d hit my head somehow, when a tiny little voice called out, “Mummy!”

Sarah gasped and glanced down. Emily was hugging her leg.

She looked at me, and down at Emily, and up, and down.

I stifled a laugh. So that’s where Emily got it from.

Before my stunned wife could form a sentence again, I kissed her, and whispered in her ear, “You’re a Mummy.”

She didn’t say anything for a while. She leant down and picked up Emily in her arms, walking over to the assorted toys now scattered down the hall. Her cheeks were damp.

We played with Emily, and put her to bed, both of us tucking her in and kissing her goodnight.

Afterwords, we talked.

I finally told Sarah about Emily moving about and tucking her in each evening. She’d been doing the same thing the whole time, tucking her into bed right after me without either of us realising it. To make things worse, she thought I was the one making her move, and didn’t want to spoil the game by saying anything!

You know those movie characters that you wish would just talk to each other, and the whole thing would be solved? Welcome to my marriage, apparently.

We played with Emily each day after that, woke her up in the morning, and tucked her in at night. Dinner times became eventful, now that a kid was involved. She hated eating her vegetables, but I couldn’t blame her, I was never a fan of them either. We took turns reading her bed-time stories in the old rocking chair, with Emily on our lap.

And over the next few weeks, we noticed Emily changing.

She became more coordinated. Her face moved, and softened, until it didn’t seem like porcelain at all. Her arms and legs started bending, and soon she was running all over the house, cackling like a tiny mad woman. I learned to love that squeal of excitement.

We reinforced the walls and replaced the windows multiple times. Whenever Emily cried, the glazier would get more business, and eventually we asked him about crack-resistant glass.

Though… we did consider asking for bullet-proof, just in case.

“Kids play baseball in the street,” I said, when he raised his eyebrows at me. But he installed it nonetheless, and the windows stopped cracking.

A month or so after Emily first arrived, as Sarah was playing hide and seek with her, I found a letter in the mail.

It was from the adoption agency.

“Ready or not, here I come!” Sarah announced, as I opened the letter. I could hear Emily giggling behind the sofa.

The letter said the agency had checked into our situation, and they were very sorry, but we’d failed the final review. The adoption would not be going forward.

They never even told us. No phone call. No inspection. No reason why.

It was just… off.

Bad luck.

“Are you… here!?” Sarah called from the kitchen. “Nope, not there!”

Emily giggled again.

I just smiled at the rejection letter, folded it up, and left it to go join my wife in the hunt.

“Where’s she gone?” I over-dramatically asked.

“I don’t know!” Sarah replied. “She’s invisible!”

Cue, another giggle from the living room, and both of us trying not to laugh as we split up to search everywhere else.

And the letter was almost forgotten.

The agency hadn’t stopped us becoming parents, not this time.

A few days later, we went back to that creepy little doll shop. The owner was surprised–she didn’t get many return customers–but we knew what we were doing.

After all, we did promise Emily a sister.