Coaster Community

            Olivia pushed herself off the ground, her mind still groggy from whatever he had given her. Though she was afraid, she could not completely wrap her head around what was going on. Who was he? What was he talking about? Whatever it was, she was lucid enough to know that he was dangerous. “What?”

            The man smiled down at her, suddenly overjoyed. “You’ll get to see me make my lovely dolls!”

            “Dolls?”

            “Yes, my dove. If you cooperate, I’ll even let you pick your own dress.”

            “My… dress?” Her brain tried to understand his words. Everything was so foggy.

            “Your doll dress. For you I was thinking a blue gown. You look so much like Marie Antoinette, perhaps I’ll finally have my own little queen. How wonderful…” By now, it seemed he was talking more to himself than to her. He rambled on for a few more minutes about having bought the wrong thread earlier that day, and having to turn around and purchase the correct type. Eventually Olivia managed to think a coherent thought.

            “You’re going to make me into… a doll?”

            “Yes, my dove.”

            Instinct told her to get up and run, but logic said that would only end badly. She wanted to scream, but could not force herself to do so. She was nearly numb with fear, and her limbs would have refused to move anyway. “H-how?”

            “It’s a secret,” he said, standing and moving towards a sleeping girl. She could have been no older than fifteen, and her face was still childlike and round. Her hair, though dirty from the floor, was a golden color, and was almost as pale as her skin. The young girl was truly beautiful. Olivia wanted to snatch her away from the strange and terrible man, but her own safety was more important. There was nothing she could do for the angelic child.

            He lay the girl down on a slab next to the table. There was medical equipment connected to the slab, but she could not fathom what it was for. A greenish liquid filled many of the thick plastic tubes that connected to a metal bottle. It looked like an oxygen tank to her, but she was sure it wasn’t. It held something far worse.

            The man worked in silence for some time, but Olivia did not know what he was doing. He had medical knives and bottles and other things she didn’t have names for. He was doing something to the girl, who she knew was still breathing. She could hear the girl’s breath. Olivia felt sick, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. Looking away wasn’t an option, either.

            Questions, however, were. “Who are you?”

            “And why am I doing this?” He turned around, removing the gloves she couldn’t remember seeing him put on. His thin lips curled into a cruel smile. “Andrew McCarthy is my name.” He sat down again, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his knees. His empty black eyes leered into hers. “Do you really want to know why I’m doing this?”

            Olivia nodded. Knowing was better than dying unawares.

            McCarthy nodded and straightened up, crossing one leg over the other. He looked less than human in the weak light. “Very well. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to tell the story to. It’s been so long I don’t remember much of it. Oh, I’d say I started this in the mi-1700s, give or take a few years. I lived in London at the time, making dolls with my wife. She introduced me to the craft, and we took pleasure in it as a couple. It was always nice to see a young girl enter the store with her family and find a doll that suited her best. Occasionally, if we had enough extra, we’d take the dolls to more… unfortunate children that could not afford the expensive toys.

            “Eventually my wife caught tuberculosis, and was stolen from me shortly thereafter. I was stricken with grief. I did not know what to do with myself, but I could not bear to have my wife put in the ground, only to rot away and give sustenance to worms and rats. My father had been a mortician, so I knew a thing or two on how to handle the dead. I embalmed my wife, but eventually even that began to fail me. I needed to keep her around, or I would not survive.

            “Then the idea hit me… why not turn her into a doll? This way in death she could be one of the things she had loved so much in life.” McCarthy sighed and closed his eyes, remembering what must have been a painful time for him. Olivia could not find it in herself to feel sorry for him. “The process wasn’t easy. I had no idea what I was doing, but eventually I did it. She was a rough version of herself, gaunt and awkward, but she was my wife. She did not rot. She did not stink of death. She was simply a doll, porcelain delicacy, but human to the touch.

            “I continued making dolls as I had before my wife died, but one evening I left the shop for a moment to purchase more fabric for a dress. When I returned, I found the door to my shop open, and the door to my home above it ajar. Curious, I entered my home, only to find a small child, no more than six, staring at the glass box that held my doll-wife. Terrified that she would tell the world what I had done, and thusly destroy my livelihood, I snatched her up and hurried her to my workroom. She screamed, but I was desperate, and I began the process of making her a doll, as I had my wife. I don’t know why I didn’t just kill her and bury her somewhere, but I did not. By the end of that night, she was only half human. The rest of her was as you will be – porcelain and bits of flesh.

            “After that, something was not quite right about me. Everywhere I looked, I found imperfection where I had once found beauty. I could only think of the young girl sitting in my home, more beautiful than any human could be. I had to do it again. All would not be right if I did not.”

            McCarthy turned his head and looked at the girl on the table wistfully, reaching a hand out to stroke her hair. The gesture was sickening, but Olivia said nothing. However gruesome his tale was, she had to know how it ended. She was entranced; trapped. Perhaps she felt that, hidden somewhere in his words, there would be clues to an escape.

            “One night, I ventured into a seedy part of town, where vagrants and whores were about. I found a prostitute and took her back to my home, where she thought she would make money for the next night’s dinner. I held her down and forced cloth into her mouth so that she would not scream. We did not have sedatives back then, you see. She was much larger than the child, though about the size of my wife. I knew it would take more time. She did not survive. Every night after, I went out seeking prostitutes and thieves for my experiments. Each night, they perished. I could not figure out why they died, while the small child sat in my study, eyes ever watchful, her heart still beating. Then, as I strolled through town pondering such things, I came across a young girl. She was not a child, but not yet a woman, and in her eyes you could see the innocence. She was lost, so I offered to help her find her way. I lured her back to my home, and just as I had done with my previous experiments, I forced her down. This time, after working hours and hours, and even into the next night, I managed what I had been attempting since that first crucial event. When I was finished, she stared back up at me, no longer human. Her limbs were flesh, but gears replaced her heart. Her mind was still in tact, but she did not think as a human would. She was… changed.

            “I don’t know why, but I felt whole as I had not since my wife had passed as I stared at my creations. They did my bidding. I left London sometime after that, for I knew I would be caught if I stayed. I traveled the world, making tiny dolls for money, and large ones for myself. Eventually I had to be rid of my first two, as they rusted away with age. They were still crude models, and I tired of them. With each new addition to my collection, my craft evolved. Each doll was unique, and better than the last. A hundred years passed, yet I was still alive. I had not aged. I could not figure out why, but something in me said that I did not die because of the dolls. They kept me alive. If I stop making them, I die.”

            McCarthy leaned his head back, eyes closed, and smiled. Olivia bit down on her lip, her heart racing. He was silent now, as though his story was finished. He basked in the glow of his own legacy, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Only his memories kept him company then. This was her opportunity.

            With strength from some part of her she did not know existed, Olivia forced herself off the ground. Her knees shook and nearly gave out, but she did not let them. Her feet barely touched the ground as she sprinted over the bodies of those she could not save. Her heart raced as her hand touched the metal doorknob and twisted it. The door opened with a loud screech, but she did not pause to see if he had noticed. Surely he had. She flew up a narrow staircase, exiting into a lovely living room. A woman sat on the couch, her skin whiter than paper, and her hair as black as ink. She looked up, her eyes glossy and glass-like. She did not speak, and she did not move. She simply sat there, watching.

            Olivia heard him crashing up the stairs, and with all the strength she had left, she forced the door at the top of the stairwell closed. There was a push lock on the knob, which she pushed hard enough to nearly break her thumb. McCarthy beat on the door, screaming at her. With one last glance at the alabaster woman, Olivia fled down a hallway. She passed rooms beyond rooms, each with an alabaster woman in them, each with a different face. Occasionally one would walk awkwardly to the door to watch her pass, their movements jerky and inhuman.

            Finally, she seemed to find herself at the end of the large building. Crashes could be heard somewhere behind her, but she did not pause to turn and look. If she did not leave, she would become another one of those alabaster women. She would stare with blank eyes and move with the same stiff grace. It was not a fate she wanted.

            She entered another parlor, this one with a door that led outside. It was unlocked. Gleefully she wrenched it open and thrust herself into the cool night air, her feet moving faster than they had ever before. She did not stop running when her knees threatened to give way, or when her ankles throbbed from the pressure. She did not stop until she felt herself fall to the ground. Her face scraped against the hard pavement, but she pushed herself up again. This time, she managed to turn around and look behind her. He was not there. He had not caught her. She was safe.