I retreat back into my blanket fortress to retrieve a plastic cup half-filled with the same saltwater mix that is in my mouth. I also pick up a small paring knife. Then I emerge from my hiding place, peering nervously up over the sofa again…
…and I come face-to-face with the doll, which is perched atop it. It has a small, peculiar, black gash across its face, which on a person would have been a mouth.
The doll in the bathtub didn’t have a mouth.
It lunges.
I duck.
It sails over my head and crashes into a painting behind me. I have enough presence of mind not to swallow the salt water or spit it out. I don’t waste precious seconds looking behind me—I make for the closet, my backup hiding place in case anything went wrong, which it almost always did.
I slip in and slide the door shut behind me, wriggling in among the clothes and shoes, trying to make as little sound as I can. You don’t need to find the most complicated hiding spot when a ghost is hunting you. The instant you trap them inside a vessel, like a doll’s body, their perception of the world becomes limited.
I wait for several long seconds. Everything’s quiet, but I’m not buying it. If you move when they’re there to see, they’ll find you. They’ll find you fast.
Through the small slits of light coming in through the slatted closet door, I make out a movement. Then I catch a glimpse of yellow as something small and decidedly doll-shaped shuffles into view.
It’s crawling on its hands and knees.
Its every movement sounds like crunching bone.
It’s searching for me.
I hold my breath and wait until it twitches away.
The second rule of the game: it gets to look for me first. Then it’s my turn. We swap roles every few minutes until someone succeeds. First one to stab three times doesn’t get to die.
Time’s up.
I count another ten seconds, because starting my turn late is better than starting it too early, while it’s still on the hunt. Then I step out, curbing the desire to take the coward’s route and hide ’til morning. Or better yet, to race out of the apartment screaming like a little kid.
The doll lies flat on its back, its midnight-black eyes boring through the ceiling. It isn’t moving.
I run toward it, knife raised and ready, because the rules say I have two minutes, but experience says these bastards cheat. When it comes to dealing with ghosts, the general consensus is to hit first and hit hard, because chances are you’ll be dead before you can get off a second attempt.
I strike. My knife finds its mark, plunging into the doll’s chest. I spit the salt water that’s in my mouth onto the doll, soaking its cotton dress. “I win!” I sputter and then rip the knife free so I can stab it again.
The television chooses that moment to flicker back on. Momentarily distracted, I glance at the screen. The two guys are still arguing. When I look back down, the doll is nowhere to be seen.
Crap.
Trying not to panic, I search the room as quickly and as thoroughly as I can. I check under the couch, the bed, even take another quick look inside the bathroom. Nothing.
A drop of water landing on the carpet in front of me is the only warning I get. I have just enough time to look up as the doll bears down on me from the ceiling. Its mouth is too big for its face with rows of jagged-looking teeth and its eyes a terrifying window of hate. The two thoughts that immediately come to mind are uh-oh and damn it.
Ever had a possessed doll slam itself into your face at Mach 2 speed? It’s like getting hit by a carnivorous chicken. I crash to the floor, the doll still clinging to me, jaws snapping at my cheek. I grab it by the scruff of its neck as I cry out in pain. I force it away, putting myself out of reach of those canines. What I don’t expect is for the doll’s neck to extend several inches from its body, still gunning for skin.
“SON OF A—”
I hurl the doll across the room. It hits the wall and flops onto the floor.
Something’s wrong. After that first stab, it shouldn’t be able to move, much less attack me like it’s rabid. And the last thing I want is to get bitten.
The third and final rule of the game is this: don’t lose. I’m not entirely sure what would happen if I did, but I don’t want to find out. I’ve tagged it once and been tagged once. Not good odds.
A loud, ripping sound screams through the doll, which twists and writhes on the floor.
Its dress bunches up, something shifting underneath the cloth. I can see the red threads unraveling, stitch by painstaking stitch. I leap forward, burying the knife once more into that writhing mass. The doll falls limp.
“I win!”
But when I raise my hand again to deliver the third and final blow, the doll’s body tears open. A hand bursts from the center of its chest to grab at my wrist. The hand is followed by a yellowed arm and shoulder. Another hand forces its way out, and then another, and then several more.
Finally, a head leers out of the tattered doll’s remains. A horribly disfigured face sits atop a form that isn’t so much an actual body as it is a confusing protrusion of arms.