The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

100
“I liked Pretty Pretty Princess!” Abbie retorted through a mouthful of popcorn. “And
I liked Heather too!” Her bow-shaped mouth, shiny with butter, turned down in an
exaggerated pout.
“Here,” Belinda said, unearthing one black-and-crimson fabric bag from each pocket
and holding them out to the girls. “Open them and see for yourself.” She held Annie’s
eye until Annie looked away. On her left, Abigail had pulled the bag open and was
peering inside.
Curious despite herself, Annie forced her bag open as well. When the light from her
mother’s reading lamp proved too dim to penetrate its depths, Annie tipped the bag and
watched as its contents spilled into her lap. Abigail did the same, both sisters marveling
at the tiny treasures before them.
Though almost ten, and mature for her age, Annie’s proclivity for dolls persisted. Her
assortment of Barbies had grown to such epic proportions, their mother had installed
a series of shelves in the bedroom closet as high as Annie was tall to hold all the dolls
and their myriad accessories.
Abigail had dolls she enjoyed playing with too, but Abigail’s dolls were baby dolls.
Annie’s dolls were gymnasts practicing for the Olympics, Disney princesses of the more
rugged variety, like Pocahontas, and working women with professions like computer
engineer and Arctic explorer.
Still, for all her love of tomboys and tough-guys, for the dolls whose clothes
could withstand dirt and sand and mud and tears, she harbored an inherent, little-girl
appreciation for feminine beauty and intricacy of design. For one-of-a-kind features
and delicate craftsmanship. And so when the four small dolls fell out of the drawstring
bag and into her lap, she was rendered mute by their exquisiteness.
The dolls were made entirely of fabric, thus the basis for their uniqueness, for that
level of detail should have been impossible to achieve with fabric alone. The Motherdoll,
for that was how Annie had come to think of her in her head, was dressed in black
taffeta, Victorian in style, with lace detail at the wrists and neck like scalloped shells
tossed too long at sea.
The cameo around her neck set off expressive emerald eyes.
The male doll was more muted in dress, his dark suit simple but handsome. The two
Girl-dolls were done up in deep crimson with ivory accents; one had light brown hair
and amber eyes. The other, strawberry blonde hair and green eyes.
The green-eyed girl had a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose.
Annie forced her head up, the effort as laborious as if she’d been submerged in a vat
of molasses. “Where did you get these?” she asked.
“I have always had them,” Belinda said.
Abigail, still fingering the dolls lovingly, said without looking up, “They look like us.
Like me, and Annie, and Mommy, and Daddy.”
Belinda smiled.
Annie felt the room grow colder.