The Doll Maker’s Reckoning

At nine, I spent two weeks with Mrs. Gable in her clapboard farmhouse on the edge of the Nebraska plains, while my father drove trucks cross-country. She was a retired nurse with trembling hands and a basement I was forbidden to enter. Her son, Deputy Marshal Gable, was a hulking man with a jaw like a cinder block, and he came home only to sleep and eat, always in his tan uniform. For his birthday, Mrs. Gable had bought him a chubby baby doll, dressed it in a miniature deputy’s outfit, and placed it on his pillow like a guardian. I wasn’t allowed to touch it. But she had a collection of other dolls in the parlor, each with a porcelain face and glassy eyes, and she let me play with those, provided I was careful.

One evening, with the wind moaning through the cornfields and the smell of burnt butter wafting from the kitchen, I sat on the hooked rug in the parlor. The TV flickered with a sitcom, but I was absorbed in the dolls. There were four of them, sisters in matching floral dresses, with satin bows in their hair. I had them lined up in a row, reenacting a tea party, when one of them—the one with the auburn curls—slipped from my grip and hit the floor. Her porcelain leg snapped clean off at the hip. I froze, the broken limb in my hand, and stared at the three remaining dolls. Their eyes seemed to bore into me, accusatory. I knew Mrs. Gable would notice. I knew she would be furious. In a panic, I shoved the broken doll behind the television stand, and lined up the other three on the couch, as if nothing had happened.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The wind rattled the window panes, and the house creaked like a ship. I kept thinking about the broken doll, and about Mrs. Gable’s son’s doll on his bed, with its stitched smile and shiny badge. I crept down the hall to the bathroom, and on my way back, I passed the parlor. The television was off, but the moonlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting pale patterns on the floor. And there, on the couch, the three dolls were sitting upright, but now they were facing the door, not the TV. I had left them facing the TV. I told myself I was mistaken, that I’d turned them around when I placed them. I hurried back to my room, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching me.

For the next two days, I avoided the parlor, but Mrs. Gable insisted I play with the dolls. ‘They get lonely,’ she said, her lips thin. I played with them, but I kept them far from the edge, and I never mentioned the missing one. On the third day, I found the broken leg under my pillow. It was clean, unbroken, as if it had been placed there. I hid it in my suitcase. That night, I had a dream. I was in the parlor, and the dolls were standing in a circle around me, their porcelain hands reaching out. The one with auburn curls was there, whole, but her leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. She spoke in a voice like grinding china: ‘You broke me.’ I woke up screaming, and Mrs. Gable came in with a glass of water. She asked what was wrong. I couldn’t tell her. She stroked my hair, and her hand was cold as a cadaver.

On the fifth day, I noticed the deputy’s baby doll was no longer on his bed. I asked Mrs. Gable where it was. She smiled and said, ‘He’s on patrol.’ I didn’t understand. That evening, Deputy Marshal Gable came home early. He looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. He walked past me without a word, went to his room, and slammed the door. I heard him moving furniture, muttering. Then silence. At dinner, he ate mechanically, staring at his plate. Mrs. Gable chattered about the weather, but he didn’t respond. He kept looking at the parlor door.

That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I got up to get a drink of water, and I saw Deputy Gable standing in the hallway, staring at the parlor door. He was holding the baby doll, but its uniform was soiled with dark stains, and its plastic head was cracked. He turned to me, and his eyes were hollow. ‘They’re not right,’ he said. ‘They’re not right at all.’ He walked back to his room, clutching the doll.

The next day, I rummaged in my suitcase for the broken leg. It was still there. But when I went to the parlor, I found the four dolls arranged on the couch, all of them intact, including the one I’d broken. Their dresses were clean, their hair perfect. Mrs. Gable was in the kitchen, humming. I ran to her, told her I must have been mistaken about the leg. She looked at me with her nurse’s smile, and said, ‘I fixed it. I’m good at fixing things.’ But I had hidden the leg in my suitcase—she couldn’t have fixed it. Unless she’d gotten a new leg. But the doll was identical, even down to the small chip on her ear.

That night, I heard scraping sounds from the parlor. I snuck out of bed and peered through the crack in the door. The four dolls were on the floor, crawling toward the hallway where I stood. Their porcelain legs dragged, and their heads swiveled to face me, their glass eyes glinting in the dark. I stumbled back to bed, buried my head under the pillow. The scraping stopped. When morning came, I told Mrs. Gable I wanted to go home. She said, ‘Your father will be here tomorrow.’ But I knew he was still two days away. I had no phone, no way to reach him. I spent the day in my room, refusing to come out. Mrs. Gable brought me a tray, and on it, a glass of milk. I didn’t drink it.

That evening, Deputy Gable came home. He didn’t say a word. He walked to the parlor, where the dolls were arranged on the couch as usual. He picked up the baby doll, which was now pristine, and hugged it. Then he turned to me, and I saw that his face was covered in fine porcelain cracks, like a broken vase. He smiled, and his smile was too wide. ‘They just want to play,’ he said. ‘They just want to be whole.’ He walked to the basement door, opened it, and descended into the dark. I heard him muttering, and then a sound like grinding china. I ran to my room, locked the door, and didn’t sleep.

My father arrived the next morning, a day early. He looked surprised to see me so pale. Mrs. Gable saw us off at the door, waving with a porcelain hand. I didn’t look back. On the drive, I told my father everything. He listened, his knuckles white on the wheel. When I finished, he said, ‘I used to know a woman like that. In Nebraska. Don’t worry, we’re leaving her behind.’ But that night, in a motel, I found a porcelain leg in my suitcase. It was clean, unbroken, and it had a satin bow tied around it. I threw it in the trash. But when I went to sleep, I dreamed of the dolls crawling out of the dumpster, their mouths open in silent screams. And I woke up to find my father missing. The motel room was cold, and on the pillow next to mine lay the baby doll, its painted smile glistening. I heard scratching at the door, and a voice like grinding china said, ‘We just want to play.’ I’ve been running ever since.