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Origins: Little Demon Dolly

  Trolls? They were gone, long gone. No trolls, no giants. Only that which remains constant. Love, hate, life and death.

  Oh, and magic. Magic remains constant.

  It was the winter season, and the land was heavy with snow. Thick mists filled the night air. No moon in the heavens. I was traveling with several other Rangers into the land of the Druids. We were all battle weary, fighting the barbarians. Like goblins of myth the barbarians would fight fiercely unto death, and then fight beyond death. Many with me believed black magic was involved. More than one Ranger could say they had killed the same combatant twice, if not thrice.

  I was the first to smell smoke on the night air. Ahead was a fire and a chance to warm our bones. When the mists gave way to a clear sky full of stars, a small cottage presented itself. The man who answered our hail was fat, but gracious enough to invite our small band in. Next to his fire was a large pot of stew. His wife served us each a generous portion, and a tankard of stout.

  “I should thank you for the food,” Gaston said to the fat man, “the beer and the fire.”

  “More stew, wench,” Bleakson belched, banging his bowl onto the table.

  Pindercount pulled his sword, laid it across his lap and said, “You heard the man. More stew and more beer.”

  “Please, good sir,” the fat man pleaded, “put the sword away. I’ll see you properly served and warmed.”

  Yet Pindercount would not be placated. His demands had to be instantly satiated, and the volume of his voice grew with each command. Gaston held charge, yet only found humor in Pindercount’s posturing. Bleakson could only laugh like a king’s fool, followed by the most annoying nasal snuffling. I was simply too tired to care. We made merry at their courteous expense.

  I first heard the muffled patter of feet. Feet that could possibly herald our deaths. War had taught us to trust our instincts. To act, not think. Muffled feet could mean a throat cut. I reached for my sword, yet the muted thunk of Gaston’s ax stilled my hand. I heard a satisfying thud to my left.

  On Gaston’s features was a look I was not accustomed to seeing. A constipated gaze, denoting confusion.

  I stood and turned, ready for everything but my death. Behind me on the floor was a cherub of a girl child with long blond hair, blood streaming from the blade that protruded betwixt meadow-green orbs. Our host, the fat man, he never moved, yet did whisper but one word.

  “Gabrielle.”

  The woman’s screams broke whatever spell held us. Pindercount’s sword stilled her heart and tongue. She slid off the blade and into a heap on the floor.

  The fat man mumbled what I can only surmise was an incantation. I turned to gaze at him, but he was not paying his attention to any of us. His view was focused on a little rag dolly he now held in his hands.

  It was an unrighteous examination into the painted center of the doll’s eyes. It seemed as if he was pouring his soul into that doll. His face purpled, expanded, and I swore I saw a burst of light flit from the fat man’s eyes into the doll’s eyes. Then our host fell.

  Bleakson examined him and pronounced him dead. I went over to see for myself, and indeed he was dead, yet the little rag doll he had held was gone. Pindercount busied himself with searching the rest of the cottage, finding no one. We were now alone.

  “Throw them outdoors,” Gaston softly said. “And be sure to wipe my blade clean before you return it.”

  The fire was stoked for the night, the door soundly bolted. We ate our fill in silence, and drank all we could find quietly discussing the next day. When we retired, it was knowing we were safe.

  All through the night my dreams were of soft puppyish footfalls on the floor. Battle, blood and gore filled my nightmares. Again and again I awoke to find all was quiet, the room warm, the occasional grunt behind the snores, or flatulence resembling last night’s stew.

  The morning came, and I quickly realized we were indeed fighting a magic of the most malevolent sort.

  Gaston’s head, his ax now buried betwixt his own, staring, horror-filled eyes, rested on the table.

  I found Pindercount, or pieces of him, everywhere. I didn’t find his sword.

  Bleakson was gone. Not a trace of him remained in the cottage.

  The fat man’s body was gone, his wife and child’s bodies were gone, yet three fresh mounds of dirt resided in the side yard. I ran, screaming into the morning mists.

  War held nothing for me after that night. The Barbarians could all reside in Hell. I returned home heralded the hero, yet only felt the fool.

  Each night thereafter, in my dreams, the soft feet of the rag dolly pursued my every step. I tried to put such thoughts out of my mind, and filled my days with the pleasurable experiences of my own family. Each season that passed found me able to smile a little more, laugh a bit louder, sleep a touch deeper.

  “My sweet Lida, what is it you have in your hands this very fine morning?”

  “I found her by the door this morning, Poppa. A little rag dolly. Isn’t she pretty?”