Welcome to my first attempt at the horror genre! When Lydia is given a porcelain doll, strange things begin happening and her friends start to notice a change in Lydia's behavior. Rated Teen for later violence, horror, [major] character death, and some coarse language. Contains Stydia (because they're my OTP, #endgame). Human AU.
I hope you enjoy. Don't forget to leave a review. Constructive criticism welcome.
Play Things
Prologue
Jeff Martin was away for work. Since he and his wife had split a few years previous, he volunteered for more business trips across the US and abroad. His company was growing and expanding, and he was proud to be a front-runner for the business. He didn't have a home or a family waiting for him to return, no pets or houseplants. He was an autonomous agent in the universe, free to come and go as he pleased. As regarded the ex-Mrs. Martin, he had no regrets. He didn't mind coming home to an empty apartment, so long as he remained liberated from her – her constant nagging, her domineering presence, her insistence he never did anything right. If he wanted to hit a bar and grab a drink (or several) after a long day of work, and if he wanted to bring an attractive woman back to his hotel room for a bit of fun, he could do so. He was not required to answer to anybody.
Jeff Martin's divorce had, however, left him with one regret: he rarely saw his daughter. His beautiful, intelligent, sweet girl. Both he and Natalie had agreed it was in her best interests for her to remain with her mother, but in doing so a rift had widened between daughter and father. She resented him. He knew she did - and he didn't blame her. He should have been there for her. Now every time he saw her, she looked more like a woman – a headstrong woman who could make her own choices – and less like the little girl who used to twirl around the living room, pretending she was a fairy princess, begging "Daddy, come dance with me!"
Across the street from Martin's five-star hotel was a line of shops. Shops selling sandwiches and soups, fancy coffees and delicate pastries, books and magazines, souvenirs and hand-crafted clothing, knickknacks and curiosities. One of the shops was an old stone building. The double wooden doors were painted a bright fuchsia. The trim around the six-foot windows and the store's sign was bubblegum pink. White letters and black shading welcomed patrons to "Madame Tamarra's Treasures." Gold script on the windows advertised: "Gifts. Keepsakes. Trifles. Antiques. Rarities. Oddities." The storefront was an eye-catching spectacle that bordered on gaudy. Inside the windows, Martin could see displays of antique wooden furniture, stained bookshelves lined with aged books and vintage vinyl, classic typewriters and old-fashioned accessories. He had walked past the store everyday on his way to meetings, stood in front of it to catch a cab, but had not entered. That day, with his daughter vividly on his mind, he decided to go in.
Martin had promised to take his daughter to dinner when he returned to Beacon Hills. He knew he wasn't a good father – hadn't been a good one for nearly a decade; he knew one dinner wouldn't mend the gap between them, wouldn't erase the pain of a father who had been more absent than he was ever present, but he hoped a gift, a small token of his affection, would make an ample peace offering.
A bell tinkled overhead as Martin pushed open the front door. The air in the store was thick with the scent of dust and sweetly burning incense, musty and perfumed and overpowering. Behind the counter, a middle-aged woman wearing bi-focals, numerous clunky beads hanging around her neck, brandished a fly-swatter. Her large owl eyes blinked rapidly in surprise as she focused on the newcomer. Martin glanced around the store: he was the only customer. The woman, he assumed, was Tamarra. She smiled. "Can I help you?"
Martin inspected the assortment of items piled near the door, the hats and scarves hanging near the counter. He wasn't sure what his daughter would like. If he was honest, he didn't know her very well. He figured his best bet was to buy something pretty – and expensive. "I'm looking for a gift for my daughter."
Thwack! The fly-swatter smacked against the glass counter, shaking the display items. The cashier flicked away a dead horsefly and grinned. "Let me show you some of my wares." Martin followed the woman deeper into the store, where the shelves were closer together and more claustrophobic. "I collect unique items. You won't find anything here in bigger chain stores like Target or Walmart." She spat in disgust. "Here we are." The woman gestured at a variety of toys. The silver bangles on her wrist clinked together. There were plush dogs with red ribbons, hand-sewn rabbits with satin coats and button eyes, and teddy bears made with real animal fur; wooden cars and model trains, Jacks in their boxes decorated with splashes of color, dots, and stripes; jade cats and glass figurines, crystal ballerinas spinning perfect pirouettes; tin soldiers and dolls made of paper and yarn.
"My daughter's a teenager," Martin explained. "She's too old for toys."
The woman jabbed her index finger in his direction, and then tapped it against her temple. "Inside, every young woman is still a little girl at heart. I bet she likes pretty things. What is your daughter's name?"
"Lydia."
"A beautiful name for a beautiful girl, I bet."
"Yes."
"And beautiful girls must have beautiful things. Something unique for a one-of-a-kind girl." She started down the aisle. "A nice jewelry box, perhaps, or a lovely Victorian brooch. I have a fine selection of silver lockets."
"Yes, that might be-" Martin paused at the end of an aisle. Sitting primly in a child-sized wooden chair, with a velvet cushion, was a porcelain doll. She had lovely, delicate features: blonde ringlets curled to perfection, tiny hand-painted freckles on smooth china, and cherry lips crafted in a pretty dimpled pout. She stared from under long eyelashes with cobalt blue eyes that seemed to sparkle. She wore a magnificent blue gown, trimmed with white lace and ribbons, that perfectly matched her eyes and the bow in her hair.
Martin leaned forward and met the doll's gaze. Every detail was flawless. He hadn't realized inanimate objects could be so lovely and charming. "Pick me," her eyes whispered demurely. Lydia was a bit old for dolls, but she had possessed a wonderful collection of them when she was a child. Her grandmother, his own dear mother, had given Lydia her first doll on her fifth birthday. He had built Lydia a special shelf in her room for her dolls – a shelf he now believed held books and trophies. He remembered how fondly Lydia had loved those dolls, how gently she had treated them, how kindly she had spoken to them, as if they were real, living friends. He wondered what had happened to them.
If this doll didn't help mend the rift between them, didn't prove to Lydia that Martin still cared about and cherished his little girl, nothing would.
"Ah, I see you have met Amelie. She's a very special girl."
"She's absolutely perfect. I'll take her." The woman carefully lifted the doll from her perch and cradled her in her left arm. She traced her finger along the doll's face, mumbling under her breath. She carried the doll to the counter, laying her down gently. Martin withdrew his wallet from his back-pocket. "Shall I gift wrap her for you?"
Martin nodded. "That would be great. Thank you." He extracted an American Express card and handed it to the woman. She shook her head, and pulled a purple gift box from under the counter. "Cash only."
Martin thumbed the green bills inside his wallet, counting quietly to himself. He had more than enough. "Amelie has been searching for a good home for a very long time. She has been waiting for just the right person. Your daughter must be the one – a special girl." The woman settled Amelie into the box, tucking her in with crisp white tissue paper. She replaced the lid, and expertly tied the package with a white satin ribbon to hold it in place. Martin smiled and accepted the box and his receipt. He had found it: the perfect gift for his little girl.
Above him, the door bells chimed once again. In the air was a faint singsong whisper, like the lingering scent of perfume: "Lydia. Lydia. Lydia."