"The doll is in your house and in your room and in your bed,
The doll is in your eyes and in your arms and in your head,
And you are crazy…"
-Jonathan Coulton, "Creepy Doll"
Chapter 11: The Doll
"Eileen!" I gasped. I blinked at the door in the confusion and then looked back at her again. How had she walked past me without me noticing? For that matter, where had Cynthia gone? I pushed those questions to the side; what mattered now was that Eileen was here, and she was safe.
Her eyes were huge. She was wearing a dark purple dress with a silver chain belt, and matching high heels, as if she were on her way to a party. I noticed that she wore bracelets on both wrists. However, her handbag was clutched in her hands as if she were going to use it as a weapon. Her hair was falling into her face slightly, and she seemed to shrink back against the wall.
"Eileen," I repeated, worried that something had already happened to her. "Eileen, it's me, Henry Townshend. I'm your neighbor, from Room 302. Eileen, are you all right?"
She focused on me and slowly straightened, lowering her hands to her sides. "You're here... I… I was on my way to a party…" She looked around, cringing at whatever it was she saw. "What…what is this place?"
For a moment I was stunned into silence, and then I let out a long sigh and smiled helplessly. "You see it too!" A hysterical laugh escaped me. "You see it too!"
She edged away from me, not looking comforted. "What are you talking about?"
I took a moment to compose myself, not wanting to appear like a lunatic now. Still, though I tried not to babble, the words escaped me in a rush. "I've been here for days now. Well, not here exactly, but in places like this. I can't get out of my room, but I've found my way to these strange Otherworlds. There have been other people here, but they haven't seen it at all. They've tried to convince me that this is the real world. But if you see it too, then I'm not crazy after all!"
She had been studying our gruesome surroundings as I spoke, and when I finished, she looked at me and cried, "You've been here, all this time? Is that what happened to Joseph? Is he here, too?"
"He was at one time, at least," I sighed. "I've tried to track him down, but he's been so elusive that I'm starting to think he's dead…"
Except George saw him at the trial…
"And me?" she asked, an edge of panic entering her voice. "How did I get here?"
I took a deep breath, not sure what I should tell her. Finally, I decided that the truth was best. She would be safest if she knew what was going on here. "I don't entirely know, but I have suspicions—some drawn from Joseph's notes, and some from the things I've seen here. Do you know anything about the Silent Hill cult?"
Eileen bit her lip. "The cult? I've heard rumors…well, I guess everyone has heard rumors about them…"
"They're responsible for this. Ten years ago, there was a murder case in this area. The murderer was a member of the cult. He was executed, but somehow…he didn't really die. I don't know if he's a ghost now, or what." I thought back to the ghosts that had chased me through the Otherworlds and couldn't repress a shudder. Could the murderer have been among them? The thought hadn't crossed my mind before. "All I know is that he's been killing people again, here. People are pulled into these worlds, and he kills them, and then their bodies are found in the real world."
"Richard!" she gasped, putting a hand over her mouth.
I smiled in triumph, but then quickly steadied my features. I didn't want her to think I was happy about these tragedies. She knew that Braintree had been murdered. That meant I wasn't crazy after all; it really had happened like I thought. George and Cynthia were wrong about him.
What about Mike? a small voice in the back of my mind wondered, but I dismissed it. It had occurred to me that there was a new explanation for my hallucinations. They were a part of this world, the murderer's world, and why would a part of his world try to give me a clue or put me on the right path? It was much more likely that they were trying to confuse me, or even change my outlook entirely. Perhaps they were meant to make me view this place the way George and Cynthia did, so that I would lose my desire to escape until it was too late.
"I'm not entirely sure," I concluded, "but I think he intends you to be his next victim."
Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. "Me? No!"
"I'm sorry," I said, looking at the ground. Forcing as much confidence into my voice as I could, I declared, "I'll protect you."
She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. "How?"
I blinked, feeling a bit insulted by her reaction.
"If these are his worlds, than he has the upper hand here. Have you been able to save any of his other victims? Has Joseph? Do you even know if it's possible?" She shook her head and covered her face, her voice breaking. "You've been trapped here for how long now? If you can't get out, then you're just as much a prisoner here as I am!"
"There's a way out now," I said. "The main doors downstairs…they open to the outside, the real outside! We can get out of here!"
"What? Then why didn't you escape?"
"I knew it was going to be you this time. I couldn't leave without you."
She stared at me for a moment, and then she smiled. "Thank you… I-I'm sorry I didn't believe you could save me."
I smiled and gestured down the hallway. "Don't thank me just yet. We still have to make it down the stairs."
She laughed and followed me as I started walking.
There was a spring in my step, brought on by the impossible realization that I might actually be able to do this. I had seen the way out, and now I had found Eileen. She knew to be on her guard against the murderer, and she knew that this wasn't the real world. If I was right about what I had seen through those doors, then the nightmare was almost over.
For us, at least. Joseph might still be here somewhere. And…
"Where did Cynthia go?" I asked, as we reached the end of the hall and I thought about my previous journey this way.
"Who?"
"Cynthia Velasquez. She's…" I trailed off, feeling oddly reluctant to try to explain whatever my relationship with Cynthia was. "She's a woman I met here, and she was helping me try to find you."
When I looked over, Eileen was frowning. "When I saw you by my door, you were alone. I haven't seen anyone else here."
"That's strange," I said, a sense of unease creeping through me. How could Cynthia have just vanished like that? Had she woken up in the real world? Were people like she and George in the real world all the time, just momentarily connected to mine? I shook my head as we reached the stairs. I couldn't worry about it. I couldn't save everyone. It was enough that I could help Eileen to escape.
What if it's not the real world out there? a treacherous voice suggested in my head. What if you'll get pulled back here again and again? What if the nightmare never ends?
"Stop it," I muttered under my breath. That was impossible. This would work. I thought back to the moment when Cynthia had opened the doors. The cool breeze, the clean streets, and the buildings rising up as straight, separate structures—these were all things I had seen, and all things that belonged to the real world. This really was going to work.
I was halfway down the stairs when I realized I was alone. My stomach dropped, and I whirled around. To my relief, there was no ice in sight. Eileen had simply stopped a few steps from the top. She was crouched, frowning at something on the ground.
"What is it?" I asked, walking back to her.
She looked up at me. "Henry?" she asked, sounding perplexed.
"Yes?"
"I…" She frowned and looked down again. Now that I was close enough, I could see that the object that had caught her attention was a small doll. It was made of cloth, and although it was quite worn, it was clearly in the shape of a little girl. Despite its obvious age, it was in quite good condition. Its owner must have loved it very much, and I imagined that it was once the treasured possession of a child. It seemed strange that such a thing would have ended up here.
The back of my neck prickled. "We have to get going," I said, feeling uncomfortable about lingering near the strange doll.
Eileen picked up the doll and stood, still looking at it.
I started to walk again, anxious to get moving. "Eileen, we've got to get out of here!"
To my relief, she followed, but she seemed transfixed by the doll in her hands. "Why would this be here?" she whispered.
"I don't know," I snapped, feeling fear that I couldn't place. I wanted nothing more than for her to drop the doll and forget it forever. "Why? Does it mean something to you?"
She lifted her head, a distant, lost look on her face. "This was my doll…a long, long time ago…"
A chill ran through me at her words, and I cried, "Eileen, it doesn't matter! Come on!"
She lifted her hand to her mouth with a gasp of horror, looking stricken. "Except I gave it away! I—"
Ice choked off her words, spreading throughout her body and freezing her in place. From her feet, it ran outwards across the stairs to touch the walls. Bloody red was replaced by cold blue; organic matter vanished as everything around us crystallized and transformed. The walls buckled, crumbling in parts and being bolstered by jagged pillars in others. Hysterical laughter rang out from somewhere, growing more distorted and shrill until it was impossible to discern from sobbing. The ice claimed everything except for the doll, and within seconds, the transformation was complete.
I fell to my knees in front of the frozen sculpture that had been Eileen. "No!" I screamed, pounding my fists on the ground. We had been so close. "No!"
A shriek answered me, and my head snapped up even as pain afflicted me. A pale hand was pushing its way through the ice of the wall. The ghosts were coming.
I turned to run, but I hesitated, looking at the doll. The ice hadn't touched it. The ice always covered everything—except, it seemed, the things that I would need. With a grimace, I picked up the toy and shoved it into my pocket. It bent, but I didn't care. That thing was somehow responsible for what had happened to Eileen.
Then I ran, going up the stairs after only a moment of hesitation. I couldn't escape now. If the murderer followed the same pattern he had used with all of the other victims, Eileen was in danger again. I had no idea if I could save her while the ice world had me in its grip, but I could at least inspect the area around her apartment again.
Why is he playing games with me? I wondered, as I raced down the hallway. Why force me through all of this? Why taunt me with the prospect that I can save victims whose fates are out of my hands?
With no answers to be found, there was nothing I could do but continue along and hope I could find a way to break his rules this time. As I had expected, Eileen's door was free of the ice, although when I tried to get in, it was still locked. I looked through the keys once again, hoping the one labeled 303 was among them after all. It wasn't. I groaned, feeling something close to despair.
"But how could Eileen be in there?" I asked myself, trying to think it through logically. I stepped back and saw that all of the doors were free of the ice, and the area outside of Room 302 still looked like a piece of the real world.
That is the real world's Room 302, I realized. The Otherworld's Room 302 is back in the real world.
With that in mind, I approached the door. The image of the little boy faded before I could get close enough to take a good look at him. With trembling fingers, I found the key for Room 302 and tried it.
Though the key worked, the door refused to budge. I slammed against it several times, trying to force it, but it was futile. In my mind's eye, I could picture the chains holding it fast. Perhaps the connection between the real world and this one was not quite as clear-cut as a simple swap.
"But still, Eileen can't be in Room 303," I said, turning back towards her door. "She's frozen back there, where we were standing. She can't be in two places at once." I frowned, remembering that Cynthia had also frozen, but had somehow unfrozen and made it to a completely different place to be murdered. "Could Eileen be awake now, in the real world, and soon she'll be sent back?"
My head was starting to hurt, and my conversation with myself wasn't really giving me any answers. Part of me wanted to run and try to escape, if such a thing was even still possible, but I had promised to protect Eileen. I had to find a way into that room…unless she wasn't in there at all, and I would only be wasting time.
A woman's scream rang out from inside Room 303, and I threw myself at the door. "Eileen!" There was no response, and no further sounds, but I couldn't believe that I had imagined it. She had screamed. That meant…he was already there.
I shuddered and stumbled backwards, trying to think of something I could do. As if in response to my thoughts, the ice on the wall between Rooms 303 and 302 cracked, and dark letters drifted up to the surface.
Truth
Each page is a piece of the whole
Truth lies scattered in five pieces
I read it over twice and took a deep breath. I forced away all thoughts that this would get me nowhere, that it was just the cult messing with my mind and playing games with me. This had to be a clue. It was telling me that there were five scattered pages, and I needed to gather them together. I hoped it meant that would help me get into Eileen's room, but the wording made me wonder if the only result would be that I would understand more about what was going on.
But the more I understand, the better off I'll be.
Nodding to myself, I began my search of the apartments. I started with Room 301. It was already unlocked, and I remembered that Cynthia had gone there to find the key to the superintendent's room. I wondered where she had gone. She hadn't given me the impression that the man who lived here was a very nice person, so I braced myself for what I might find.
"Murder victim," I reminded myself, stepping into the apartment. However, there was nothing in the room to suggest that there had been any sort of ongoing police investigation. It was untidy, but not as if it had been searched. The glossy sheen of ice gave everything an unearthly quality. Beer cans and pornographic magazines littered the floor, all crystalized in blue, and I stepped through the mess carefully, looking around.
I doubted very much that I needed a page from the magazines to solve the riddles. I wouldn't even know which one to take, unless there was a clue, like one of them containing a picture of Eileen. For a moment I stood there, considering the idea, and then I shook my head. That would be too strange. I would search the magazines as a last resort, if I found nothing else.
There was a diary lying on the table, and I picked it up. It was open to two pages, each with an entry, but the rest of the book was blank. I frowned and read it over, wondering if these were two of the pages I needed.
The last few months, Joseph, the guy next door to me
who gave me that rare porn magazine, looks like
he's been working super hard. He said if he found
another rare one, he'd give it to me, but he hasn't shown
his face around much lately. He said he was a journalist,
and he is always investigating stuff.
But I think something strange is going on with him.
He's been shut in his apartment, and I can hear all these weird
noises coming from there.
July 1 –Mike
Oh, my beautiful Rachael,
What's with the note on the red paper?
I thought you'd written a note back to me…
but I guess maybe it was someone else.
He took it along with my clothes.
Those were my best clothes.
July 2 –Mike
The first entry caught my attention, because it confirmed that Mike had been living here when Joseph vanished. The second entry, however, made me catch my breath. The details of his life meant little to me, but he mentioned the red paper…and it seemed that only Joseph used that red paper. That meant I wasn't the only person Joseph had tried to contact.
A piece of blank red paper had been lying next to the diary, and I picked it up. It also meant that there were specific pages that easily stood out from the rest—and definitely had a connection to this world. Joseph had helped me so much. What better to use as pieces of Truth than his scattered journals? I put the page in my pocket. As I did so, my hand brushed the doll, and I shuddered. I was still convinced that the thing was somehow responsible for what had happened.
My search of the apartment revealed no more red papers, but a newspaper article lying on the table did catch my eye. Joseph Schreiber had written it, and it was about the Wish House. With a grimace, I turned away from it. I already knew too much about the orphanage that had been run by the cult. I didn't need to know the details of his investigation. I only hoped he had been able to save some of the children.
I knew I had seen two red pages in Sunderland's room, so I headed there next. Leaving the first floor behind, I hurried down the stairs, noticing how the building's transformation had made it almost beautiful, but frightening at the same time. In a way, I thought it was more frightening than the bloody décor had been.
No ghosts, I pleaded silently, as if I could force them away through my will alone. The ghosts can't get me here. Not this time. Not when I need to save Eileen.
A dull headache had taken up permanent residence in my head, but I felt no sign of the pains that accompanied the ghosts' arrival. When I reached the second floor and continued on down the stairs, voices—voices from the past, I believed—began to whisper and echo all around me, the last remains, I supposed, of whatever tragedies had occurred in South Ashfield Heights to make this Otherworld rendered in such detail.
"Who are you?"
"Who are you looking for?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Go away."
"You don't belong here."
"Go away."
"This is not your home."
"Go away."
I shivered, breaking into a run at the bottom of the stairs. This was unsettling. Part of me felt sure that I was hearing these voices because they were speaking to me—warning me away, telling me to escape while I still could. The doors to the outside were free of the ice. I forced myself not to even approach them. If I saw those streets again, I feared I might never bring myself to continue this search.
When I entered the superintendent's room, I didn't allow myself to be distracted by anything. I headed straight to where I had found the red papers before and picked them up. I paused, looking at the torn piece. I wondered if that counted as one, or if it was only a half of one. It wasn't a full page, but the message had said that I would find five pieces, not pages. I pocketed them and decided I would worry about that later.
Leaving that room, I took a deep breath, got out the keys, and began my search of the apartments. It was quite disconcerting. Every room had the strange layout, with cages and bars blocking off certain rooms. Ice covered nearly everything, freezing a snapshot of the tenants' lives—except that Sunderland's room was the only one that looked like a normal apartment. Some rooms were like Mike's had been, crammed with whatever the tenant's interest had been, as if a hobby or career was the only thing that defined the person's existence. The rest of the rooms were bare and empty, with no sign that they had ever been inhabited at all. The worst part was having to search the rooms, just in case the pages I needed could be found there. I searched everywhere, not willing to risk missing one.
One room was filled with cats. I froze in the doorway, disconcerted by all of the frozen faces staring at me. A few looked like they had been alive when the ice came, but the majority of them were visibly dead, with blood staining the ice that encased them or their bodies twisted into impossible positions. Yet all of them were facing the door, so that as I edged into the room, I had the impression of being stared down by a legion of corpses.
I searched the room as quickly as I could, walking around the glaring statues and not daring to look over my shoulder, in case their dead eyes had followed my movement. Only one area was free of ice, although I almost missed it due to the amount of blood. Fresh and still wet, blood had soaked into a pair of jeans so quickly that they were unrecognizable. When I tentatively disturbed the pile, I discovered that they had been wrapped around yet another dead cat.
"I really don't want to do this," I muttered, holding the horrifying pants with one hand and searching the pockets with the other.
I came away with another red page, which was mysteriously free of blood. After looking it over, I put it in my pocket with the other blank pages. Then I fled the room, trying not to look at the frozen animals, and wiping my hands on my pants until I was well down the hallway.
I had finally calmed down from the experience when I stumbled into a scene from the past. Richard Braintree's room was exactly as I had seen it in the building world, except that ice covered everything and the chair in the center was mercifully empty—save for a revolver. I walked towards it, wondering what this room looked like in the real world, and which story reality followed. That tea set on the shelf, frosted over and glistening…was it long gone from the real South Ashfield Heights, having been discarded when its owner was executed for murder? Or was it still there, gathering dust in the days following his murder at the hands of a cultist?
Whatever was really going on, I knew I was no longer safe. Soon, the murderer would surely come after me, if the ghosts didn't get me first. I took the revolver and slipped it into my pocket. I wasn't confident in my ability to use it, as I had never fired a gun before, but I felt I needed to at least have the means to attempt self-defense.
I felt uneasy taking the weapon of a dead man, so I quickly left the room behind.
After a few more empty rooms, I found myself in a room covered in beer cans and bottles of alcohol. They put Mike's collection to shame; he had needed room for his magazines. Every inch of the floor was covered in cans and bottles, but they also littered the walls and ceiling. Some were in the process of pouring, and frozen waterfalls of alcohol decorated the room.
A bloody pool in one of the corners caught my eye, standing out from the rest, and I hurried over to it. There was a shirt lying there, just as soaked as the pants had been. I wondered if they were from the same person or incident. Turning it over cautiously, I located a breast pocket on the front and reached in. A scrap of torn paper was inside. If the scraps counted as separate pieces, I had found all five.
I searched the rest of the rooms, just in case, but eventually I found myself back up in front of the writing on the wall, holding my five papers in a stack in my hand. They had to be the right ones. I scanned the words again, but found that I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. Walking over to Room 303, I tried the door. It was still locked. I checked the keys. The key to her room was still missing.
I paced back and forth for several minutes, looking over the pages for any clue I might have missed. As I was going through the blank pages for the fourth time, an idle thought about the lack of blood on them made me freeze in place. I remembered the note that Sunderland had tried to send me, and how it had turned up illegible. Joseph could send me notes because we were both in the Otherworld. He sent notes on red pages just like this one. There was nothing on them now, but maybe…
"If this is a mistake, I'm in big trouble," I muttered, hurrying over to Room 302. The boy phantom faded as I arrived. I crouched down and shoved the five pages under the door. Then I stepped back, feeling unsure.
My wait was a quick one. Not even a minute had passed before a white page shot out from underneath my door. I cautiously picked it up.
Unlocked.
"That's it?" I asked, frowning at it. There was nothing else I had to do? Then what was the doll for?
With a shrug, I put the note in my pocket and walked over to Room 303. It seemed impossible… I had done nothing that should logically open the door. I was sure that when I tried to get in, I would find that it was locked again, and I would have to start all over. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath and tried the doorknob.
The door opened.
I ran inside, and a terrible sight met my eyes. Eileen was lying on the floor, still in her purple dress. The carpet was stained with blood, mostly running from the numbers 20/21 carved viciously into her back. Her arm was limp and clearly broken, and I could already see bruises forming on her skin.
"Eileen!" I screamed. Her head lifted, so I ran around to look into her face. "Eileen, don't worry! I'll call an ambulance! I'll get you out of here! I'll—"
Her mouth opened as if she was going to say something, but nothing came out. Tears were streaming from her wide eyes, along with the blood running down her face. Her eyes fluttered closed. Someone had beaten her to the brink of death. I felt sick and horrified, and my head was pounding.
"Did you…find your…mommy…?" her voice echoed.
I fell to my knees, feeling dazed. My thoughts were jumbled and confused. The ice had vanished, and I hadn't even noticed. Eileen's head was down, like she was unconscious. Had to be unconscious. She couldn't be dead. I had to help her. Moving her might hurt her even worse. But how could I get an ambulance to come here? If she was unconscious, maybe she was back in the real world. I couldn't call from the real world for help, though; my phone didn't work—and I was still here!
I got to my feet slowly, looking down at Eileen. There had to be something I could do.
A quiet snick caught my attention as the doorknob turned. My head snapped up, and my breath caught. Who could be coming here now? If it was George or Cynthia, I could now force them to see the truth. But if it wasn't…
What if he knows she's alive, and now he's coming to finish the job? My hand crept towards the pocket where I had stashed the revolver.
The door opened, and a man stepped inside. He was dressed in a crisp black suit and had a gun in his hand. My other hand jerked reflexively towards the sword I still had belted around my waist, because for a moment I thought it was Jimmy Stone's ghost, coming to attack me. However, although this man was bald, his skin was simply light, not like the deathly pallor of Stone's, and he looked very much alive. His face was set in a hard expression as he regarded the room.
From somewhere in the depths of my memory, a name surfaced. Joseph Schreiber… I had found him at last. I stared at him, unable to believe it.
Joseph Schreiber looked at me. For a moment, he just stood there. Then he lifted the gun and aimed it at my head.
