Strings Attached

CW: Body horror, gore, physical violence

THUD.

A single book on a small shelf plops over onto its side. A moment passes, the book lays there, waiting.

Slumped over her desk, deep in sleep, Elsie jerks awake. Wiping drool from the crook of her elbow, she glances around her quiet shop. Moonlight trickles through the singular window before her. Outside the world is dark and silent. Elsie reaches to draw the overhead linen curtains closed.

Her hands come to rest on the desktop that is littered with various scraps of fabrics and wooden bits of all shapes and sizes. A single unfinished wooden doll lays among the mess. Dozens of marionette dolls hang from the ceiling all around the workshop, illuminated by the night’s glow.

Elsie yawns and stretches out her tense limbs that have been trapped under that workbench for hours, days, too long to recall. Gently tucking in her chair, she shuffles through the sea of marionettes, their little wooden feet clink as they swing around her head. Just before reaching the doorway, she freezes and spins on her heels to observe the room.

That doll is new.

A marionette of a girl, much resembling Elsie herself, hangs amongst the other dolls, as if trying to blend in with the others. With each step closer, she can feel the dolls’ eyes watching, acknowledging her presence. She notices the wood first. She feels the leg, it is rough, splintery. Each of Elsie’s dolls are carefully carved by hand from the oak trees lining her quiet Italian town. Her unique carving style, taught by her late father, who passed down his doll workshop to Elsie before heart failure took him several years ago. She hadn’t thought about her father in a while, but this doll reminded her of what he taught her. Smooth strokes.

She did not make this one.

The strokes of this dolls’ carving are all wrong, made by an amateur. The clothes matched Elsies clothes almost perfectly, her beige cargo pants and cream cotton shirt with the curled hair that looked too real. At a closer glance, the doll’s hair looked so smilier to her own, she might’ve believed it was plucked right from her scalp.

Staring it down, she tries to find any familiar element that might spark a memory of its existence. The doll stares back, waiting patiently. Then the light shifted, or maybe it didn’t, but for a heartbeat, Elsie could have sworn the doll winked at her. The painted eye, glossy and still, made no suggestion of movement as Elsie rubbed her eyes. A prickle ran down her neck as she took a step back. Staring at the doll until her vision blurred, the doll didn’t move again. Of course it didn’t.

Brushing her hands on her apron, she turned away to shake off the thought.

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Elsie tidied her scattered desktop, blew out the candle, and hung her apron on the hook. Pausing in the doorway, she glanced back one last time. The dolls hung perfectly still; silent. The new one among them. She began to climb the creaky staircase, the sound of each footstep fading as she ascended. Until the hollow stillness of night fell over the shop below.

When the fresh, crisp sunlight of dawn bleeds through the bedroom curtains, Elsie’s heavy eyes flutter open. She awakens from her restless slumber with the image of the mysterious doll burned into her mind. She rolls over on her side and-

There is the doll.

It is propped on its side, staring back at her. Elsie flinches, stumbling out of bed until her back slams against the wall; eyes locked on the doll. Breath ragged, she is frozen in place, the doll doesn’t move. It only watches her, head tilted like a hungry mutt.

She snatches up her blanket, flings it over the figure, and bolts down the stairs to the safety of her workshop. Her heart hammers her chest as she explodes into her workshop. The marionettes swing and clap against each other as Elsie plows through them. She examines their faces, and for the first time, they don’t really feel like her creations, but her audience. Their painted eyes follow her as she paces around the room.

She runs her fingers through her hair, forcing a brittle laugh. I’m losing it. Lack of sleep, that’s all. As the marionettes’ swinging slows, Elsie pauses. All but one, way in the back hidden by the other dolls, one marionette continues to swing intensely, as if she had just ran through it again.

Please, god. Elsie looks up, pleading, before she reluctantly steps through the tangled marionette strings. There is the doll waiting and grinning.

With a very deep breath, Elsie sets her jaw and searches her workshop, finding a trunk tucked under her desk that will work for a temporary marionette jail. She plucks the doll from the ceiling and throws it in the trunk, barely catching one last glimpse of its eerie smile before slamming the lid shut. She drops the iron latch with trembling hands.

Out of sight, out of mind. Just exhaustion- That’s all this is.

Elsie returns to her bench, where the half-finished puppet she abandoned still lays. Needle in hand, she continues stitching the hem of the little jacket, but her fingers refuse to steady. She squints, trying her hardest to focus. The needle catches, tangling the thread. Elsie drops the doll and needle, slumping back in her seat.

She takes a deeper breath, and shakes her hands to reset, determined to finish. With more force than she intended, the needle plunges too deep and straight through the fabric. Elsie throws down the doll and grabs at her stinging finger. A thump comes from within the trunk, her head whips around.

The latch rattles.

Chills ripple down her spine to her bloody fingertip. Elsie searches the various cloths scattered across her desk and wraps one around, securing it with some loose thread.

Okay, focus Elsie. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment to gather herself. Stepping towards the fireplace, she strikes a match. The flames catch quickly, chasing the night chill away.

Better.

She returns to her seat where the half sewn doll is surrounded by drops of her blood. Elsie reaches for a fresh reel of thread and starts again. She closely observes as she re-threads the needle. Again, her finger slips, as if by a force not of her own. The needle ticks her cheek, a small stream of blood trickles down. Her bandaged hand flies to her cheek, soaking the cloth.

Her hands started to jerk, stabbing into the doll again and again. She fights to pull back, but her hands moved against her will. From the corner of her eye, the trunk’s lid lifts slightly, the dolls’ head pokes out, watching. With all her strength, Elsie slams her hand down on the desk, dropping the needle and thread.

SLAM. The trunk shuts, prompting Elsie to turn again. She stomps to the trunk and retrieves the doll within, then straight for the fireplace to chuck it in.

As the doll lands near the flames, Elsie falls to the ground, overwhelmed and pained. The doll glows as the flames reach for its delicious wooden limbs.

Elsie SCREAMS, as her own skin begins to blister and singe, throbbing a bright red hue. Observing the dolls wooden skin smoking as a small flames begins to catch, Elsie looks to her arm that smokes in unison.

The fire. The doll is me!

Elsie crawls, dragging her body across the floor towards the fireplace where the doll is soon to catch ablaze. The smoke lingers, hiding the doll from her line of sight. She reaches a melted hand towards the flames.

When the fire settled to a smokey smolder, Elsie crouched on the rug, cradling the scorched doll like a child she couldn’t bare to lose. Her skin was blistered, patches of red and black peeling off her arms. The searing pain now just a numb ache.

The doll’s skin, once splintered and rough, began to feel smooth and warm. It pulsed, as if blood flowed through its wooden veins. Uneasy by the sudden change, Elsie tries to drop the doll, but her fingers stay wrapped around the little body, like they’ve been fused together.

“No… please. Stop this!” She flings her hands around in a panic. It stays, attached to Elsie’s fingertips; becoming one with her.

Although the air in the room had gone stale, the other marionettes in the room begin to swing; Their feet trembling against other wooden feet. The sway of the dolls synchronizes one at a time, they flow together in a dance. Distracted by the movements of the dolls, Elsie notices too late that the strings hanging from the Little Elsie doll have attached themselves to Elsies’ own hands and feet. She grabs for her thread cutting scissors, slashing all around her, but the blades only meet air.

The threads are there, but they are not.

Elsie thrashes around, trying any way to pull the threads from her skin.

Steady hands, Elsie. Her father’s words echoed in her mind. A tear trickles down her cheek.

“I can’t.” She pulls and slices at the strings. The invisible threads shimmered faintly, like a spider’s silk.

Smooth strokes, gently now. Give the doll control to bring itself to life. Listening intently, Elsie squeezes her eyes shut with several slow, deep breaths. She focuses on her father’s words.

Steady hands.

Her hands lift softly, delicately floating at her side. The doll falls to the ground, finally released from Elsie’s grip.

Smooth Strokes.

She waves her arms around, gently and with elegance. As if on command, her legs fall into step, flowing with her arms fluid motions. The doll dances around Elsie, mimicking her every step. The dolls hanging above lean forward, watching closely as Elsie twirls around the workshop in a dream-like trance.

The strings follow her movements. You almost can’t tell who’s leading- Elsie or the strings. She doesn’t notice a new string appearing, wrapping itself carefully around her neck and lifting her body off the floor like a star twinkling across the sky. Her head tilted back, as if accepting her fate. The marionettes click their feet anxiously.

Then her head drops forward and her body falls limp. The room is silent as the marionettes watch, waiting. There, Elsie would stay, tangled in the threads of her own creation - the soft beating of her heart fading as her skin solidifies into wood.

The End.