Fair Dinkum Clarabelle

Trigger warning: Intense occult and supernatural themes. Mental health themes and suoernatural violence.

​Part One: Of Dinosaurs and Dolls

​“There’s a lot of history here,” Hattie said to Evadne as they drove past the grand iron gates of the Woollen Mill Precinct. The heavily polished WM initials shed their stern authority for a moment, winking in the sunlight at the old blue Ford Fairlane as the women glided past.

​Evadne wished she had come sooner, though deep down she knew she needed someone to hold her hand among all the young artisans. For six months she’d been on Hattie’s case to visit, but Hattie was hard to persuade—a creature of habit who was happiest at home or on quiet walks through the reserve. Between work, grandkids, rain, and cold, life offered a steady stream of Hattie-excuses to fill a trailer.

​In the end, a stray tennis ball hitting the cabinet—shaking the antique doll’s porcelain leg enough to form a hairline fracture—finally forced the trip. Euphemia, a family friend, provided the catalyst with a timely referral, and Evadne jumped at it. At last, an ironclad reason to go!

​“He’s a master restorer,” Euphemia had promised. “He’s just opened shop at the back of that second section in the building. Let me know how you both go.”

​Ribbons fluttered in the breeze and market stalls lined the entrance for the first anniversary of “Mill North,” as the locals called it. Slowing to a crawl, Evadne sighed at the jammed car park and the crowd. Sensing the chaos, she glanced at her little sister, wondering if this had been a bad idea.

​Hattie peered through the windscreen. Against a backdrop of trees, she imagined the soaring, red-brick complex to be a giant red Lego building. She exhaled softly. “Oh my goodness, isn’t she something, Eva?”

​Evadne didn't hear her. Her eyes were fixed on a spot in the gravel far off in the distance—until reversing lights flashed right ahead and a car pulled out, leaving an open space near the front.

​“Beauty,” Evadne muttered, waving a quick thank-you to the departing driver.

​Stepping out into the crisp air, Hattie opened the back door and gently lifted a crocheted bundle from behind the passenger seat. Cradling the family heirloom like a newborn, she peeked down at its petite porcelain face. Clarabelle’s expression was always serious—soft pink lips, deep blue eyes, and a neat starched bonnet with dark ringlets spilling across the wool. Hattie checked the leg again and wailed, “She looks like she’s in actual pain, Eva!”

​Resting a hand on the car door, Evadne shook her head while locking the doors. “Hattie, when they made you, they broke the mould.”

​Undeterred, Hattie remained locked in concern. “Mind you, Clarabelle’s mood has always depended on what we've done wrong Evadne.” Hattie had never forgotten the day of her divorce—the doll had worn an unmoved, sickened stare that declared, A most disgraceful business. Henrietta Finch shall retire to the Continent; she shall not show her face to us! Or the day of Evadne’s art exhibition opening, when Clarabelle seemed to sneer: Evadne James, a ten-year hiatus—dare you even lay claim to being an artist?

​Hattie stroked the doll’s cheek. “There, there, Clarabelle. We’ll get you to the doctor soon.”

​As they set off along the path, Evadne paused, tuning out her sister’s nonsense. Herself now suddenly consumed by the monumental structure in front of her, she reached out to touch the rough, uneven brick.

​“I never thought they’d get this dinosaur back on her feet,” Evadne said.

​Hattie looked around nervously. “Evadne, it’s Heritage! You’ll get us in trouble. And don't touch it!”

​Part Two: The Blue-collared Bohemian

​Finding the Threepence Café near the riverfront was easy—you could spot the converted loading dock tucked cool and dense behind patrons packed around outdoor tables. Over the roar of the crowd, Evadne leaned into Hattie’s ear and pointed toward a grand timber staircase anchored by a massive ironbark post.

​“It's over there!”

​Hattie paused, tilting her head back to squint at the white shade sails overhead whose opaque light cascaded onto the stairs. “It’s like the place is wise...” she cooed.

​Evadne shook her head, hooked her arm through her sister's, and yanked her up the steps. "We haven't died and gone to heaven yet, Hattie!"

​Halfway up, Hattie thrust the bundled doll into Evadne's arms. "Your turn to carry her." Gawk-eyed, she leaned toward a tall window on the left, shaded by a printed mylar displaying a twenty-foot photo of women in vintage bathing costumes perched on a chiseled rock ledge, laughing with their feet dangling in the river water. Mesmerized, she read aloud the faded nib-ink caption beneath: “Martha and Betty at Roseberry Parade Public Baths. Entry fee: 3 pence. (September 3rd, 1891).”

​Exasperated, Evadne tightened her lips, caught her little sister's hand, and hauled her up to the landing.

​Inside, Evadne spluttered a cough at the sweet haze of incense. Hattie's eyes widened further as the sheer enormity of the place closed in on her: the cavernous sawtooth roof bloomed above, where massive rafters stretched tight like weft threads, steel tie-rods crisscrossed, and everywhere the porous maze of velvet drapes, temporary dividers, curiosity shops, artisan studios, and branching corridors unfolded—all drowning her in the whir of spinning pottery wheels, clattering sewing machines, scraping easel legs, the solitary twang of a guitar string, the sharp, sudden snap of a staple gun, and the high notes of a persistent singer.

​Overwhelmed, Hattie threw out her hand theatrically. “Ta-da! Behold: the Ipswich Arts Revival.”

​Evadne tried to steady her sister's wobble, with the doll tucked under her armpit, she dug into her skirt pocket. With a huff, she passed the doll back to Hattie so she could smooth out and read the crumpled note.

​“Euphemia said the restorer is way down at the other end, near the Skyline New Age shop!” she said loudly, shoving the note in front of Hattie's face. “See here—Café Threepence… See here—timber stairs… And over there—New Age shop… We're going that way!”

​Hustling Hattie along, Evadne pointed. “The dance studio.” Inside, the heavy thud of a troupe abruptly cut out, replaced by a muffled voice barking, “From the top—again!” before the music kicked back in. She steered her sister past a rack of vibrant garments at Penelope LeRay Bespoke Costumes. Quickening her pace, Evadne counted the shops under her breath—one, two, three, four—and cut left. Spotting the circular backlit sign for the Amy Galen Healing Room, she gave a sharp nod, confirming they were in the right corridor. She was getting too spun out herself to notice the dense smell wafting from the healer’s space, too stressed to hear the thud of a drum or the chime of a bell.

​Until right in front of them stood their destination: The Ipswich Doll Hospice.

​Part Three: The Doll Restorer

​Beneath the ladies’ feet, the floorboards creaked softly. The contrast to the bustle outside was instant as the small room wrapped around them like a warm embrace. The air smelled rich with glue, paint, and raw linen. The clutter was orderly and silent too—rolls of fabric, spools of thread, miniature wooden drawers, and glass cabinets lined with porcelain limbs, heads, wigs, and tiny leather shoes. Releasing Hattie's arm, Evadne exhaled, decompressing in the quiet ambience.

​"It’s like that Little Golden Book, Evadne," Hattie whispered as she placed the bundle on the counter. "The Elves and the Shoemaker." They both giggled.

​Under the amber glow of a single lamp, the old man at the reclaimed timber bench looked up, spectacles low on his nose. "How can I help you?"

​Evadne straightened her smile. "Euphemia from the Old Flour Mill sent us." Hattie pursed her lips and nodded in agreement as Evadne continued, "She said you were the only one who could mend Clarabelle’s leg."

​He rose slowly from his chair, uncurling his back with a stiff precision. At the counter, he lowered his magnifying visor.

​"Hmm. Fine French bisque, mid-Victorian." Intentional and absorbed, he muttered to himself, "Clean break. Vise, binding, fresh glaze."

​He looked up. "Next Monday suit you?"

​Part Four: Amy Galen

​Amy Galen’s hands hovered over her patient’s body. She had become worse since last week’s session. At the young woman's head, Amy felt a heavy, trapped force that defied any logic. A difficult case, she thought, pacing slowly around the massage table, scanning her patient.

​She assessed her findings: limp hair... sallow skin... eyes sunken, devoid of light... muscles frozen, rigid... oil pooled in hollows of chin and elbows... veins flattened against bone... dorsum of feet bruised, swollen, dark with clotted blood. A curse? Black magic?

​The room reacted to being seen and started to compress; Amy's body grew heavy from the weight. As a precaution, Amy struck her singing bowl, the clear tone resonating outward only to be struck by live, arcing static in the air. True to form, a slick black haze pulled upward from the woman's physical body. The patient sank low into the table as if weighed down by an invisible anchor, while diagnostic candles crackled, flared wildly, and fell to the ground, rocking to a taunting, slow roll before stopping at Amy's feet.

​Keeping one hand on the patient and pressing the other to her own heart, Amy gasped as a sharp spike of terror hit as a thin line of blood trickled from the whimpering client’s nose—Necromancy! Covering her own throat, Amy commanded, “Stay with me, Petunia, and breathe!”

​The heavy wooden bench jolted violently and the patient went unconscious and writhed in its grip. Amy screamed and lunged forward, anchoring her down, just as the crystal grid on her altar shifted on its own to reform into a single glyph: a circle bisected by a fork.

​Amy knew she had to get her client away from the center of the room. Clutching the helpless, paralysed woman, she levered her upright, draped her over her shoulder, and let out a yell from the sheer exertion of heaving her toward the ceremonial altar. She dropped them both to the floor beside the sword and chalice just as dark gas geysered through the floorboards.

​Against the hot, rising gale, Amy brandished her ceremonial blade and bellowed, “I call to this place Archangel Michael!”

​A hollow, raspy voice clicked from the swirling mass: “I have the rights over her, Amy Marie Galen!”

​“How did you know my name? This needs a Catholic exorcism!” Amy cried, as she thrust her blade directly into the roaring wind, repeating her protective mantras in Angel language over and over until a sudden, heavy silence fell.

​Part Five: A Pocket Full of Posies

​Outside, Hattie left as a satisfied customer. Glad to have Clarabelle returned in good nick, she wrapped the doll in a puffy blanket, tucked her into the bag, and slung it into the bowl of her hip before heading off to visit Euphemia’s shop.

​A wave of jitters hit her in the corridor near the healer's shop. Pausing, she checked the top pocket of her bag—yes, the posy was safe—just as an overhead bulb flickered and popped sharply, bringing her attention back to the corridor.

​A dull pressure throbbed at the base of her skull near her left temple. It felt as if someone were standing behind her; she spun around, but no one was there. Suspicious, Hattie watched the old doll restorer hurriedly lock his doors and flip his sign to Closed.

​Part Six: Clarabelle’s New Perch

​Euphemia looked at the restored doll and smiled, satisfied that her referral had worked out so well. She placed Hattie’s bouquet into a vase, listening as Hattie brushed off the strange burst of yesterday's wind in the reserve—the way it had whipped through the trees only to drop onto the wildflowers and prickly weeds, blowing a runner grass right to her feet, almost compelling her to pick the posy then bind the stems together nine times tight for Euphemia as a gift.

​Euphemia sighed happily, trying not to overthink the oddness either. “It’s brightened up my shop, truly. Though that difficult customer was back today—sat in that chair for hours, left for tea, and came right back to gossip about the whole precinct.”

​Hattie chuckled cheekily. “I’ll tell you what—let Clarabelle keep that seat warm.”

​She propped the porcelain doll against the high cushion of the bergère, carefully smoothing her dress and starched lace petticoats. Looking into Clarabelle’s deadpan gaze, Hattie made up a rhyme and sang a soft, haunting melody, making chills run up her friend's spine:

​“La, la, lou, sit thee down, keep this seat,

Oh tongue who is pure, mild, and sweet.

Clarabelle, hold the secret but destroy the deceit, la, la, lou,

For it is you, my dear, who can cool the heat.

La, la, lou!”

​Euphemia laughed nervously. “Oh, don’t! An antique doll there might scare the customers!”

​“Alright, alright, my bad,” Hattie grinned, breaking the moment as she lifted the doll onto a display ledge overlooking the room. “Then Clarabelle stays on the shelf…” She hesitated, catching the doll's unblinking stare. “…till everyone behaves,” she said, raising her eyebrows at her own mischief.

​Part Seven: That Night

​At first, the dream was mundane—voices floating near a bright, hollow ocean, back-and-forth banter making no sense. A young woman called to a child bucketing seawater: “Alice, be careful!” Then a voice interrupted, striking deep, sharp, and cold, demanding an answer: “What did she say?”

​The scene snapped away to a shadowy room. Hattie became acutely aware of her physical body.

​Standing at the end of her bed was a tall woman in a long, draped dress with a headdress—her presence a false calm, densely imposing. That same voice repeated: “What did she say?”

​Next, Hattie felt her feet grabbed by ice-cold hands, her legs pulled taut with the sickening sensation of being dragged across the bedsheets. Her left leg flopped limp while her right foot was elevated high. A distinct plunge—what felt like an iron spike—went straight into her heel, anchoring her down as the shadow soared upward, clawing to force its way through the crown of her head and claim her mind.

​Hattie’s eyes snapped open, her arms sheltering her head as an agonizing shock jarred her nervous system. In the dark, she feverishly fumbled around the floor to find her phone. The screen's blindingly bright blue light hit her eyeballs as her thumb stumbled over the keys, typing a raw, unfiltered text message to Euphemia: Get doll out of shop!

​That same moment, Clarabelle awakened. Glass eyes searched the dark floor of the Old Flour Mill. For over a century, her charge was simple: watch, guard, keep peace over her beloved family's homes. But here in the Moon, Millstone & Apothecary, no Finch family brass cross hung above the doll's head to ground the space.

​“So,” a voice exhaled in a death rattle, the twilight revealing a haggard man in convict chains. “Little Miss Clarabelle takes the seat, doesn’t she?” The shadow hissed, creeping closer. “Clarabelle, the silly, almost willing vessel stopping my Monarch's donation.”

​Clarabelle’s right arm moved with a stiff click. Her thumb, index, and middle fingers pressed tightly together, pulling away her ring finger and pinky she made the Trinitarian vow. The stern faith from the ancestors remembered and held inside her bisque frame flared to life as she traced the cross blue light shot through the split of her fingers at the spectre.

​Her unyielding, painted lips parted, quoting the unshakeable holy word: “In my Father’s house are many mansions.”

​Just in time, the town clock clanged three times. The spirit wailed as the earth sucked it down in banishment. Satisfied, Clarabelle rode the open line straight to Hattie. She'd secured the space and signalled it was time to bring her home.

​Part Eight: The Noise

​Hattie hammered a nail through her father's cross into the wall above her headboard. Leaning heavily on her borrowed crutch, she limped away as Evadne, kneeling at the foot of the bed, shoved their grandmother's 1890 Jewish Bible under the frame.

​"I don't know what gets into you sometimes, Hattie," Evadne exclaimed, before abruptly adding, "Did you apologize to Clarabelle?"

​"Yeah," Hattie muttered. Spotting a missed call, she dialed back her hypnotherapist, switched off the speaker, and pressed the receiver tight against her ear. "Charlie, the entity is gone, but the residue is still stuck in my head. Yeah, aha. That spike in my heel—it’s just a post-hypnotic trigger."

​Pausing as Charlie responded, Hattie slumped back on the bed, listening intently. "Uh-huh. Exactly. It hijacked my nervous system." Glancing at her sister, she added, "Yeah, I should've been more careful. See you at ten."