~~~~
"Mr. Gibson I hear you are a
strange, but meticulous man," I informed him. "Your reputation for
perfection has convinced me I must see your work."
"If you wish to see then I have
no right to deny you," Mr. Gibson responded. "However, I will tell
you this now, as I have told countless others. They are not for sale."
"That is fine," I hid my
disappointment, "I merely wish to appreciate." Mr. Gibson nodded and
lead me into his home. It was a humble abode, a wooden home of two floors, but
large enough for a family of eight to live comfortably. Yet, dear Mr. Gibson was
unmarried and disconnected from all next of kin.
"Please make yourself
comfortable," he motioned towards a couch in his front room. "Allow
me to prepare them for you." I took a seat as he exited the room. The
front room was a very comfortable living space. Furnished with a set of elegant
couches and chairs and a few wooden tables each draped with a doily. Many
cabinets lined the walls. Each filled with dinner plates, silverware and tea
sets of high quality. I pondered the meaning of this as Mr. Gibson returned
from the other room, a silver key in his hand.
"The preparations are done,"
my strange host stated, "please come this way." He lead me down a
winding set of narrow hallways until we reached a gilded door towards the back
of the home. Mr. Gibson inserted the key into the door and turned it. I could
hear an elaborate mechanism operate behind the door, and in a few moments, the
door began to open on its own. "Please tread with care they are very
sensitive and fragile," he warned me as he shepherded me into the room.
Within the room was nearly pitch black, although I could see a few light glints
along the walls.
"It is quite dark," I
commented.
"You can never be too
careful," Mr. Gibson chuckled, "besides they like it this way."
He closed the door behind him before he flicked on the lights, I could finally
see the contents of the room. It was a vast hall with row upon row of shelves,
each filled to the brim with dolls of various sizes. A sea of porcelain and
vinyl stood before me. Every piece was garbed in eerily elaborate clothing of numerous
styles and colors. I would compare it to a warehouse, however, that would imply
the dolls were at the very least similar. Not a single one looked alike, even
from a cursory glance I could tell every single doll was unique.
"Your reputation undersells you,
Mr. Gibson," I gasped, "is it true you've crafted each one by
hand?"
"I could never settle for
anything less," my host beamed, "they are the apple of my eye. My
hearts and dreams given form." Mr. Gibson began to walk up the middle hall
and observed his handiwork. He only occasionally stopped to adjust one of the
dolls. It pained me to see such masterful works hidden away, but I knew his
opinion of the subject already. This was merely a passion project for him and I
know I must respect that.
"You are truly one of kind Mr.
Gibson." I began to walk up the halls myself, while an endless wall of
lifeless eyes observed my every move.
"I am nothing special,"
Mr. Gibson shook his head. He beckoned me over to his position, "ah yes
please let me show you one of my more exquisite creations." He showed me a
single doll, large than the rest, dressed in a complex white and gold dress.
"I love all my girls equally," my host explained, "but Marian is
among those I have the most pride in creating. She is meticulously perfect from
head to toe. Isn't that right my dear?" He smiled at the doll, as though
he expected a response. He chuckled and lead me down further.
"Is there anything else you
wish to show me in specific?" I asked as I felt the weight of countless
stares.
"Of course," Mr. Gibson
exclaimed. He took me to another display at the end of this vast room. It was a
row of tables and cabinets. The cabinets contained a generous supply of
fabrics, threads, and clothing. The tables were lined with photographs
contained in expensive frames. The photos depicted all of the dolls in a
variety of activities, from tea parties to picnics. "Here I collect
precious memories of my dears doing what they love," he gestured to the
photos. "Over there is my workshop where they were all born," he
pointed to a closed door on the left. "And there," he revealed a
silver embroidered door to the right, "is where the eldest dolls
live."
"I see," I felt myself
sweat. Mr. Gibson had a reputation for eccentricity, but his manner of speech
began to grow a well of concern within me. Despite my reservations, I followed
my strange host into this new room.
"Behold," Mr. Gibson
triggered the lights to the new room, "my oldest daughters." Within
this small rooms was a dozen glass cases, each containing a life-sized doll. A
few stood around the height of a ten to twelve years old. Some were clearly
modeled after a girl in their teens. The last several resembled young adults.
The detail upon them was so incredible one might almost mistake them for being
real. Yet, their features were still so doll-like they fit firmly into the
uncanny valley. Their eyes especially were so elaborate their stares felt real,
but they were a little too perfect. They gave the sensation that they stared directly
into your soul.
"I understand now why so many
wished to purchase them," I commented.
"Yes it is an unfortunate
reality," Mr. Gibson spoke solemnly. "My dears are so perfect that
people feel the need to take them for themselves." He approached one of
the largest dolls and put his hand on the case. "It is why I must lock
them behind closed doors now, or else more envious souls may attempt to take
them from me."
"Truly unfortunate," I
agreed as a clock's ring echoed throughout the house.
"Oh dear it is becoming
late," Mr. Gibson stated, "the dears will want their bedtime story
soon."
On that note, I decided it was time
for me to leave, "If that's the case I should probably leave."
"Are you certain? It is very
late, you're free to stay the night if you wish," My generous host
offered.
"I could never-" I began.
"Please I insist," he
pushed the subject, "in fact I think my girls have already taken a liking
to you."
~--~
Against my better judgment, I agreed
to stay the night within Mr. Gibson's home. My hand was somewhat forced when a
particularly heavy rainstorm passed through. Mr. Gibson set me up in his dusty
guest room, it was small but comfortable. As the night continued on I
considered a conversation with my host to pass the time. However, when I peeked
into the front room I decided against it. Mr. Gibson was seated on the couch,
surrounded by countless dolls, while he read a storybook to them. It was quite
the display, but I decided I wanted no part in it.
His dolls were exquisite, but Mr.
Gibson himself was beyond simply strange. I've seen a passion for one's work
before, but this was something different. I curled myself into the guest room's
bed and decided it would be best to say nothing and leave at first light. As I
drifted into sleep I noticed, seated on a cabinet across the room was a doll I
hadn't notice before. I had thought he kept them all in that locked room. Perhaps
he left out a few to decorate his home? For some reason, I found it harder to
sleep. Some basic instinct flared deep within me, but my tired mind couldn't
decipher it. I remained in dark silence, while a set of lifeless eyes stared
down upon me.
~~~~
I'm particularly happy with this story, I think I got the exact amount of creepy I wanted out of it. I had planned on releasing this much sooner in the month, but I honestly felt intimidated. It was such a great and scary idea I didn't want to ruin it, so I gave the story a lot more time to develop. I feel the end result was worth it.Beyond that, we're over halfway through the month, only a half dozen nights remain. Can you make it to the end before your nerves give out?
Until then, Read, Comment and Enjoy.
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