Something jumped.
Something writhed and shuddered and hissed.
Kitty fell back, fear punching into her, but did not go down. Her eyes were showing her things and her lips were mouthing, no, no, no, and her mind seemed to close up like a hothouse flower. Because what she saw… it was far worse than anything she could have imagined.
There was not a body under the sheet, there were only parts of a body.
A left leg, a right arm, a head. Placed in sequence as if they were awaiting to be sewn to the torso whenever it arrived. The limbs were corpse-limbs, not doll or dummy parts. They were covered in a seamed gray flesh that had torn open in spots, revealing bones and metal armatures. The elbow was fitted with a plastic swivel, as was the knee.
And they should have been dead, but like the head, they were alive.
The leg was jumping and kicking, the arm thrashing and the hand slapping the filthy mattress beneath. The head was whipping from side to side on the pillow. It was Gloria’s head… or had been. Her wheat-colored locks were splayed over the sheets, her jaw hinged, her left eye missing and her right fitted with a glass ball onto which a tiny pinprick pupil had been painted. Part dummy and part corpse and all lunacy.
Kitty saw it all, felt a scream empty itself from her mouth, but it was not a scream, not really. More of a wracked, broken sobbing that rattled up the chimney of her throat, taking everything with it but the instinct to survive.
The head rolled and fixed her with that one lurid ping-pong ball eye. The waxen, lumpy face grinned at her. “Look upon me, sister,” the voice said that was not a voice really, but an airless whistling noise, wind blown through a pipe. “Look upon me, look upon me, look upon me…”
And then those hinged jaws fell wide open and a piercing shriek came out that scraped up Kitty’s spine like a knife blade.
She turned and the door slammed shut.
The .32 was in her hand. She jerked the trigger, bullets punching straight through the cheap-paneled door and Ronny cried out. She thought she heard him fall out there. The door was not locked and she went right through it, tripping over his collapsed form and scrambling free.
All of the doll and puppet parts and bodies were in motion on their strings, swinging and shuddering. The jaws of puppet and vent dolls were opening and closing, glass eyes rolling in sockets.
Kitty heard a sliding, dragging sound.
Something was coming down the hallway: slap, drag, slap, drag.
She tensed, her hand shaking as it gripped the .32. The inside of her mouth felt like it had been oiled with cooking spray and maybe that was the taste and texture of overwhelming horror.
Something came out of the darkness and it looked like a swollen gray sack inching its way toward her. But it was no sack. It was Gloria’s torso. Its remaining hand would slap the floor, pulling it forward and then repeating the process, the right leg dragging behind it like a vestigial limb.
Piggy was sitting in the hallway, cross-legged. He was grinning as he always grinned, shadows coveting that abominable doll’s face, his eyes bright and yellow and glittering like moonlight on wet pavement.
“You have to understand things, Kitty, because you do want that… don’t you?”
And then he was telling her things, as she wildly debated whether to shoot the dummy or its master or the dragging carcass. He was telling her about graves and tombs, about little boys rotting away in satiny caskets. About their brothers stealing their corpses, taking them into high, secret rooms and using techniques cribbed from moldering notebooks. Fitting little boy corpses with special puppet mechanisms, swivels and pivots and hinges. Stripping away dead flesh and replacing it with wax and plastic artifices. Saying words over those dead little puppet boys and hoping, hoping the words would bring their brothers back to them… and how they did. How they brought something back, but how it was not the soul of a dead little boy, but something else entirely. Something that had been scratching at ethereal barriers for eons, something with hunger, something looking for a home and a body to steal…
But Kitty would not listen.
She put three more bullets into Ronny and he stopped moving. She put one through Piggy’s chest, but it caused him no inconvenience.
“You don’t really think you’re getting out of here alive, now do you?”
And Kitty ran down the hallway away from him, into another room. Because in a room there would be a window you could jump out of. But in that room, the window was boarded and the door slammed shut behind her. There were candles glowing in there, too. And what they revealed was a tiny casket, the sort you might fit a doll into.
And Kitty wasn’t really surprised by that point when the lid swung open and a little girl dummy sat up in there like a Jack-in-the-Box. The little girl was Ronny’s two-year old sister and her face was smooth as porcelain, flaking away to bone in spots and dotted with black mold. It had no eyes. The hinged jaw snapped open and closed and a demented, reedy little girl voice said: “Baby doll, baby doll, baby doll, baby doll, baby doll…”
It kept repeating this, fleshless arms held out, blackened fingers splayed. It wanted to be scooped up and held.
Kitty supposed she might have screamed.
The candles went out and she emptied her .32 into the darkness, at those places in the room where she could hear something small and rat-like scurrying, crawling, sliding along like a slug. And then teeth bit into her ankle. She cried out and took hold of that hideous little corpse-doll, feeling the flesh coming off in her fingers like sloughed snakeskin. But she held on, yanking its body away and hearing a rending, wet snap, realizing that the head was still biting her. Still hanging on with those little needling milk-teeth and that she had cast the body against the wall, where it had shattered… but refused to die. Screaming then, Kitty pounded that little head with her fists until it began to come apart, until only the jaws held. Then they fell away, clattering like wind-up chattery teeth in the darkness.
Above, in what must have been the attic, there was a rumbling noise. The ceiling shook, dislodging a rain of plaster and dust. Something was up there and it was angry.
Kitty found the door, the little corpse-doll’s remains still clawing away in there, looking for something to hold and lead to those teeth.
Kitty found the knob and fell out into the dimly-lit corridor.
16
The sane thing to do would have been to escape, if escape was even possible by that point.
But Kitty was not leaving.
Despite all the other horrors she had drunk deep of this night, Kitty could only see Gloria. What was left of her. What they had done to her. She would never know the torment Gloria had endured in her final hours and she did not want to know, but she was going to put things right.
Somehow, she had to.
She remembered what Eddie Bose had written:
…burn the McBanes out. Burn that house and let the fire destroy everything inside. It will be a cleansing and a welcome relief for Ronny McBane who has suffered for his sins again and again. A purging. But whatever you do, stay out of the attic. Don’t go up there like I did. Don’t make that fatal mistake.
The attic.
That was the key. That was the beating black heart of this nightmare and this is where she was going to go because this is where the puppeteer was that Bose had mentioned. That was where he must have gone that night that Ronny found him and brought him home. What was up there was the very thing he dared not speak of.
But Kitty had no weapons.
The .32 was empty.
She was going to go up there anyway.