THE DOLL by J.C. Martin SMASHWORDS EDITION ***** Discover other titles by J.C. Martin at Smashwords.com The Doll Copyright © 2011 by J.C. Martin Smashwords Edition License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. ***** THE DOLL By J.C. Martin The disembodied head dangled from the overhanging branch, staring at Joyce Parker with one glass eye. “Look, Mommy!” Taylor squealed, tugging at her hand and pointing in all directions at once. “There’s another one! And another! They’re everywhere!” Joyce suppressed a shudder. Dolls of all sizes, in various states of decay, hung from trees like grisly Christmas ornaments. Most have lost limbs, eyes, or entire torsos to the passage of time. With their still-plump cherub cheeks, they would have been pretty once upon a time, looking at home in a little girl’s bedroom – a little girl like Taylor. Now, their grimy, cracked complexions and missing eyes made them look more like mutant Chucky dolls. Despite the muggy heat from the blazing sun, goose bumps pricked at Joyce’s skin. She watched their guide, Pablo, lay down his barge pole as he docked the trajineras – an oversized, covered gondola bedecked with psychedelic flowers. “Welcome to la Isla de la Munecas,” he announced in accented English. “The Island of the Dolls.” “What a god-awful place,” one of the other tourists remarked in a deep Southern drawl. He heaved his sunburnt bulk onto the rotting pier, the arthritic planks groaning and shivering in protest of his weight. “Those hangin’ dolls gimme the creeps!” “Si,” Pablo smiled. “That is everyone’s initial reaction when they first come here.” Creepy doesn’t even begin to describe this...Joyce thought, accepting Pablo’s outreached hand as she reluctantly climbed out of the boat. She had been enjoying their leisurely meander through the waterways of Xochimilco, admiring the peaceful scenery of the ancient Aztec wetlands. Setting foot on this tiny islet, in the middle of a glassy lake, was like stepping into a completely different realm, a realm where evil lurked behind the blistered faces of long-forgotten toys. Get a grip, Joyce. They’re just dolls... Taylor insisted on clambering off the boat without assistance, landing on the wooden dock with a triumphant thud. “What are all the dolls for?” she asked their guide, seeming more fascinated than spooked, bold in the way only an inquisitive six-year-old can be. With an enigmatic wink, Pablo’s voice dropped to a hush. “It’s for Salvadora,” he whispered. “Who’s Salvadora?” the fat Southerner butted in loudly. “Some crack-headed voodoo witch?” He chugged a bottle of Diet Coke, the underarms of his T-shirt stained dark with perspiration. “Salvadora was a young girl who drowned in the canal here, many, many years ago,” their guide explained. “It is believed her restless spirit still wanders the island, which is why nobody lives here. Nobody, that is, except a man named Julian Santana. “Don Santana believed that the ghost of Salvadora haunted him, so he left his family to live on this island alone, in that hut there.” Pablo pointed to a dilapidated wooden shed, almost hidden from view by the dense vegetation. Pock-marked with gaping holes, it stood at the end of a primitive footpath leading from the dock. Vines and weeds strangled the decomposing structure, dragging it into the earth, returning its elements back to nature. “It was Santana who started putting all these dolls up, to appease the spirit of the dead little girl. So that Salvadora would never get bored, he started hanging up more and more dolls, finding them in rubbish dumps, or trading for them, with whatever he could afford.” “So this Santana guy was the crack-headed voodoo witch?” Southern blob asked again, laughing at his self-perceived wit. A grey-haired woman beside him, no doubt his long-suffering wife, hushed him with an elbow and an embarrassed “Harold!” Pablo shrugged. “There are rumours he was a drug addict, that he dabbled in some form of black magic, but nobody knows for sure.” The fat man smirked at his wife, looking vindicated. “Does Don Santa still live here?” Taylor asked again. Pablo laughed, but he didn’t correct her. “That is the strangest thing, niña,” he said. “Just a few years ago, they found his body floating in one of the canals. Just over there.” The guide pointed to a spot in the distance, obscured by a carpet of reeds. “He had died at the very spot where Salvadora was thought to have drowned.” Joyce cringed, worried about her daughter hearing a horror story out here among the hanging dolls, but Taylor’s mouth was wide, her eyes twinkling with wonder. “Some people say that after so many years alone, little Salvadora longs for human company. They say that she lured Don Santana to his death, so his spirit will join hers. Even today, nobody comes near the island after sundown, for they believe that when night falls, the dolls come alive, and anybody stuck on the island will join Salvadora and Don Santana in the afterlife.” A veil of silence descended over the entire tour party as the guide’s words sank in. Even the obnoxious Southerner, Harold, seemed enthralled by Pablo’s tale, as he threw nervous glances over his sasquatch shoulders at the decomposing dolls. Joyce’s skin at the nape of her neck prickled, but it wasn’t from the heat. The soulless eyes of the island’s many dolls were haunting enough before, but after Pablo’s story they’ve attained an otherworldly mantle of dark malevolence. Pablo broke the spell with a gap-toothed grin. “Now, you are free to explore the island on your own. We shall meet back here in half an hour, at...” he checked his imitation Rolex watch. “Shall we say...half past one?” Half an hour in this infernal place? I want to leave now! But Taylor was already rushing down a narrow path, hollering “Come on, Mommy!” in her dusty wake. The rest of the tourists had also started dispersing when Pablo shouted out again. “Wait! One more thing! Remember, you must not touch any of the dolls on this island! It is prohibido...bad luck. You do not want to anger the spirits.” “Ooh no...” Having shaken off his earlier jitters, Harold the blob was all bravado again. “Won’t want any voodoo hexes sticking pins into me, would I?” He stomped his way through the waist-high vegetation, his wife following in his wake, eyes rolling. Joyce hurried down the leaf-strewn path, not wanting Taylor out of her sight in this ghastly place. She found the girl in front of the rickety shack, giggling at Harold as the Southern man posed for a photograph under a tree full of dolls. As his wife focused the camera, he held two disintegrating specimens to both sides of his face, his red face contorted in a look of mock terror. So much for “do not touch the dolls”... “Mommy, look!” Taylor gasped, pointing into the inky blackness of the shed’s interior. “There are more dolls in there! Let’s take a closer look!” “Honey, are you sure it’s safe to go in...?” But Taylor had already disappeared into the crumbling structure. With a sigh, she followed her daughter into the relative coolness of the wooden hut. The air inside the shed was musty, permeated with the heavy, cloying odour of incense and candle wax. Joyce stood in the centre of the room, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. A strange shape materialised from the shadows. Once her eyes had fully adapted, she stared at the structure in revulsion. For the first time in her life, Joyce Parker wished she wore a cross, or a star of David, or any other religious item, one she could clutch in her hands for divine protection. A wooden platform, laden down with more grimy dolls, took up an entire wall of the small shed. Strange symbols had been carved into the planks, with yet more cryptic drawings etched in chalk. Dark, amorphous globs of what used to be candles – black candles – oozed down the sides of the altar, forming hardened puddles on the dirt floor below. A shrine. What kind of sick psycho would build a shrine for a dead girl? Icy ribbons of dread twisted up Joyce’s spine. The simple wooden altar had a dark aura about it, an unholy aura. “Mommy, aren’t you gonna take any pictures?” Joyce stared dumbly at the point-and-shoot compact clenched in her bone-white fingers. She wanted to grab her daughter’s arm and run, far away from this altar, far away from this wretched island. The ominous cloak of dread blanketing her senses was almost suffocating. She forced herself to take deep breaths, ignoring the sickly sweet smell of burnt candles hanging in the stuffy air. She felt her fingers being pried apart. “If you’re not gonna do it, I will,” Taylor said. Tearing the camera out of Joyce’s hands, she began snapping away. “The dollies here are much prettier than the ones outside,” she remarked, admiring the collection atop the altar. Protected from the elements, these dolls were definitely in much better shape than the sorry-looking ones scattered throughout the rest of the island. Despite being covered in layers of dust and cobwebs, these dolls were not missing any limbs, eyes or other body parts. They were whole, and for some reason that unsettled Joyce all the more. “That one is sooo pretty!” Taylor cooed, pointing to the centremost doll, a two foot tall model dressed in a traditional, off the shoulder Mexican dress. Beneath the grey dust, the doll’s thick braided hair may be a rich chestnut, and its floral dress might have once been fetching shades of black, white and crimson. Taylor reached out to finger the hem of the doll’s skirt. “Don’t touch it!” Joyce snapped, her tone a bit too harsh. “You heard what Pablo said.” “Do you think Salvadora would mind if I borrowed her?” Joyce was mortified. Why would her daughter want that thing? OK, so it was kind of pretty, and she’d probably have bought it for Taylor had she seen it in a shop window display, but this is some dead girl’s doll, for Christ’s sake! “Honey,” she ventured, “You already have two Barbies and three Bratz dolls.” Please, stick to your commercial, mass-produced Mattel dolls with no sinister history... “But I don’t have her.” Taylor gazed up at the forbidden doll with longing. “She’s so much prettier. She looks like a Mexican princess.” As much as she hated to, Joyce had to agree. The doll’s porcelain features were finely sculpted, with high cheekbones painted a dainty pink to give its complexion a healthy, almost lifelike glow. The lips were a deep scarlet, curled up in a shy, come-hither kind of smile, and its emerald eyes sparkled in spite of the gloom within the shack. The fine craftsmanship hinted at the possibility it could be some sort of collectable of no small value. Whoever threw this doll out was a fool. Whoever made it the centrepiece of this altar must have been completely insane. “And Tinkerbell likes her too.” Joyce’s brow furrowed even more. “I thought Tinkerbell stayed home,” she said. “Yeah, but she flew over. She has wings, you know.” Joyce sighed but said nothing. Standing before the foreboding altar, disapproval of her daughter’s imaginary friend seemed the least of her worries. Taylor was trying to touch the doll again. Steering her by the shoulders, Joyce guided her away from the shrine and out of the hut. “The doll belongs to...someone else,” she said, unwilling to mention the dead girl’s name, as if the very act would make the legend real. Worse, it would be an admission that despite her logical stand and atheistic values, Joyce Florence Parker was spooked by a simple ghost story. “You won’t like it if someone came to your room and took one of your toys, would you?” Taylor rolled her big brown eyes. “Mooom,” she whined. “There are hundreds and hundreds of dolls here. Salvadora won’t notice!” “No,” Joyce said, her firm tone signalling the end of the discussion, but Taylor’s trademark pout, complete with jutted, quivering bottom lip, cracked her resolve. “Listen, I’m sure we’ll find a doll just like that when we go shopping later, and when we do, I’ll buy you one, a brand new one. Deal?” “I guess...” Taylor murmured, scrunching up her freckled nose. “But I bet we won’t find one exactly like her...” “We may even find a prettier one,” Joyce replied. “Now let’s have a look at those pictures you took.” Taylor returned her digital camera, and Joyce turned it on to view the saved images. Dolls...dolls...headless doll...eyeless doll...creepy altar...strange symbols on creepy altar...more dolls... With a grimace, Joyce sifted through the shots, deleting most of them as she went along. She needed to free up disk space for the remainder of their holiday. Or maybe I just don’t want to be carrying around any pictures of these damned dolls. Joyce looked up from the image cull to find Pablo sauntering back towards their trajineras. “Taylor!” she called, “it’s time to go. Hurry up!” The sooner they got off this spooky island, the better. ***** MAN FOUND DEAD IN OWN POOL DALLAS – A local businessman was found dead in his own swimming pool yesterday. The body of Harold Joseph Wainwright, 53, was discovered by his wife when she returned home at 5.30 p.m. Although Mr Wainwright was found fully clothed, initial forensic investigation revealed nothing suspicious. The case is being treated as an accidental drowning. ***** Joyce put down the newspaper with a shudder. She wouldn’t have even noticed the short news article if not for the accompanying photograph of the victim: rheumy eyes, bulbous red nose, the jowls of an English bulldog. The guide had warned him not to fool around with the dolls... Drowned. A coincidence, she told herself. The guy was morbidly obese. The autopsy would most likely reveal a heart attack. Or a stroke. There can’t be any other explanation. Something jabbed her in the ribs. She turned to find Taylor pointing at Joyce’s laptop, a blown-up photograph of the Mexican doll emblazoned on the screen. “I told you we’d never find the same one,” Taylor admonished for the eighteenth time. “Such lovely pictures,” Maria said, tactfully side-stepping Taylor’s complaint. “You must have had a wonderful time.” “It was cool! Everyone dressed so colourful there, and I love the island with the dollies! The only thing I didn’t like was the food. It was too spicy, and they use too many beans and peppers. Yuck.” Both women laughed as the little girl continued to yak on at a mile a minute. “Maybe next time you can come with us. Don’t you miss Mexico?” The Hispanic maid chuckled. “I do. Maybe I will go back for Christmas.” No one bothered to tell Taylor that Maria was actually Puerto Rican. “Right, time to get ready for bed,” Joyce said, pointing to the wall clock in their living room. “Aww, but Dora’s not tired yet,” she protested, motioning over her shoulder at an empty chair. “Can I play with her till I fall asleep?” Joyce and Maria exchanged glances. It appeared Taylor had dumped Tinkerbell for a new imaginary friend. Dora the Explorer was the latest fad for girls too young to appreciate High School Musical. Taylor was a religious follower of the cartoon programme, and even had images of the dark-haired Dora emblazoned on her bed sheets. Joyce just hoped Taylor wasn’t as fickle with her real friends. “You can stay up for ten minutes,” she relented. “Lights better be out by the time I check on you.” “Yes, ma’am!” Taylor flashed a mock salute and gave Joyce a quick peck on the cheek. “Night, mom! Night, Maria! Come on, Dora, race ya!” Her voice faded into the precipitation of footfalls up the wooden stairs. Joyce turned on the TV while Maria returned to folding the laundry whilst half-watching the slideshow of holiday photos. “Mr. Parker called while you were away,” Maria began. Joyce sighed, turning the volume on the television down. “Did he say what it was about?” “No, madam,” Maria replied. “He just said his lawyer will call you back.” His lawyer. Joyce slumped into the cushions of her leather sofa. Like her holiday tan, the relaxing effects of her vacation started to peel off her like sunburnt skin. Beside her, Maria fell quiet as she concentrated on tackling an inside-out sock. The divorce proceedings had entered its final stages. And it was turning ugly. Brent was gunning for joint custody. She hated having to fight over Taylor as if her daughter was some sort of property, a mere object. She was still reeling from having to pay Brent alimony. Apparently, she was the ‘primary breadwinner’ in the relationship. Of course I’m the primary breadwinner! All he does is sit in his stupid studio, moulding worthless shapes out of clay! “What is this?” Maria piped up suddenly. Joyce turned to find the Hispanic woman pointing at her laptop screen. “It’s some sort of shrine for the spirit of a dead girl.” “Ah,” she said, pausing the slideshow and scrutinising the image with unusual interest. “I have not seen something like this for years.” “You’ve seen such things before?” Joyce asked, both intrigued and taken aback by the revelation. “What is it, some sort of voodoo shrine?” Maria shook her head. “Not voodoo. Santeria.” “Is that some sort of black magic? A cult?” “No, madam. Santeria is a religion. It is quite popular in countries like Cuba, Mexico and Brazil. Santeria means ‘the way of the saints.’ It is, how you say? A mixture of traditions: African, Roman Catholic, even Native American.” “That’s quite a mixture,” Joyce remarked. “It happened when African slaves were brought to South America by Catholic masters.” “How do you know so much about this? I thought you were Catholic?” “I am,” Maria replied. “But Santeria is very popular in Puerto Rico. I know many people who practice it.” “It’s not...witchcraft, is it?” “Oh no,” Maria exclaimed. “It is more like a lot of these, how you call, new age religions: Wicca, Druids...all ancient religions, so I do not understand why people call them ‘new’ age.” “But Wiccans and Druids...don’t they brew potions? Cast spells? Build amulets? If that’s not witchcraft...” Maria laughed. “Madam, we Catholics use holy water, perform exorcisms, wear crucifixes round our necks...are these not potions and spells? Are we witches?” Joyce held up her hands in submission. “I guess you have a point.” Hearing the explanation made the altar less ominous, and she was starting to feel foolish for having been so spooked by it. She waved her index finger over the frozen image. “So do you know the meaning of these symbols?” Maria shook her head. “Not all of them, just a few of the more common ones.” She pointed to a crude engraving on the side of the wooden altar, a symbol that looked like a trident, superimposed on a cross, superimposed on a sword: “See that?” she said. “That is the symbol for Eleggua, one of the seven Orishas. Orishas are like patron saints, or gods; they are each responsible for something: love, war, death...” “And what is this...Eleggua...the deity of?” Joyce asked. “He is many things: he is both good and evil, the god of balance.” Sounds benign enough. “He is the messenger of the gods,” Maria continued, “the opener of doors, the guardian of crossroads.” “Crossroads?” “Crossroads of life,” her maid explained. “When you are presented with difficult choices, like career change, or marriage. Also, he guards the crossroads between the world of the living and the realm of spirits – the land of the dead.” All at once, Eleggua no longer sounded so benign, as Maria pointed to another symbol, a lightning bolt flanked by two crossed arrows: “That is Oya,” she said, “goddess of the thunderbolt and guardian of the gates of death.” “Death?” Joyce gulped. “You say this altar is dedicated to a dead girl, no? So it is natural for it to have this Orisha. It is Oya who receives the souls of the dead, and admits them into the afterlife. Huh...” Maria leaned forward, her brow knitted as she scrutinised the picture. “What is it?” Her brown lips pursed like a wrinkled date, Maria tapped on the screen, her eyes squinted. “Those dark markings. On the altar. What are they?” “Them? Oh, they’re just puddles of candle wax.” “Black candle wax?” “Um, yeah. Why, what’s wrong?” Maria’s forehead furrowed even more. “In Santeria, the colour of candles burned is symbolic: white for purity and truth; red for love, strength and protection; green for money and health...” “So what does black mean?” Joyce interrupted, not liking where the conversation was headed. “That is the thing,” Maria whispered. “I do not know. I have never seen black candles on a Santerian altar before.” ***** “Taylor!” Joyce shouted, tapping a fingernail on the banister at the foot of the stairs. “I will not call you again! Come down now!” “Coming!” She heard a flurry of activity upstairs involving opening and slamming of cupboard doors. Joyce sighed, draping her arms over the railing. She considered going upstairs to get Taylor, or feigning a bathroom break. Anything but staying in the same room as her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Come on Taylor...she urged. This whole dumb family dinner thing was your idea... A peal of footfalls thundered down the steps. Taylor appeared, cheeks flushed, nearly colliding with her mother. “What were you doing?” Joyce asked. “Dinner’s getting cold.” “Just putting my toys away,” Taylor panted. “I hope you’re hungry,” Brent called from the open kitchen. “I made your favourite.” “Spaghetti bolognaise? It’s Dora’s favourite too! Can she have some?” Joyce frowned. Putting up with the imaginary friend was one thing. Playing along was an entirely different matter, and a step too far. “I don’t think we have enough food, honey,” she lied. “She can have some of mine,” Taylor said. “No,” Joyce replied. “Dor...pretend friends don’t eat.” Taylor looked insulted. “Dora is not pretend. She’s real! Look, she’s right here!” She pointed to the spot beside her. “Can’t you see her?” “That’s enough!” Joyce’s voice rose. “Stop this silly game at once!” Her daughter’s eyes doubled in size as a film of tears glazed her pupils. “Oh, will you look at that.” Brent popped his head out from the kitchen. “I do have a tiny bit extra. Dora can have it, but only if you can tell me what we do before eating...” “Wash our hands,” Taylor said, still teary. With one last wary look at her mother, she rushed to the bathroom. As soon as her daughter was out of earshot, Joyce stormed into the kitchen. “Stop undermining me in front of Taylor!” she said through gritted teeth. “Give the kid a break. What’s the harm?” “It isn’t healthy,” she hissed. “Stop encouraging her.” Brent heaped steaming pasta onto an extra side plate. “She’ll grow out of it.” “Not if you keep playing along with her!” Joyce snapped, slapping bolognaise sauce over a mound of spaghetti for emphasis. “It’s probably detrimental to her development.” “Nonsense,” he said. “If anything, it’s good for her. It nurtures her creative side.” “And what about her logical side? I suppose creativity would help when she grows up to be a penniless artist?” It was a low shot, but it shut Brent up. Plates of food in hand, he swept past her with a stony glare just as Taylor reappeared. To Joyce’s vexation, Brent placed the spare plate of pasta at the empty seat beside her daughter’s. Taylor pulled out the unoccupied chair with a flourish. “Dinner is served,” she announced, curtsying to her invisible companion. She leaned over to Brent and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for making dinner, Daddy, Dora says it smells yummy.” Joyce ground her teeth. Brent 1, Joyce 0. She hated how he always made her out to be the bad guy, the uptight parent who was never any fun. “Ooh, ooh! Daddy, you’ve gotta see the pictures we took in Mexico!” Before Joyce could protest, Taylor sprung out of her seat and disappeared into the living room, returning moments later with Joyce’s laptop. Joyce stewed in stuffy silence as Brent ooh-ed and aah-ed over the holiday photos, with Taylor giving a running commentary: “This is the fountain in our hotel... This is Pedro the monkey. He can dance, you know... This is Pablo. He drove our boat...” “Woah...” Brent said around a mouthful of pasta. “Are those dolls?” “Yes!” Taylor beamed, a tomato sauce moustache forming above her lips. “It’s a whole island full of ‘em! And look...” she tapped a key, and the image of the derelict altar filled the screen. “That’s awesome!” “No it’s not,” Joyce said, stabbing at a lump of mince meat on her plate. “It’s a shrine for a dead kid. How sick is that?” “It’s not sick,” Brent said. “I think it’s a pretty refreshing way of looking at death. If there is an afterlife, I’d like to think that a child’s spirit would be just as playful and innocent as in life. Why mourn the passing of a child with a cold, soulless headstone? Why not fill her memorial full of her favourite toys?” “Trust you to find beauty in the macabre,” Joyce mumbled, but Brent had already returned his attention to Taylor. It was as if she wasn’t even there. “So what have you been up to today?” he asked their daughter, who was trying to twirl as much spaghetti round her fork as possible. “I played with some of my dolls.” “You’ve been spending a lot of time in your room,” Joyce said. “Why don’t you play outside anymore?” Taylor shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it.” Joyce detected the ripple of caution in her daughter’s voice when she spoke to her. It stung. “Did...Dora play with you?” Joyce forced out. It was her way of making up for her earlier outburst, a way of declaring a truce. Taylor nodded. “And she introduced me to her friends.” Joyce grimaced. Great, just what she needs. More imaginary friends. “Ooh, what are their names?” Brent asked. “Eleggua and Oya.” A spreading tumour of dread grew in the pit of Joyce’s stomach. The conversation between Taylor and Brent became muted, replaced instead by an urgent, incessant ringing in her ears, like alarm bells in her mind. Where did she learn those names? A tremor rolled up her spine, as if someone had put an ice cube down the back of her neck. She glanced at the empty seat beside Taylor, and her mouth fell open at the spare plate of food that now looked partly consumed. ***** A Google search of the terms “Eleggua” and “Oya” returned a list of websites detailing the different Orishas in Santeria, but little else. Joyce revised her search, typing “Santeria” and “black candles” into the search box before hitting ‘Enter’. The first title in her results caught her attention: Palo Mayombe: The Dark Side of Santeria She clicked on the link, and her screen plunged into an inky blackness. Then white text began to load, stark and harsh against the dark background, like bleached bones on ebony. Palo Mayombe is an offshoot of Santeria. While both worship the same deities, or Orishas, Santerians employ the powers of light in their spells. Paleros – practitioners of Palo Mayombe – use the force of darkness. In Palo Mayombe, the place of worship is called the “house of the dead.” This is where powerful spirits reside, and as such, it is traditionally placed somewhere quiet and secluded, far from the practitioner’s living quarters. Inside, at least one candle must be burning at any one time, to honour the resident spirits. The colour of the candle is symbolic, and perhaps the most popular – and the most controversial – colour favoured by Paleros is the black candle. Associated with death and destruction, these candles are used only in the most powerful dark spells. Central to the practice of Palo Mayombe is the keeping of a religious cauldron called a Nganga. This is a consecrated vessel, filled with sacred earth, human remains, bones and other items. Paleros believe that each Nganga is inhabited by a muerto, or spirit of the dead, that a Palero can command to do his bidding. A powerful Palero priest is capable of using spirits to raise a man from obscurity to prominence with just a few incantations and rituals. Many political leaders in Latin America are rumoured to be involved in Palo Mayombe to keep them in power. On the flip side, a priest can just as easily bring on death with a simple curse. However, should a Palero lack the skills to control a summoned spirit, the consequences could be deadly – and not just for the priest. It is no wonder Palo Mayombe is considered one of the world’s most powerful and feared form of black magic. With a shudder, Joyce sat back, pulling her towel tighter around herself in a protective cocoon. Despite the warm sun beating down on her, and the heat rising off the flagstones underfoot, she felt chilled to the bone. Palo Mayombe... Did that creepy hermit on the island practice it? A shrine in the middle of nowhere. A house of the dead... She nearly screamed when something cold and wet touched her bare knee. Taylor stood beside her in the middle of a spreading puddle, her hair plastered to the sides of her face, the sharp smell of chlorine emanating off her in humid wafts. “Hey honey,” she said with relief. “How was your lesson?” “Good!” Taylor replied. “We learned the breaststroke today!” “Well done,” Joyce said, reaching for Taylor’s towel. “Let’s get you dry before you catch a cold.” Taylor shook her head, splashing more pool water over her. Joyce shut the lid on her laptop to protect it from the drips. “Can I just do another lap?” she asked. “Please? Dora, El and Oya have challenged me to a race.” Joyce frowned, but she didn’t want to make a scene beside the pool. She knew many of the other mothers, and it wouldn’t do to be seen here chastising her daughter. “Fine, but just one lap, OK? We need to get home. Maria has dinner waiting.” She watched as her daughter launched herself into the pool in the cannonball position, sending up a miniature tidal wave. Just imaginary friends...nothing more...Joyce thought, fighting down the unease gnawing at the base of her stomach. Taylor must have overheard her conversation with Maria. That must be where she picked up the names. There’s no other explanation. It’s just a coincidence. Just like Harold’s death was a coincidence. She lifted the screen on her laptop and stared again at the dark and forbidding web page. It certainly explained a lot of what she had seen on the Island of the Dolls: the occult symbols, the secluded place of worship, the black candles... “Central to the practice of Palo Mayombe is the keeping of a religious cauldron called a Nganga.” Joyce arched an eyebrow. Calling up a new window, she retrieved her saved holiday photos, found the shot of the altar and enlarged it. Rows upon rows of dolls sat over a concrete slab etched with arcane symbols and crusted with the solidified remains of melted black candles. There was no cauldron. Nothing even resembling a receptacle of any kind. Could it have been removed? Perhaps by some twisted souvenir hunter? “Oh my God!” she heard a woman gasp. More alarmed voices joined in, snapping Joyce’s attention back to the pool. An eruption of white water disturbed the surface near the deep end. In the midst of the roiling foam, Joyce detected tiny flailing arms, and a flash of blonde hair. “TAYLOR!” Her heart in her mouth, Joyce sprang up from her sun lounger and raced to the edge of the pool. Cool water sloshed round her ankles. “TAYLOR!” Where the Hell is the lifeguard? Taylor’s head surfaced briefly before disappearing once again under the churning froth. Kicking off her sandals, Joyce dived in, ignoring the shock of the cold water. She made her way towards her daughter in frenzied strokes, reaching Taylor just as the girl’s head bobbed under again. “I got you, honey! I got you!” she tried to say, but the panicked child clawed desperately at her, pulling her under, drowning her words. In the muffled chaos underwater, Joyce was disoriented by flapping limbs and a blizzard of bubbles. Water rushed up her nostrils, piercing her sinuses with icy needles. Taylor’s nails dug into her flesh as the little girl hung on to her arms, refusing to let go. As the oxygen reserves in her lungs depleted, she felt an expanding pressure inside her, threatening to rupture her chest unless she breathed in now. With a surge of strength, she managed to tear one of her arms away from Taylor’s vice-like grip. Thrashing wildly, she broke the surface and took a deep, greedy gulp of sweet air. With her freed arm, she lifted her daughter’s head out of the water. “I got you, sweetie,” she sputtered. “You’re safe now.” Kicking her legs, she propelled them towards the edge of the pool, where waiting hands hauled them on to dry land. Joyce collapsed in a sodden heap, heaving, the sour taste of chlorine drying out her mouth. Beside her, Taylor was on her hands and knees, coughing and spitting out mouthfuls of water. Still trying to catch her breath, Joyce propped herself up on rubbery arms. “Taylor,” she gasped, “are you all right?” Her daughter managed a weak nod. “It was Dora,” she said. “She cheated. She won’t let me win.” ***** “Are you trying to say our daughter’s imaginary friend tried to drown her?” “I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what she said.” Joyce insisted, tightening her white-knuckled grip on the phone. Brent made a noise on the other end of the line, like a snort of disbelief. “And you believe her?” “No...not really, but...Taylor’s always been such a strong swimmer.” “She might have had a cramp.” A lock of damp hair fell across Joyce’s face, and she blew it away in frustration. “Maybe,” she relented. “You don’t seriously think it’s black magic, do you?” Brent asked. “You, Miss Logical-and-Rational?” “It’s just...” she sighed. “It’s too much to be a coincidence, isn’t it? First a little girl. Then this witch doctor guy. Then that other tourist. All drowned. And now Taylor...” “Hey, it’s just a story. You’ve just spooked yourself with all that research into Paolo Mayo.” “Palo Mayombe,” she corrected. “Whatever. The point is you spooked yourself. For someone who turns her nose up at creativity, you have quite the imagination.” She shot him a glare down the phone line. “Our guide warned us not to touch the dolls. Now I know why.” “Because one guy was fooling around with those dolls and ended up dead? Did you touch the dolls?” “No.” “Did Taylor?” “She tried to, but I stopped her.” “So if it really was a curse that did that fat guy in, you’re off the hook. After all, you haven’t incurred the wrath of any spirits by desecrating their sacred dolls.” “But what about Taylor—“ “An unfortunate accident. I’m glad she’s OK. Just keep a closer eye on her next time.” Joyce was about to voice her resentment at Brent’s implication of neglect when she heard Taylor’s singsong voice. She was talking to herself – again. “Listen Brent, I’ll call back later, OK?” Without waiting for an answer, she hung up the phone, and moved to the bottom of the staircase. Taylor was definitely talking, and she sounded angry, but Joyce couldn’t make out what she was saying. Cautiously, Joyce crept up the stairs, being careful to tread over the step with the creaky board. Taylor’s voice grew stronger, clearer, as Joyce neared her bedroom. The door was ajar, allowing Joyce a two-inch spy gap. Pressing herself against the wall, she peered into the room. At first, all she could make out were the pink and yellow pastels of the floral wallpaper. Then, she spotted Taylor, sitting on her bed, facing the far corner of her room. “That’s not fair!” she was saying, her face scrunched together in a scowl. “You cheated! That was a really mean thing to do. I was really scared!” Joyce’s limited view of the room did not allow her to see who or what Taylor was talking to. She watched as her daughter stopped, as if listening to a silent response, before crossing her arms and sticking out her tongue. “You can’t do that!” she said. “You can’t have back something you gave away! That’s Indian giving!” Her arms coiled protectively around her midsection. Then Joyce realised Taylor was not hugging herself. She was hugging something in her arms. Something with dark curly hair and a floral dress. “Taylor!” Joyce cried, flinging the door open. Taylor jumped, emitting a frightened squeak, her hands already stuffing the doll under her blouse. “Where...? How...?” Joyce sputtered, overwhelmed by horror, her tongue tripping over the deluge of questions pinging through her mind. Where did that come from? How did she get it? Did she sneak it back from the island? How did she keep it hidden from her for so long? “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry!” Taylor cried, guilt and consternation twisting her features and colouring her cheeks. “Dora said I could have it, but now she wants it back. She’s acting real mean. She says she’s going to hurt me if I don’t give it back!” “But I told you not to touch it!” Joyce screamed in a panic. The doll peeked out at her from beneath her daughter’s possessive embrace, its green glass eyes staring back at her, glinting with defiance, with intelligence. She did not want this thing inside her house. “Give it to me,” Joyce demanded, holding out her hand. “No!” Taylor shrank back, tightening her grip on the doll. “I said give it to me!” Joyce shrieked. She lunged forward, clutching a handful of the doll’s hair. Taylor squealed in protest as she pulled away, hanging on tight to her prize. “No!” she wailed, tears streaming down her red cheeks. “Let go!” The tug-of-war lasted just a few seconds before, with a frustrated howl, Joyce tried to gain possession of the doll with a violent yank. A pop rang through the room as the doll’s head came off. Clumps of grey and brown rained from the hollow of its severed neck, the blood and gore of a decapitated toy. “What the—” Joyce began, but then the smell hit her – a thick fog of rancid flesh, the stench of decades of rot, encapsulated and concentrated within a tiny vessel, now unleashed in all its nauseating fury. Covering her face with her hand, Joyce forced back the torrent of bile and vomit threatening its way up her throat. Taylor sat on her bed, still clutching the headless doll, her mouth frozen open in shock at their gruesome discovery. Everything is clear now...it all makes sense...Joyce thought, gaping at the pile of decomposing flesh and disintegrating bones, mixed with what looks like clods of dirt. We’ve found the Nganga...the holy vessel... A tuft of dark hair, still attached to a patch of greying scalp, lay half-buried in the putrid debris. Bleached bones stuck out from the earth and decay, tiny bones, like the bones of a small animal. Or a child. Taylor’s imaginary friend...Dora...not Dora the Explorer... Salvadora... The drowned girl who wants her doll back. ***** “Stop staring at me,” she hissed at the smiling doll. Looking away, she shoved the doll deeper into her bag, hiding its teasing eyes. Maria had done an impressive job of putting it back together. Sure, the maid paled at the sight and smell, but after crossing herself, she set to work, scooping up the grisly contents and stuffing them back into the doll’s carcass. She re-attached the head with some superglue, and after an entire can of Glade, the rotting corpse smell was all but masked by the heady perfume of the air freshener. “That’s a lovely doll,” the middle-aged woman beside her cooed. She held up a battered blonde doll that had seen better days. “Are you going to make an offering, too?” Joyce forced a smile and nodded politely before turning away. She had wanted to burn the damned thing. Throw it into a bonfire. Or just douse it with gasoline and set it alight right where it lay, in the middle of Taylor’s bedroom. But Maria had warned against it, said the remains of the child must be returned to its rightful place. The spirits had been angered enough. Any further defiling of the doll could incur a more permanent curse. A gentle bump signalled the docking of their boat. Fresh dread blossomed in the pit of Joyce’s stomach at the familiar sight of the dangling dolls. Oblivious to the blood that had begun thundering through her head, their roly-poly Mexican guide announced with theatrical aplomb: “Welcome to la Isla de la Munecas.” ***** The dark silhouette of the dilapidated wooden shed stood against the purple sky like the shadow of a crumbling tombstone. I should’ve come in the morning… But she hadn’t wanted the doll in her possession any longer than necessary. Without stopping to check into her hotel, she had taken a taxi from the airport straight to the pier to make the last tour of the day. The hut’s door, a series of planks roughly lashed together – no handles or knobs – was shut today. Joyce lifted the simple hook latch securing the door and pulled. It creaked as if in warning, and she stepped into the humid mustiness of the hut. With the scant evening light, the interior seemed darker and more foreboding than before. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the altar before her with its display of dolls. Her breath caught at the sight of the pair of burning black candles, their sparse light piercing the gloom like the glowing eyes of a demon. She surveyed the claustrophobic space, the nape of her neck prickling. Was someone watching her? Go. Just dump the blasted thing and go. She reached into her bag with trembling fingers and pulled out the Mexican doll. The candlelight danced off its eyes, creating life in its inanimate pupils. Perhaps it was her fear playing tricks on her, but Joyce could have sworn that the doll began to thrum with some internal energy. The darkness seemed to envelope her, coiling around her like a giant snake, threatening to swallow her. With a strangled cry, she half placed, half hurled the doll onto the altar. It threw up a puff of dust as it landed, before slouching sideways, head tilted. “There, it’s done…it’s done…” Joyce murmured aloud. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy, and her heart felt like it was about to punch a hole through her ribcage. In the still silence of the hut’s shadowy interior, her pulse sounded like waves of rolling thunder. The next few seconds stretched out into eternity, as she stared at the lifeless doll, every muscle fibre within her so taut they felt ready to snap. Finally, she straightened and exhaled, loud and long, expelling the tension from her body. What was I expecting? A ghost girl materializing and reclaiming the doll? A booming voice announcing that all is forgiven? What she definitely hadn’t expected was the sudden, icy breeze that started blowing through the confines of the hut, whipping up decades-old accumulations of filth into a miniature dust storm. The candles flickered and sputtered before extinguishing, plunging the room into a claustrophobic darkness. Joyce stood rigid with fear. Just the wind, she tried convincing herself, struggling to control her runaway breathing. Door’s open, after all... She yelped when the candles lit up again on their own accord. This time, they no longer cast illuminating, reassuring yellow light. They were burning a dark, sombre purple. The strange flames bathed the room in a surreal haze, creating lengthened shadows that appeared to creep along the walls. The shadows congregated around the altar, surrounding the dolls in a dark, shifting aura. As she watched, tendrils of shadow detached themselves from the two-dimensional confines of the wall, coiling around each doll like a wriggling nest of black snakes. One wispy tentacle circled the central doll, Taylor’s Mexican doll, the Nganga, twisting its way up the doll’s torso until its black tip appeared to climb up the doll’s nose. The doll shifted and sat up, its blazing green eyes staring straight at Joyce. Joyce screamed, breaking out of her paralysis and nearly tripping over her own feet as she rushed for the door. Another gust blew the door shut with an ear-shattering slam, so hard that dust rained down from the overhead timbers. She pushed at the door. It clattered in protest. Had someone latched it from the outside? “Somebody please let me out!” she cried, pummeling at the door with her fists. More dust drizzled down from the ceiling, and the door shook in its frame. Then she heard the most unlikely sound coming from behind her. A child’s laugh. She peered over her shoulder. The Nganga doll had moved from its place atop the altar, and now stood in the centre of the small room, its eyes gleaming in the darkness like the eyes of a panther stalking its prey. With a strangled cry, Joyce reared back and slammed her shoulder into the door, throwing her entire body weight into the rotting planks. It responded with a loud CRACK! The wood twisted, then gave, bursting in a shower of splinters. The force sent Joyce tumbling out onto the dirt. Picking herself up, she took off in a run down the path leading to the dock. Low hanging branches whipped at her face. Loose pebbles underfoot threatened to trip her over. Her lungs were burning by the time the trees fell away, revealing a purpling sky and the rippling waters of the Xochimilco. And the trajineras pulling away from shore. “Wait!” she called, flailing her arms in wide arcs as she sprinted to the dock. Another gust of wind rose, stealing her cries from her lips and carrying them away from the shrinking craft. “Wait! Please! Hey!” Joyce raced beside the water’s edge as she tried to run alongside the boat. Squelching through the muddy bank, she screamed and waved frantically, praying that someone on the boat would see or hear her. Her call for help morphed into a surprised shriek when her foot slipped sideways in the mire, sending her sliding down the bank and into the canal. The water was frigid, surprisingly so in this climate. With a gasp, Joyce splashed and kicked until her feet found purchase. Water rained from her body in sheets as she stood, waist-deep in the canal. The trajineras was fading into the twilight, its dark silhouette dissolving into the descending darkness. “No!” she howled, her insides consumed by terror. She waded towards the disappearing boat, forging a path through the thick reeds. She was going to swim her way off this island if she had to. Something snagged her ankle, sending her splashing face first into the water. She shut her eyes on impact, but brackish water flooded her open mouth. She kicked her legs to free herself, but her bindings held firm. Lungs twisting from lack of air, she craned her neck towards the surface, arms thrashing, but something had a hold on her wrists, and whatever they were, they did not feel like reeds. They felt like tiny hands. A child’s hands. Joyce opened her eyes in the brown sludge. Amidst the floating dirt particles and swaying forest of cattails, a pair of glowing green eyes appraised her from the murky depths. She screamed, occluding her own vision with a curtain of bubbles. And then her brown world darkened to black. ***** “Some people say that after so many years alone, little Salvadora longs for human company. They say that she lured Don Santana to his death, so that his spirit will join hers.” Pablo the tour guide was on a roll. Every pair of eyes on board the docked trajineras was on him. His story had his audience entranced. A seasoned storyteller, he paused, creating a deliberate lull for the necessary dose of suspense. Then he continued: “Just last month, an American tourist drowned here, over there in that very canal.” He pointed to a tangle of cattails along the shore. “The same canal where Salvadora and Don Santana’s bodies were found. So what do you think, mis amigos? Coincidence? Or Salvadora?” ***** No! Joyce thought as she listened once more to Pablo’s story. That’s not true! I’m not dead! She watched as the tour group filed out of the fluorescent trajineras and dispersed across the island. “That is such a tragic story,” she heard one woman remark. “Not to mention spooky,” her male companion agreed, surveying the army of hanging dolls. Suddenly, the woman gasped, grabbing the man’s arm. “George!” she whispered, pointing. “I could swear that doll just moved!” George raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Really, Nancy? Are you serious?” “It – I’m not sure. It’s just that…this is so creepy. Look at their eyes. They almost look alive. I could swear they’re watching us.” Joyce watched as the man laughed – a bit too loudly – before shrugging the woman off. “Nancy, I think our guide’s ghost story has gotten to you.” He tugged at her elbow. “Come on, let’s go.” No, don’t go, Joyce pleaded. Help me! But her cries were silent, and when she tried to wave, her arms hung limp by her sides. All she could manage was a near imperceptible twitch in the fingers on her left hand. She could only watch helplessly as the woman cast one last nervous glance over her shoulder. She looked straight at Joyce before the couple disappeared into the surrounding foliage. And Joyce was once again alone. Well, not exactly alone. A cluster of dolls beside her parted, as if moved by unseen hands. Then an invisible force nudged her, making her swing from the rope round her neck. She heard a giggle, so soft it sounded like the sigh of a gentle breeze. “Dora está muy feliz. Dora tiene una mamá de Nuevo,” a child’s voice breathed in her ear. Joyce’s Spanish was rudimentary at best, but she had learned enough from Maria to understand. “Dora is very happy. Dora has a mama again.” ~THE END~ ***** ABOUT THE AUTHOR: J.C. Martin is a displaced Malaysian living in South London, England, with her husband and three dogs. After working in pharmaceutical research and in education as a schoolteacher, she decided to put her 2nd degree black belt in Wing Chun to good use. She now teaches martial arts, and writes whenever she can. Discover other titles by J.C. Martin at Smashwords.com CONNECT WITH ME ONLINE: My blog: http://jc-martin.com/fighterwriter/ Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/jcmartin_author Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jc.martin.author Thank you for reading!