Annabelle's Doll
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Annabelle's Doll
by
The sheep of the China Shepherdess.
The flyer read, "Mary Anne's Antique Doll show, County Fairgrounds, Early
admission 25 dollars." Most of the attendees were older women, with gray
hair. Many had been rather pretty when young. Some still had a semblance
of figure. Others were obviously mammalian and female. Behind the
counters more often than not were young men in their mid 20s. Dressed in
the contemporary style of the "Artist" Pronounced with the emphasis on
the second syllable as ar-teest. It would be unfair to categorize these
fellows as limp wrist followers of Oscar Wiled or Bunthorne. These
fellows knew their stuff. Made a living selling the emotion of antique
dolls online and in person.
Other dealers were couples. Sitting on folding chairs behind the tables
and ez-up tents, they could be at much at home at a NASCAR event as
anyplace. Scraping by to get enough gas to fill the motor home to make
it to the next show on the circuit. Rarely did they have anything of
value. What they did have was priced fairly. Cheap and affordable. Modern
Gypsies who managed to keep one step ahead of the next.
In pride of place at the end of the hall was an expert known to the
proverbial "millions" viewers of "Antiques Road show" fame. The longest
line was for the free appraisal. Looking over the line a good cross
section of the attendees could be observed. Steve Schmidt suspected that
one or two might even be cross dressers or persons of questionable
gender.
Steve was there because he liked dolls and miniature doll furniture.
Something like a Louis XV dressing table or vanity would really give him
the jones. Especially if he could find a Bebe-Jeumeu to place before it.
Steve looked at a vendor's display. The rows and rows of mint in box star
wars toys, their blister packs yellow with age. His attention passed
over the old books, auction catalogs and out of date price guides. Like
many of his era at the start of the twenty first century he would drag
his hands over the merchandise. Touching feeling, an escape from the
media world of watch and wait.
Sometimes he would pick up an item, a doll or some other object that
caught his attention. His collection was eclectic. A working miniature
grand piano, some old doll dresses and a few dolls mostly reproductions
or modern plastic dolls. These he kept in a storage unit out by the
interstate sealed in their original boxes. He did manage to scare up
enough courage to place some of the doll books into a book case in his
duplex apartment.
The economy had hit him hard, leaving him without a job, and little
prospect in finding one. Turned down by the fast food place, and wall
mart his computer skills were out of date for a programming job, long
since outsourced to india. He did not mind; by chance during the dot
com bubble he had invested wisely, some in stocks, some in collectables,
like the miniatures and doll clothing. Occasionally selling a piece on
ebay. Then indulging on another item of equal or lesser value. A true
collector.
It might be said that Steve was rather shy. It is true he had few
friends outside his work environment. He felt awkward around members of
the opposite sex. He had a few friends of the female persuasion. Most
he felt seemed to want to stare at his crotch. Perhaps in reaction to
his appreciation for what he called a fine rack of maroombas. At the
moment in question he was thinking of neither.
Expensive dolls were stacked like cordwood on the counter. A
Frankenstein assortment of doll body parts were towards the front of the
table. Next to them was a thin glass fronted case, containing old medals,
buttons and a few old pocket watches. Dotted in-between By cloisonné
pins. The glass on the case front was open, tilted up to prevent quick
pilfering of the items. Even so the case was overflowing with some of the
objects spilling out the side.
A few moments before, Steve on impulse had purchased a Lavender dress
set. Suitable for an 18 inch doll of the parisian school. This was in a
plastic bag, Marked Tiffany and Co. As the bag was too small a section of
the silk dress draped out of the bag.
Steve did not notice that the lace from the dress was touching one of the
medallions in the flat glass case. He noticed the medallion, a sort of
gold alloy with an image of either an angel or a fairy on it. Steve
liked pictures of fairies. He knew that such creatures dated from Roman
times and were considered household gods. Lemurs and Lares they were
called. Mischevieous spirits who helped and hindered. Some desired
others feared.
As his hand swept across the display to pick up the medallion and examine
it further, he felt a slight tingle. Like a shock from a static
discharge. Steve returned the medallion to the case and continued his
shopping. Continuing down the aisle he remembered seeing a small
octagonal table in on a shelf in a nearby display. Wanting to take a
second look at it, he was surprised that it seemed to be on a higher
shelf. Almost out of reach. It was though he had become a few inches
shorter.
This was odd because Steve though himself of average height. Normally he
seemed to look over the crowns of most women's heads. Now he was looking
at them straight in eyes. Something he did not normally do. Given this
perspective he saw what he had been wanting. Familiar with photographs
and plans and drawings was the Louis XV vanity set he had been longing.
The site of which gave him a jones like he had never had before. It
still had its original oval mirror. Mercury silvered. And an ornately
carved chair.
An inspection of the price tag was even more of a burst of pleasure.
While the tag seemed physically larger than the one he remembered from
the octagonal table, the price was less. Only a few dollars more than
his upper limit. The Louis XV dressing set was as good as his. Even
better, his wallet felt larger and fatter than ever in his hand.
His transactions complete, Steve headed for the car park. Again his
perspective seemed to shift. The cars looked larger. The battered old
compact pick-up he drove looked for a moment like a mid sized SUV.
Dismissing the shift in scale to an inflated Ego, Steve climbed up into
the driver seat. He had to pull the belt in a few notches. His new toys
safely stowed next to him on the passenger side. His mind focused on his
new toy It would occupy pride of place in his house, this was not one to
hide in a storage locker.
Steve lived in an older building in an older part of the town. It might
be more correct to class the building as obsolete as it was not old
enough to become a classic. Neither was it new enough to be considered
contemporary. As Steve pulled into the drive he felt himself straining
to touch the pedals. To make matters worse, he was aware that it took
some effort to see over the dash and out the windscreen. To the point
where he had to stand up on the seat to activate the garage opener.
With some difficulty due to the sudden loss of over half his height
Steve managed to get the truck parked. His clothes no longer fit and the
only thing that covered him was his shirt. His pants were about him,
baggy, like some sort of gangsta kid.
Steve's joy at the vanity set was short lived. To him it was obvious,
that the toy he so desired must be cursed. Now it must be protected at
all cost, lest it injure him further. With careful effort he got it into
the house. Stories of Ponce De Leone, filled his head. He did not think
it was the carny dog and lemon-less lemonade he had for lunch at the doll
show. It had to be the necessarie that was shrinking him. Or at lest
causing him to age in reverse.
This gave him a quick scare, what if he was turning into a woman, the
sort what would own a toy like that? Finding a mirror, he saw the
reflection of a boy of 10 or 12. Returning to the living room he
unpacked the vanity. Carefully unwrapping that mirror, he saw the same
reflection. At the same time he was aware that the room had grown
larger. Or himself smaller.
Making his way to the computer room, he recovered a laptop, which he
brought into the main living room. Setting the laptop next to the vanity
he began to search for information on curses and age regression. These
were only stories of the fantastic. The only other thing he could locate
was a wikipedia article on a medallion, that matched the one he saw in
the display case.
It could not be. In his present height, which was bit over 2 feet tall
he could not operate his truck to get back and get the medallion. If the
article was correct what ever he became, he would have to be that for 24
hours. It was also evident that he was in need of something better to
wear. He had the receipt and the dealers name, who sold him the table,
but not the dealer who had the medallion.
The shirt now wrapped around him like a toga. His pants and boxers
discarded like a small tent. With the cloth about him it was hard to
manage the computer search. Especially that he was under two feet in
height.
Steve climbed onto the table that contained the vanity and the laptop. He
was naked to the world. feeling somewhat vulnerable. The only clothing
he could think of was the antique dress. Perhaps that was the source of
the curse that was affecting him. No longer was it age regression. He
did not want to believe he was turning into a doll. It was too absurd.
Yet it was evident he was smaller than the smallest dwarf he ever heard
about. As much as he liked pictures of fairies is knowledge of them was
minimal. If he was going to meet them he wanted to be wearing something.
If they wanted him to wear the dress, then he would if it could get him
out of the situation at hand.
Spilling from the Tiffany & Co bag was the lavender dress, and other doll
clothing. It looked like they might fit,. With trepidation Steve put on
the socks, frilly pants and the slip. The fit was close to perfect. He
really did not want to put on the silk dress. This was a short pleated
skirt with a belt at the level just below the hips. It had a straight
lace front. The neckline was pleated in something called fan pleats.
Afraid as he was to put on the dress; he was just as afraid not to put
it on. Last he put on the dolls patent leather shoes. It was a strange
feeling. To be dressed as a doll. Not a feeling that he desired.
Perhaps there was still a chance he could get a courier to take him back
to the doll show. If he looked like a doll, then he might pretend to be
one. Get back to the dealer that sold him the Vanity, then make his way
to the dealer with the mirror.
The mirror, that had been his desire, was the right size to show his
reflection. He noticed that since putting on the doll's underwear that
he had not shrunk further. The distorting glass made his head look
inflated A bit out of proportion with the rest of his body.. His hair, a
few inches long before he started the transform, was now about the right
length for a doll.
Feeling like Alice, in her wonderland. The computer reminded Steve of
her chessboard. The screen like the largest one in the multiplex. Pushing
the keys with his tiny hands Steve continued the search. He also entered
into a postal service the codes and pick up labels that would be able to
get the pack and label courier to deliver the doll back to the show.
Hearing the printer in the other room print the shipping labels, Steve
returned to the page that spoke of a medallion which had the power to
transform the soul.
From what he could read on the wikipedea page, that the medallion could
not make him into an inanimate object. At least there was no record of
this in the writings he could find. It seemed that it must be something
with a soul in it in order to transform the fate of the user. Steve did
not trust wikipedia, after all anyone could modify it.
The evidence before him indicated that it was a doll, a french bebe, that
was to become his fate. Some sort of preternatural doll that had a soul.
Or had something gone wrong? His hair seemed to fall into ringlets about
his face. Was it really pulling into braids on the top of his head? He
pushed it aside in order to continue reading the article. Perhaps the
doll was someone else who had been transformed. Perhaps if that doll was
becoming Steve, would it lead his life? Could they switch back?
It was becoming difficult for him to type. Pushing the mouse was like
moving a toy car. His hands continued to decrease in size. The fingers
took on a distorted appearance. Like some sort of grotesque character of
a human hand. More disturbing was a stiff feeling, like itchy splinters
of wood in his hands and feet. It felt like his hands were wooden
gloves. No longer would the fingers move.
His knees began to itch as did his wrists. With effort he could move his
hand at the wrist. His elbow moved the same way. No amount of effort
would make his shoulder move more than a little bit. Try as he might he
could not lift his hand above his head. The same applied to his legs and
ankles. Tapping them with the wooden hands they must have become wood as
well.
With preternatural effort, he could still walk Jerking on the tabletop
like some sort of Frankenstein creation. He crudely managed to walk from
the laptop to the Louis XV chair that came with the vanity. The stiff
itching in his legs and thighs made him aware that, he was no longer a
he.
The bands on his wrists were now clearly puppet joints. The clever ball
joints that made old french dolls so valuable. This made hoisting the
skirt up to check was an effort as it was difficult to catch it with the
thumb and index finger which was fixed in position. In the reflection of
the vanity mirror. Steve could see that his crotch had become puppet
joints too.
The doll knew that its waist was such a joint. Legs of wood. Painted
wood. Wood that could move with preternatural force into a sitting
position at the vanity, before the mirror.
The frightened feeling turned to anger. Steve could feel his nose and
cheeks puff out. His nose feeling like it was stuffed with plush and
kapok, smelling of old cloth. A mixture of rose and cinimon. He opened
his mouth only to feel it snap shut as he gasped for breath. Reflected
in the mirror the face of a doll with Steve's small human eyes stared
back at him. The mouth forever sealed shut in an ironic smile. A cute
dolls nose above it. Steve closed his eyes the last bit of his old self,
he did not want to see fade away.
Fearing to open them Steve held his eyes closed as the lack of breath
made him feel lightheaded. His eyes began to burn like they were in the
fame of the glassblower. Angry and afraid Steve struggled to keep them
closed. Something was pulling against his eyebrows. It felt like a
pointed paintbrush feathering them into delicate lines. Bearing the pain
no longer the doll opened her eyes. The last bit of Steve's soul peering
out from the depths as they became the lifeless eyes of a doll.
A flood of memories seemed to flow into what had been Steve's empty head.
First it was the song of the dryads, who watched over the trees that went
into the wood that made her new body. Then came the whispers of the
naiads that washed over the stones that were ground into the clay that
was fired to make her face. She could remember the kiln fires that
forged her face into the stone it now was. In her soul she heard the
symphony of the silkworms that wove her dress. The percussion of the
sheep that yielded the fine wool that was her hair. She even knew her
name.
She was Annabelle's doll. Annabelle Andrews so loved her doll, that she
gave it a soul. When Annabelle grew to old for dolls and had a family of
her own, she passed the doll, her most prized possession to that what she
loved best. Annabelle's daughter loved the doll in her special way and
strengthened the soul within. Years of happy memories, tempered with
periods of neglect. In which Annabelle never stopped loving her first
doll. The doll knew that Annabelle had long since departed the earth and
the daughter had left 18 years before. No one in the family had a desire
for that dusty old thing. The head had been broken when the doll was
dropped. The wooden body consumed by fire.
Only the dress remained. Within it the soul Annabelle had instilled into
it. Now what had been Steve's soul merged in with it and gave it form
once more. She knew she was going to be a doll for the remainder of
eternity.
The courier would come, find the box and shipping labels. Annabelle's
doll was about to begin a new life, of doll shows, auction houses,
museums, air and humidity monitors. Never would she be loved as
Annabelle once loved her. Now she would be loved for her rarity. Worth
10s of thousands, only cotton gloves would caress her wooden form. She
would be loved from afar, with envy, by millions, who are girls at heart.
Annabelle's doll would be illustrated in books. Her face and form peer
out from calendars. That of the French Bebe-Jeumeu. Perfection in the
mathematical nature of the golden section of beauty.
Still she held out hope, that somewhere in some place, other collectable
flotsam might once again appear in a glass case on a table mixed in with
the memorials of ages past a non de-script medallion that had the power
to shift the fates of those who come in contact with it.