Leaving the house with a spade and small canvas bag, the little girl walked closely behind the Doll-Maker, who appeared to know the forest to such a degree that he did not need a lamp to guide the way. Walking in utter darkness, the little girl tripped and slid and slipped and fell with practically every step she took.
“Please, sir,” she said, “I am not used to walking in the forest without any light—”
“Believe me, my dear, you do not want the attention a lamp would attract while walking through this forest. There are far more things dwelling here than even your imagination can conceive—things that would not think twice about gobbling you up whole.”
Prudently not wishing to doubt the Doll-Maker's words, the little girl found that, on balance, she would rather suffer a scraped knee than be eaten up whole. With the fear of her surroundings revived, she silently walked closer still behind the Doll-Maker, trying to make as little noise as possible, should beasts and monsters beyond her imagining suddenly appear and greedily consume her.
Long they walked through Midnight Forest, under the occasional glacial vigilance of the moon above. Her eyes having somewhat adapted to the darkness, the little girl managed to walk at a relative pace behind the Doll-Maker.
Amidst the hooting, whistles, and sporadic woos, he little girl thought she'd heard the very faint whisper of violin song in the distance, which was soon followed by a sudden storm of beating feathers that filled the air. Looking up through the trees, she saw a gigantic black shape traverse the ebony canopy above, momentarily blotting out the moon as it glided past her. As her eyes followed it, she saw the shape break away into what looked to her to be the biggest murder of crows she had ever seen; they landed atop tree branches, rocks, and logs around them.
In a hushed tone, the little girl asked, “S...s...sir, what is happening?” fearful her voice might disturb and aggravate the crows, who silently watched her and the Doll-Maker's every step with their penetrating, inquisitive ruby eyes.
“Not to worry, my dear,” replied the Doll-Maker with a hint of stifled angst in his tone. “They mean us no harm. They have just come to see us off, that's all...”
Directly ahead of him, one of the crows suddenly beat it’s wings, making the Doll-Maker let out a slight yelp as he half-jumped away from it. Attempting to regain his composure, he gruffly cleared his throat and said, “Oh, I—I thought there was a snake there. Very poisonous, you know. Yes. Hurry along now, my dear. We are almost there now.” The speed of his words now matched his accelerated pace.
Not entirely convinced by the Doll-Maker's explanation, the little girl increased her own pace to match his, careful not to stare back at the watchful crows that encircled them.
As they left the forest, they followed a narrow country lane that led to the little girl's village.
“We must be careful not to be seen, my dear. These villagers don't have the good sense to understand the genius of my work,” began the Doll-Maker, bitterly. “Their minds are as closed as a tomb, or so they would believe...”
The little girl and the Doll-Maker sneaked through the dark, dusty streets of the quiet village, crouching behind every bin, jumping into every bush, and slinking behind every tree, finally arriving at the imposing wrought iron gates of the cemetery.
“Here we are, my dear. Now we must be vigilant, for the groundskeeper may be lurking somewhere.”
As slowly and silently as he could, the Doll-Maker pulled open the gate, leaving a wide enough gap for both him and the little girl to pass through. The sight of what spread before her froze the little girl in place. She tried her hardest to conceal the utter terror she felt, but her limbs failed, locking her in place. The Doll-Maker, busily scouting the cemetery, suddenly noticed she wasn't behind him but stood completely exposed to detection. With lighting fast speed, he flew to her side and loudly whispered in the little girl's ear, “What are you doing? Why are you just standing there, you silly girl? If this is your idea of a joke, I assure you it is not funny! Now move!”
Unable to adhere to the Doll-Maker's instructions, the little girl continued to stand in place, fearfully staring ahead of her.
At her continued inaction, the Doll-Maker, with venomous intent, spat, “If you don't start to move and follow me, you will never see your parents again. Do you understand? They will continue to rot in whatever ditch they were dumped in, and that is where they will stay. Do you hear me? Perhaps you would even like to go see them? Would you like to watch as your sweet little parents are slowly picked apart and devoured by maggots, vultures, and crows? Would you?”
Upon hearing the Doll-Maker's malicious words, something began to happen deep inside the little girl. With the dreadful seed he had just implanted in her mind now blooming into abhorrent visions of the decaying bodies of her parents, she reached into the innermost depths of herself, bringing to the surface the furious determination she needed in order to let go of the fear that gripped her. She would move. She would collect the skulls the Doll-Maker so desired. He would bring her parents back to her, whereupon the happy life she once knew would return.
Looking ahead at the cemetery, the little girl began to lock tightly away inside a box within her mind all thoughts of ghostly appearances and spectral mischief. Instead, she tried to look at the aesthetic beauty of what lay in front of her. High above, a full moon bathed the grassy hills with an ethereal glow as the graves and tombs placidly stood guard over sleeping corpses below.
The little girl began to appreciate the simple beauty of her surroundings.
Just as it appeared as though the Doll-Maker was ready with another wave of vicious prose, she lifted one leg and placed it ahead of the other, then lifted the other leg and placed it ahead of the first until she began to walk forward, deeper into the cemetery.
“About time, my dear,” uttered the Doll-Maker with a hint of malice. “This way.”
Keeping to the shadows that the trees and internal walls provided, the Doll-Maker led the little girl further into the cemetery, occasionally craning his neck as he looked around for the groundskeeper.
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Soon, they reached a simple, unmarked gravestone that stood in the far corner, hidden behind a small hill.
“We have arrived, my dear.”
Without a word, the Doll-Maker held out the spade in front of the little girl; reluctantly, she took it. Knowing what was to come, the little girl enquired nonetheless, “Sir?”
“Well, you don't expect me to do it, do you? No, that would be doing you a disservice, my dear. You must learn the ins and outs of your task from the off, the first step of which is to dig.”
Looking from spade to grave to spade again, the little girl could hardly absorb the immense task that lay before her. Realizing there was no escape from it, however, she proceeded to plunge the spade into the sodden, grassy surface, gathering and disposing muddy earth, one spadeful at a time.
As the moon slowly drifted from left to right, the dishevelled, muddy little girl sat exhausted inside a dark, wet hole of her making.
Still vigilant, the Doll-Maker hissed, “Come on, dear. Not long to go!”
“I...I can't,” she replied, feeling a surge of warm tears fill her eyes. “My hands are bleeding and my back really hurts...I can't—”
“Oh, stop your whining. You're almost there. Then we can go back, and you can make us a lovely hot drink. Now, come on—we don't have all night.”
The little girl realized the futility of arguing with the Doll-Maker, who was only interested in the bounty that lay beneath the sodden, cold earth. Desperately searching for her last ounces of strength, she stood up and continued to dig until a “thud” indicated she had found what they sought.
His face lighting up like that of a child on Christmas morning, the Doll-Maker peered into the darkness of the hole.
“That's it! That's it,” he exclaimed, as quietly as he could muster. “You have found the coffin, my dear! Quick, throw me the spade. You will need both hands for this.”
Just managing to throw the spade to the Doll-Maker, the little girl enquired, “But, sir—how will I open the coffin with only my hands?”
Times being hard as they were, a little secret existed within the world of funeral homes and mortuaries: that nails used to seal coffins, being expensive, were reserved for the wealthy.
As such, after the loved ones of the financially-challenged deceased had all gone home, the nails used were promptly removed before the earth was thrown atop the loose-lidded casket.
The Doll-Maker, having unearthed a few in his time, was privy to this most secret information.
“Don't worry, my dear. The lid will lift right off, you will see!”
True to the Doll-Maker's word, the little girl had no trouble opening the coffin, something she found herself to be oddly grateful for.
She was not, however, prepared for what she found within. As she lifted the lid, stale, acrid dust at once escaped from inside, entering the little girl's mouth and nose, stinging her eyes.
All at once, she rubbed her eyes and tried desperately to cough out the bitter cloud she had inhaled.
Once her eyes were cleared, she looked down into the casket and saw what rested within.
The decomposed remains of a small boy whose clothes were now torn and faded; he lay face up with his skull resting on its side and his mouth wide open. Unprepared for the emotional toll that seeing this would take on her, the little girl at once looked away, closing her eyes as tightly as she could, as though the very action would erase what she had just seen from her memory.
“Halt! Who goes there?” From beyond the hole in which the little girl stood came a deep, authoritative voice.
“Blast it all!” exclaimed the Doll-Maker, hissing and hastily moving away from the unearthed grave as the little girl heard his hurried footsteps leading away from her.
Moments later, another set of footsteps approached the grave she stood in. As she looked up, the head of an elderly bald man with an eye patch peered inside at her.
“Wha' you doin' in there, then, eh?” Noticing the open grave, his inquisitive tone turned into an accusatory one. “Oi! Wha' d'you fink you're doin' openin' that coffin? I'll report ya, I will. Stay righ'—”
A sudden “clang” broke the air, as the man fell limply onto the girl, who could not help but scream.
“Stop screaming, you silly girl!” barked the Doll-Maker, as he once again popped his head into the open grave. “You'll attract nothing but trouble!”
Not wishing to upset the Doll-Maker further, the little girl did her very best to stop screaming, attempting urgently to free herself from the man's dead weight.
“Quickly, get the skull, and I will pull you out!”
So much did the little girl wish to leave that situation that she unthinkingly and unceremoniously grabbed the boy's skull and threw it at the Doll-Maker, who almost dropped it.
“Good girl!” he exclaimed. “Now, come here, and give me your hand, quick.”
Just as the little girl began to stumble over the groundskeeper's body, she heard a familiar sound coming from above. Yet again, the faintest whisper of violin song drifted melodiously into her ears before quickly being replaced by that of birds in flight.
Looking slightly panic-stricken, the Doll-Maker began to violently wave the spade around as he walked away from the hole.
“Begone, foul creatures. Begone! There is nothing for you here!” he shouted to the sound of angry caws and clangs.
Bathed in moonlight, the little girl now awaited the Doll-Maker's return, suddenly noticing that her face felt wetter than it had moments before. Touching her face with her hand to examine the mysterious water, she noted it felt slightly viscous and sticky. She brought her hand back down and saw it completely drenched in blood. Slowly, she turned to look at the groundskeeper, whose head was also saturated in the crimson liquid. As her eyes opened as far as they could open, and her legs shook as hard as they could shake, she suppressed what would have been the loudest scream she could scream.
Quietly, she called, “Sir...? Sir...? Please, sir,” as the Doll-Maker continued to shoo away the cawing crows.
“Begone! Go back to your master! Tell him there is nothing for him here! The skull is rightfully mine!”
The last of the crows gone, the Doll-Maker returned to the open grave and stretched out his hand to the little girl.
“Come on. Up you go,” he said, promptly.
As if entranced, the little girl stumbled toward the Doll-Maker's hand, her eyes as still and wide as they could be. Just as the Doll-Maker was about to grab her hand, she pulled it away abruptly, as though it had touched something hot.
“What are you doing? This is no time to be playing silly games—give me your hand!”
The little girl suddenly remembered her parents and snapped out of the trance she was under; she would never allow the Doll-Maker to hold her hands. She positioned herself closer to the edge of the grave and lifted her elbows. Furrowing his brow slightly, the Doll-Maker grabbed the little girl's arms and pulled her out of the hole as he muttered to himself, “Silly girl.”
“I think he's dead, sir,” said she, in a monotone.
“The body in the coffin? Of course he's dead, my dear. He's been dead for a long, long time, I'm sure!” scoffed the Doll-Maker.
“No, sir. The man you hit, sir. I think he's dead. His blood...”
Noticing the little girl was, indeed, covered in blood, the Doll-Maker began to push her along as he hurriedly replied, “Yes, well, that is not something for us to worry about now, my dear. We have better things to do than give thought to meddlesome groundskeepers and the state of their health. Let us go, quickly.”
As the Doll-Maker and little girl left the cemetery as quietly as they had entered it, the Doll-Maker kept a constant vigil of the cold, misty skies.
He hurried back through the forest, while the little girl struggled to keep up, trying to forget the events that had just taken place and wishing so hard for the opportunity to wash all the blood off herself.
As they crossed the forest, the usual sounds she had begun to associate with it resumed, making the Doll-Maker flinch to every “woo” and shriek to every whistle, while he skittishly surveyed the inky skies above.
