And yeah, it’s what it sounds like. Hell in a basket.
The wallpaper was faces—laughing, crying, screaming (whether in pain or horror I never did put a finger on). There were shelves lined with porcelain dolls. Marionettes hung from the ceiling like descending monsters, wooden spiders clinging to gossamer threads. There were boxes filled with hand puppets, old and ragged, missing eyes and noses, stained and wretched. Even the pillows had mouths.
But the worst was the dummy.
Directly across from the bed was a small brown chair. Sitting in the chair, glassy blue eyes staring out, lidless and haunting, was a ventriloquist dummy. Red lips, dark eyebrows, peach-colored wooden head with a swirl of black paint for hair. He wore a crappy, threadbare tuxedo, and if you looked close enough you could see the bowtie—assumingly long-lost—painted onto the slick wood at the base of his throat.
His name was Charlie, I know this because I looked at the tag on the back of his collar, where a shaky hand had written it out, child-like, in white chalk.
I begged my folks to let me stay with them in the love room, but you can imagine how that went. My father wasn’t about to throw away a night of kid-free romance because I was scared of a few puppets.
Well, the worst happened. The unthinkable.
I went to sleep as soon as I could, praying to wake up and have it be morning so I could be released from this prison of horrors.
And I did fall asleep.
But when I woke up, it wasn’t morning. It was dark.
Dark, but not quiet.
I heard a scraping sound. You know, like tiny wooden footsteps dragging across a hardwood floor. Next, I felt a tugging at the foot of my bed. My blanket being jerked downward, as if something was climbing up, grabbing the fabric in tight fists to pull itself higher.
And then, in the sinewy, silver moonlight coming through the window, I saw him. Charlie. Crawling toward me across the bed.
He climbed over my legs, my hips. Hard palms pressed down on my stomach and chest, his gleaming, slick head catching the light as he raised his noggin to stare shark-like at my petrified face. Slowly those hands moved up to my neck, and Charlie settled his weight on my lungs. There was a light clicking sound as his fingers extended, knuckles crackling like logs on a fire.
Then Charlie, his hideous face only inches from my own, both our eyes bugging out—mine in terror, his in ecstasy—began to squeeze.
Well, that was the last straw. Sure, I was a scared little kid, but there was no way I was gonna get my ticket punched by an animated doll.
I walloped that damn puppet with a closed fist. His head rocked back, then went askew, like he’d forgotten where he left his keys and was pondering the possibilities.
I cracked him one more, this time right in the jaw, and felt those cold stiff hands vanish from my neck, heard the thump and clatter of his body hitting the floor beside my bed.
Romance or not, I sprang from my bed and beat it to the hall, began battering my parents’ door like the place was in flames.
You can fill in the rest. After Dad checked out the room (Charlie was on the chair, of course, all innocence) they chalked it up to bad dreams. Luckily, Mom and Dad had sealed the deal sometime before my interruption, so I was allowed to stay the night, tucked between their two bodies in safety, staring at myself in the ceiling mirror, wondering if Charlie was stalking my old room, fury in those glassy eyes.
The next morning the bruises on my neck were more apparent, and while my mother tutted and murmured about nightmares, my father had the look of a man on fire. In the lobby, I heard him speaking with the manager while Mother hustled me to the car.
When he joined us ten minutes later, his face was reddened but seemingly satisfied. He looked at me once and nodded meaningfully. My heart swelled for him in that moment because I knew Charlie—some way or another—was no more. And this knowledge pleased me greatly. I’m not saying Dad believed me, but I think he believed something happened in that room. And when a man sees bruises on his child, well, logic can take a backseat to revenge.
Which brings us to the present. And this place.
The storefront my perp had vamoosed into was old and dark. I would have thought it abandoned except our guy had just pushed through a glass door and disappeared inside.
The sign above the entrance? Three words—big and yellow and faded with the pain of time.
TOYS
USED & NEW
“Do me a favor? Pull to the corner so you can keep an eye on both the alley and the front door. If our guy comes out without me, get some back-up and pick him up.” The shop’s butted up against a newer-looking office building, which means the alley only has one exit, and the rooftop will lead him nowhere. By all appearances we have him trapped like the proverbial rat, so why do I feel like the one sniffing cheese?
“On what charge?”
“Assault of a police officer, because if he comes out that door before I do, he’s likely done just that.”
I step out of the car and into the sticky afternoon, take a shuddering breath, and head for the store. The window displays are clearer now: a dusty trainset that hasn’t run in the last century, sun-faded board games I doubt have all the pieces, the saddest tricycle I’ve ever goddamn seen, and a stuffed pink bear the size of a small car that closes my throat in terror, its blank eyes that of a predator, large furry mitts thirsty for blood. Its black-thread smile appears newly satiated above a swollen stomach, as if it just ate a good meal.
Probably a detective.
I go into the shop, let the door clang shut me behind me as the disrupted dust mites flung into the air settle back into position.
The store is a poorly lit maze of wood shelving filled with junk and more junk. I keep going forward, wondering when I’ll tap into the “new” section mentioned in the weather-beaten sign out front. So far, I’ve hit the jackpot with the “used” inventory and believe me the description is an understatement.
I note that some of the crap is stickered, other stuff tied to a paper tag announcing its value, which is obviously subjective given some of the amounts I’m seeing. As I turn into another aisle leading to more dingy treasure for misbehaved children, I’m beginning to realize this whole place is likely a front and remind myself to chat up my gal at the attorney general’s office when I get back to the precinct.
I finish the maze and reach the head of the store. No minotaur, thankfully, but no Gemini Harris either. An old man in a black beret leans over the counter, a creepy mug in the shape of a mouse head sits at his elbow, steaming, while he stares into a tablet. He clocks my approach and uses his theater background to act surprised at my presence, all wide eyes and white nose hair, liver lips set into a bed of wrinkles. I check the corners, comfortable my guy is hiding in a closet somewhere behind Methuselah and give my anxiety a rest.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you can go get your friend and tell him I just want to talk.”
The old guy squints like I’m talking a new language, and I roll my eyes, flash the shiny badge to get his undivided attention. “This ain’t exactly Times Square, pops. It’s not like you can get lost in the crowd. So, let’s keep it pleasant, huh? You go pull Mr. Harris out of his hidey-hole and we can all be friends. Or we can go the other way.”
I open the coat to show off the hardware and the old guy’s eyes go saucers. He nods and leans in close, whispering truth along with the stink of onion and black coffee. “He’s in the storage room,” he says, thumbing a door to his left. “He’s my nephew, but I don’t want no trouble, officer.”
