A Gift of Grandma

It was a relatively empty event when my grandmother died. Her two children, myself, and my 3 cousins, along with some of her friends, were the only people in attendance. When we got there, I found that she had left me one of her most dear possessions, her journal set.

On my grandmother's 13th birthday, she began to write about every day of her life. She had stopped writing at age 92, when she had been instilled in the care of the hospital. That afternoon, when we arrived at home, I began to sift through the journals, searching for something interesting. When I got to her 25th birthday, things started to get interesting. Quietly, I read the text. "Aunt Agatha came today, she gave me a beautiful porcelain doll for my birthday.

It has curly blonde hair, rosy little cheeks, and a pink, puffy dress. But it's little blue eyes scare me, they look, somehow... real."

I continued to sift through the little journal, but it wasn't until several months later that my grandmother mentioned the doll again. "This morning, I found our little dog, Zipper." Some of the text had been smeared, no doubt the dried remains of tear drops. "He was dead, and there was blood all over him. That doll was beside him, with blood on it. I threw the darned thing out."

Just a few days later, she had mentioned the doll again. "That darn doll is back, but this time, it got my little canary, Candy." More tear drops spotted the page, blurring my Grandmother's text. I noticed that this time she specifically mentioned that it was the one that had killed her pet. Usually these things didn't bother me, but to see it there in my grandmother's handwriting, Gramma who had spanked me if I lied, who had always believed me if I told her something bothered me, I knew it was true. Nervously, but all the same excited, I flipped through pages, searching.

Now there was a flurry of things she had done to the doll, breaking, burning, drowning, but no matter what my Grandmother did, the doll always came back to torture her. When I got to Year 28, came the words that struck fear into my heart. "Gave the doll to my sister, Gail. I hope she's okay. I feel so ashamed of myself, but I could do nothing else."

For years and years of journal, nothing else was mentioned. On Year 68, it was. "Gail has died. The doll killed her. I just know that it's my fault. In my shame, I took the doll back. I locked it away in a little box, and had it buried deep in the ground, far away. I hope it will never ever get out. Ever." I read aloud. Now I could feel a cold chill climbing my spine, and the doll was not mentioned again, until the very last page of the very last book. My Grandmother had scrawled so messily, in a hurried rush of writing, large printed, 'She's out.'

I jumped, and almost screamed, when my husband stepped in the front door. His lips were pulled down, in an attempted frown, which screamed, I have a surprise for you. I smiled, calming down, at my ability to read him. "Look what I go-o-ot." he sang, smiling. From behind him, he pulled something.

You couldn't imagine the horror on my face when I came face to face with those realistic blue eyes.

Comments • 0

Loading comments...