The horses in the stable went wild; they knew of the storm to come in the early dawn. They could smell the chaos brewing in the air. They could sense the impending disaster with every crack of thunder. They reared on their hind legs as black clouds rolled in from the West, robbing the farm of a full moon’s light. In the darkness, only one thing was for certain: it wouldn’t be long until blood flooded the streets. Terror was eager to rain down.
Sounds of the horses’ unease seeped through the barn walls and into Bailey’s bedroom. She tossed and turned, that fickle thing called a good night’s rest always just beyond her grasp. With a frustrated groan, she dragged herself out of her warm bed. The candle she took from her nightstand illuminated the way, and the slippers on her feet, despite being two sizes too small, still got the job done. She had visions of handing them down to her younger brother and begging for a new pair when her parents returned from their business trip, but quickly shooed the thought away. It was best not to get her hopes up. If only she could get a real job in the city, then she could afford to buy her own gosh darn slippers. She longed to even just spend an afternoon there, among the tall buildings and bright lights.
Hot wax dripped onto her pinky as she pushed open the barn doors, jolting Bailey out of her delusions. Though the wax probably did her icy fingers some good, she still adjusted her grip on the candleholder before making her way down the short row of horses. She brushed their manes with soothing strokes and offered them some more hay.
“Hey there, Fleabag,” she said to a pinto horse with patches of honey brown and ivory white. “You need to calm down too, you know.”
Yawning, she took extra care with this one, even though exhaustion was catching up to her.
“How’s your leg looking?” She crouched down and asked. Fleabag neighed in response, or at least, Bailey pretended he did. A sigh of relief escaped her mouth, making a cloud of white appear in front of her. His small injury was getting better with every passing day.
A pile of hay just outside of Fleabag’s stable was looking dangerously comfortable. She stumbled over to it and blew out her candle, succumbing to her heavy eyelids and aching legs.
“I’ll just sit down here for a minute. You don’t mind, do you, Fleabag?” She mumbled, already half asleep.
She shot up from her makeshift bed and nearly headbutted a horse. Disorientated, Bailey took in her surroundings. Painful light burning her retinas? Morning sun streaming through the barn’s window. Ear-piercing noise? Her 7-year-old brother and his new favorite toy— a whistle dangling from a piece of twine around his neck. Wet patch on the sleeve of her nightgown? Drool. Whether it was hers or Fleabag’s was to be determined. Stiff neck? Well, that was definitely of her own doing. It's what she got for passing out on a pile of hay.
“Cut it out,” she yelled. “You’re making me and the horses go crazy. They’re jumpy enough as it is.”
Georgie stopped blowing his whistle for only long enough to say, “I had to wake you up somehow. There’s someone at the door.”
Mrs. Birdie’s sweet round face greeted them on the front porch. A handmade scarf was wrapped around her head, obscuring the graying roots of her hair. The crows' feet around her eyes and her glasses placed the neighbor somewhere in her mid-fifties. Though no one really knew exactly how old she was, or any details of her life for that matter. Mrs. Birdie was sweet as pie but as private as a secret recipe. She drew both of them into a hug, the scent of cinnamon tickling Bailey’s nose.
“My dears, you’re both so grown up. And beautiful. You’ve got those big blue eyes.”
Bailey thanked her. The truth was, she probably looked horrible, with hay sticking out of her curly locks and bags under her eyes. She probably smelled even worse, especially to a non-farmer like Mrs. Birdie.
Georgie wrinkled his nose at being called _beautiful_.
“Can we help you with something?” Bailey asked.
“I wanted to stop by to see if I could trouble you for some salt.” Mrs. Birdie’s face turned grave in an instant. “And to deliver some serious news I heard in the city.”
Bailey leaned in close. The most serious thing that had happened in the outskirts recently was when she had forgotten to close the barn doors and the horses ran loose. She wished for the blood pounding in her ears to hush, not wanting to miss a word from Mrs. Birdie about the city.
The woman checked behind each of her shoulders before speaking in a voice that was just above a whisper, “You ought to board up every window and lock every door. The Doll Maker has escaped. He’s on another killing spree.”
Those few words knocked the wind out of her. Her lungs struggled to function. She never thought she’d hear the his name again.
A lot can happen in sixteen years. A sense of peace, false as it may be, eventually settles in after the chaos. Topics become taboo. People’s wounds heal. Heal enough to pretend they’re fine. Soon they start believing that they are in fact fine. They move on. They forget. And somewhere along the line they stop watching their backs. _Not me_, Bailey thought as they nailed planks of wood to a bedroom window. She would protect Georgie and herself. She had been too small to understand what was going on when the Doll Maker made a name for himself in the 80s; she couldn’t even remember what he looked like or his true identity. All she knew was that he was out there somewhere, and he was hungry for blood after a dormant decade and a half.
“It won’t be our blood,” she promised herself under her breath.
“What?” Georgie asked.
Bailey shook her head. “Nothing. Let’s work on the kitchen now.”
There, they discovered they weren’t alone.
Two shadowy figures stood in the center of the room, backlit by a small window above the kitchen sink. The setting sun glinted off an object in the taller figure’s hand. Bailey stepped in front of Georgie, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Thank you again for the salt, dear,” Mrs. Birdie’s voice said, now sounding sickly sweet. “It worked like a charm to treat the others’ skin.”
Bailey’s own skin prickled with goosebumps. “What are you talking about? Who is that?”
“Silly me, it seems like I’ve forgotten my manners.” The pair stepped forward, arms linked. “This is my lover. We’ve been recently reunited, and I think you two would make the perfect gift to commemorate that.”
The killer’s sharp features became more clear. Years spent in prison had hardened him into a heavy-set, cold-eyed man with white hair and blood-splattered work boots. Georgie buried his face into the back of her sweater, his small hands gripping the fabric. Her mind was racing. Panic sent her thoughts into a frenzy and adrenaline into her veins. Had the Doll Maker snuck in while Mrs. Birdie distracted them at the front door? Then did he let her in while they were in another room? How long had the psychopaths been inside her home?
“You’ll be perfect for our collection. Your wide eyes are already so doll-like,” Mrs. Birdie said.
“Who are you?” Bailey asked in disbelief, her voice shaking.
“Human taxidermists. Speciality doll collectors. Some would say we're artists,” the man replied. His arrogance made her stomach sick.
Bailey’s eyes darted around the room. She was were trapped. Trapped in a prison of her own making. Nearly all the windows had been nailed shut. If she ran, they were sure to catch up to her by the time she unlocked the back door and moved the chair wedged under the doorknob.
“Our parents will be home soon, you know,” she said. “They’ll realize that we’re missing, and they’ll find out it was you.”
“Not if we clean up all the evidence,” the man replied.
Mrs. Birdie’s smirk revealed rows of wine-stained teeth. “Be a doll for me, Bailey, and get some trash bags. No pun intended.”
Georgie was starting to cry, his tears soaking into her sweater.
“And shut your brother up, or I’ll gag him with my scarf.”
Bailey crouched down to open the cabinet under the sink and whisper to Georgie, “Use my back as a step and then jump out the window.”
“But—” he started to protest. His face was red and tear-stained. It shattered her heart into a million pieces.
“Just _do_ it,” she yelled, feeling around for a spray bottle of bleach.
He scampered onto her back and then into the sink as the Doll Maker and Mrs. Birdie lunged towards her. She sprayed a cloud of bleach in their faces.
The older woman screamed in pain, her hands flying to her eyes. “You bitch!”
The Doll Maker launched his ax at Bailey, but with his impaired vision, his aim was off. The weapon’s blade sliced into the side of the wooden counter instead of her stomach. Georgie landed with a thud onto the grass, and Bailey followed close behind, just barely able to squeeze through the window.
The siblings took off running in the pouring rain.
Between ragged breaths, she asked, “Are you okay?”
Georgie just blew his whistle.
“What in tarnation are you doing? This is not the time for toys!” She scolded.
But then she heard the unmistakable sound of galloping. They turned to see the spooked horses racing out of the barn. In her drowsy state this morning, she must have left it unlocked again. She had never before been so thankful for her forgetfulness and her little brother’s stupid whistle.
“Halt,” she commanded, and Fleabag skidded to a stop in front of them.
Bailey pulled herself and Georgie onto the horse’s back.
“You can do it, old boy,” she said. “Show me your leg’s all healed.”
Holding onto Fleabag’s mane, they bounded off in the direction of the city’s lights. It seemed like her wish of visiting downtown was about to come true. Although the first stop would have to be the police station.
