Ghost Doll

Ghost Doll by Robert Herold

Ghost Doll

by

Robert Herold

Chapter One

Boston – June 29th, 1885 – 2:17 A

"No!" Emily O'Sullivan pushed her husband away. 

Patrick rolled off onto his side of the bed and kept going, landing on the floor with a thump. She didn't want sex—hadn't wanted it for a while—especially now, when she still felt sore after the long and painful birth last week of their firstborn, Olivia.

Martha, Patrick's mother, came to help with the birth but only stayed for two days after. More than ever, Emily missed her own mother, who died of fever earlier that spring. On top of everything else, she'd felt unaccountably weepy the past few days. She wanted to cry all time. Yet she didn't shirk her responsibilities, feeding and caring for her child like any loving mother. She even insisted Olivia be moved into the bedroom with them, so she could easily feed the infant during the night. Emily hoped Patrick's drunken advances hadn't disturbed the baby.

She turned up the low flame on the kerosene lamp and looked over at the crib. Olivia seemed fine. Emily reached over to dim the light, but a hand grabbed her arm and pinned it to the bed. Patrick did the same with her other arm. He kicked back the sheet and thin blanket and mounted her, taking an awkward moment to hike up his nightshirt.

"You have a duty to me as my wife." His words came out slurred, but what mattered was straight.

Emily turned her head to the side and wept. It did hurt, and his insensitivity hurt just as much. He'd been a good husband until now. Since the birth, however, he'd taken to drinking with his pals and staying out until all hours, leaving her to tend to the baby. And now this. The pain. The humiliation. A moment later, she let out great gulping sobs, but that didn't stop him—not until Olivia started screaming louder than she'd ever heard.

"Now, you've done it." Patrick finally stopped and rolled off. "Go, take care of your daughter."

Wiping tears from her eyes, Emily got off the bed and gasped. Olivia floated in the air, about five feet above the cradle. The infant's face shone bright red from screaming with all her might. Emily screamed even louder as she ran to save her child.

Chapter Two

Sarah splashed her face with the water she'd poured into the basin. She dried herself and studied her image in the bureau mirror. Her red hair framed a face that appeared as haggard as she felt. The nightmare had happened again—drowning in a sea of blood while hands sought to drag her under. Sarah fought, as she always did, to free herself. She caught sight of a rowboat with a man standing in the craft. Surely he must see me, realize my distress. The small boat approached. "Help!" she called. Would he get to me in time? Here she awoke. Same as the previous night, and the one before that, and remained sleepless until morning.

Now, in the light of day, Sarah pinched her cheeks, and when that didn't improve her pallor, she resorted to rouge. She put some upon her lips as well after brushing her teeth. Annabelle, her friend and second in command of the Eidola Project (their little band of ghost hunters), disapproved of cosmetics. But Sarah took to wearing them long before joining this group, at just thirteen, when performing in Dodgerton's carnival. She liked the results. Now, however, she wanted to hide the nightmare's toll.

Sarah opened the door to her room in the boarding house and saw the line queued for the toilet. One advantage to having insomnia of late, she'd been able to use the facilities before the others awoke. She crossed the hall and rapped on Annabelle's door. The door opened, and Annabelle regarded her with concern evident on her lovely face. No wonder Annabelle disdained cosmetics. She didn't need them. She wore her dark brunette hair pulled back from an unblemished face that featured her large brown eyes and naturally red lips.