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Broken

Why was the old Barbie doll left on our front porch during the night? It must have been put there sometime after dark, because I had sat on the porch the previous evening, finishing the last of my dinner wine before going inside when the mosquitoes became too much. But why was it here?

It must have been dropped there by a dog that had picked it up in another yard and, during some nocturnal wandering, happened upon our porch, dropped the doll, and distractedly wandered off in search of other things. That made sense, but I couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling.

The doll was unclothed and missing an arm, and its left eye had been gouged out with what looked like a blue ballpoint pen. It made sense that some critter had found this sad remnant of a child’s earlier days in the garbage or on some half-burned trash pile. Maybe I’d been reading too many Stephen King novels. What if this little talisman had been dropped by a homicidal clown who had been peering into windows at night, watching me and planning some nefarious activity that would destroy my life—or even kill me?

Oh, stop it, Mary!

So I threw the sad, broken little thing into the trash can in the garage, washed my hands—literally and figuratively—and moved on to other things. With friends coming for dinner, I had a long to-do list, and soon the doll and its unknown delivery agent were out of sight and, briefly, out of mind.

After breakfast and after getting dressed, I headed for the market. I planned to serve salmon and wanted to get a large, fresh fillet. At my regular market, which has the best fresh fish, I found a good one. After placing it in my basket, I went over to the produce section to look over the asparagus and fingerling potatoes.

When I returned, I couldn’t seem to find my shopping cart. I knew it had to be somewhere between the seafood and produce departments, but although the store was still relatively quiet at that hour, I couldn’t see it anywhere. I retraced my steps and even went back to the seafood department to ask the clerk whether he had seen my cart or noticed where I had gone after he handed me the wrapped piece of salmon. He must have thought I was crazy.

Then I noticed the handle of a shopping cart visible between two refrigerated display cases. Walking over, I saw that it was my cart, but I knew I hadn’t left it there. Had someone moved it out of the way? But who? It was early, and the store wasn’t very busy.

Then I saw it.

Peering out from the folds of the wrapping paper was a small head with one eye poked out. It was the old Barbie doll—the one I had found on the front porch a couple of hours earlier, the one I had thrown into the garage trash can. It was now wedged deeply into the side of my package of salmon.

I turned, dropped the asparagus I was holding, and quickly walked out of the store. I wanted nothing to do with that place, that salmon, or any of this insanity.

We would have steaks instead.

I went to our local butcher and bought some strip steaks, then went to the farmers’ market for baking potatoes, salad greens, and a freshly made blueberry pie.

On my way home, I stopped at our small flower shop for fresh flowers for the table. With that done, I would be ready to go home and do a bit of housekeeping.

When I returned to the car carrying the flowers, I noticed something wedged into the driver’s-side door handle. It was an old Barbie doll with one arm missing.

I found myself about to scream, to shout, “Stop!” at whoever—or whatever—was doing this. Then I heard it as plainly as anything: a low cackle followed by a satisfied grunt and a car door slam.

What the—?

Turning, I saw an old Volkswagen Beetle backing out of a parking space a few cars away, although I couldn’t make out the driver.

I wouldn’t touch the nasty doll wedged into my car door handle. Instead, I picked up a stick from the ground and pushed the doll free. When it fell, I kicked it as hard as I could, sending it out into the street.

Carefully getting into the car, I backed out of my parking space, intending to run over the demonic doll, but I could no longer see it anywhere. Perhaps another driver had done the job for me, but I wasn’t going to take the time to find out. I headed home.

When I pulled into the garage, I couldn’t help thinking about the garbage can and what I had put into it that morning. I carefully opened the lid and peered inside. There was the tied plastic bag of garbage from the previous night, but no sign of the Barbie doll.

After replacing the lid, I went to get the food and flowers out of the car. I carried everything into the kitchen and began unpacking the bags: the steaks went into the refrigerator, the potatoes onto the kitchen counter, and the flowers, which needed immediate attention, onto the counter while I went to find a vase.

When I returned, the flowers had fallen from the counter and lay scattered across the kitchen floor. The potatoes were in the sink, and the Barbie doll...

The Barbie doll?

It now occupied the place that, only minutes before, had held the bouquet of fresh flowers.

I knew at that point that I must be having a significant nervous breakdown. How could this be happening to me? No, there had to be some rational explanation—someone playing a perverse joke on me.

But how?

And who?

Then I realized what needed to be done. The doll had to be destroyed. Once it had been reduced to nothing, how could it continue to revisit me?

Grabbing a handful of paper towels—I wasn’t even going to touch the nasty thing—I lifted it from the kitchen counter, wrapped it tightly, and carried it outside to the very back of my small yard.

But how should I destroy it?

Burn it.

I needed something with which to ignite it. After placing the monstrosity on the ground, I turned toward the garage to get some gasoline and a butane igniter.

No. I wasn’t going to let the thing out of my sight.

I took it with me to the garage, gathered what I needed, and returned to the backyard. I placed the paper-wrapped doll on a stone, sprinkled it liberally with gasoline, and stretched out my arm to ignite the sodden bundle.

The igniter wouldn’t catch. It sparked with each pull of the trigger, but there was no flame. Perhaps if I held it closer to the gasoline-soaked towels, the spark alone would ignite the wrappings.

As I did so, the doll’s wrappings burst into flame, and I felt a sudden blast of heat behind me.

Dropping the igniter, I turned and saw my own house in flames, with smoke billowing from every window. The garage, too, was smoking.

In a panic, I reached into my pants pocket for my cellphone to call 911, but the phone was so hot that I had to drop it.

Then I heard it: the same cackle I had heard earlier, the same sickening laughter.

Looking down, I saw that the small pile that had been an old, broken Barbie doll—the same pile of gasoline-soaked towels—was gone. In its place lay the package of salmon, wrapped in the same paper in which I had left it at the market only an hour earlier.

I fell to my knees in anguish; all sense of reality had fled. I knew I must be crazy. None of this was real. It was all an illusion. Only through my own strength could I overcome this moment of irrationality.

Numb from the terror, I stood and turned toward the house. Walking slowly up the back steps, I entered what had once been my beautiful kitchen but was now an inferno, but I had nothing to fear. It was all an illusion.

The back door handle burned my hand, but that hadn’t really happened.

The smoke in the kitchen clawed at my lungs, but not really. Everything was fine.

I had to prove that all of this had been some sort of delusion, a moment of insanity, if I was ever to overcome it.

As the smoke thickened, I sank into a kitchen chair. The heat and smoke finally overcame me, and all my illusions were gone.

My final thought was that there would be no more one-eyed Barbie dolls in whatever lay beyond that moment.

As the fire engines pulled up to the rapidly burning house, an old Volkswagen Beetle that had been parked across the street pulled out and softly clattered down the street and into the distance.