Bad Dolls E-Book

Rachel Harrison

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 183

Beschreibung

In this stunning new collection of four horror stories, award-winning author Rachel Harrison explores themes of body image, complicated female friendship, heartbreak and hauntings. In Reply Hazy, Try Again, an indecisive young woman finds a mysterious Magic 8 Ball that might just have the answers she's been looking for...or might lead her down a path of self-destruction. In Bachelorette, a bridesmaid attends her childhood best friend's bachelorette weekend only to discover the itinerary may demand more than she's willing to sacrifice. In Goblin, an unusually brutal dieting app wreaks havoc on the life of a timid, insecure woman preparing to attend her ex's wedding. In Bad Dolls, after the death of her younger sister, a wayward young woman comes into possession of a strange porcelain doll that could offer a connection to her lost sister, but could also just be pure evil. These dark tales navigate the complications of modern life with humour, insight and the odd blood sacrifice…

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN

BACHELORETTE

GOBLIN

BAD DOLLS

Acknowledgments

About the Author

“Rachel Harrison knows what evil—andinnocence—lurks in the hearts of modern women. Bad Dolls is Fleabag by way of The Twilight Zone.”

Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor

“Harrison’s feminist horror novels are some of the most original and entertaining out there, and this story collection is right up there with her longer works.”

The New York Times

“In this brilliant collection, Rachel Harrison sets aside the monsters of lore to expertly demonstrate that real life will scare the hell out of you. Beginning with Harrison’s trademark cozy, feminist horror, this collection escalates at a chilling pace, each story more stunning, more frightening than the last, each an intimate look at the too-real horrors of womanhood in America. Take note: Harrison is a master.”

Katrina Monroe, author of Graveyard of Lost Children

“Bad Dolls is a brilliant collection. The stories are riveting, the prose is electric, and the characters seem so real at times I forgot they were fictional. Rachel Harrison is a true genius, and the horror genre is lucky to have her.”

Alexis Henderson, author of The Year of the Witching and House of Hunger

“Bad Dolls explores uniquely feminine horrors that will stick to your bones forever. These scares are personal.”

Delilah S. Dawson, New York Times bestselling author of The Violence

“Bad Dolls was my first Rachel Harrison book, but it certainly won’t be my last. This is a fantastic collection that finds humor in the dark turns of life. ‘Goblin’ was a favorite for me, but every story was great. If you are a fan of collections, Bad Dolls is a must read.”

V. Castro, author of The Haunting of Alejandra

“This slim volume of four creepy, beautifully realized short stories illustrates that Harrison is one of our most versatile and compelling modern horror writers.”

Paste Magazine

Also by Rachel Harrisonand available from Titan Books

CackleSuch Sharp TeethBlack Sheep (Jan 2024)

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Bad Dolls

Print edition ISBN: 9781803363936

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803363943

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: September 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Rachel Harrison 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Rachel Harrison asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For the misfit toys

REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN

“I NEVER FIND ANYTHING AT THE FLEA,” I complained to Maggie as we circumnavigated a couple attempting to get that perfect Instagram shot with the Manhattan Bridge in the background. A crowd had formed on the street, young and trendy, some holding accessories like flowers or balloons, some in fashionable hats. I wondered if they were all waiting their turn for that aspirational snap. I hoped not.

“You have to really dig,” Maggie said. “And you have to go regularly. It’s like prospecting.”

“Okay, Yosemite Sam.” I laughed. “‘Prospecting.’ Done a lot of prospecting?”

“Yes, can’t you tell? I’m pure gold, baby,” she said, spinning around and lowering her oversized sunglasses to give me a wink.

Maggie was very glamorous. She had impeccable style; her closet was full of vintage finds. It helped that everything looked good on her. Some people are lucky like that.

Not me.

We got to where the vendors were set up under the bridge and started browsing. Maggie was an intense browser. She liked to stop and examine everything. She was easily compelled. I once made the mistake of going to MoMA with her, and we were there for seven hours. I wasn’t a lingerer. It took a lot to catch my interest and a hell of a lot to keep it.

We spent a while thumbing through timeworn postcards and subway maps, observing antique furniture. Then we wandered toward the bins of old action figures and plastic soldiers and displaced Happy Meal toys and limbless baby dolls, all interspersed with matchbooks and baseball cards and buttons and marbles.

It was crap, basically. Just a bunch of crap being sold at a Brooklyn premium.

“Who buys this stuff?” I whispered to Maggie, who was admiring a mustached McNugget in a cowboy hat.

“There’s a nostalgia factor,” she said. An indirect answer.

I sighed.

“It’s good to have things around that bring you joy,” she said, and it was as she said this that I spotted the Magic 8 Ball tucked away in a random bin, wedged between a View-Master and a filthy Cabbage Patch Kid.

I reached for it before I understood what I was doing, before I could question what kind of germs occupied its surface. I held it in my hands, turned it around. I couldn’t tell how old it was, if it’d been swiped from a Target discount shelf last month or discovered in some grandfather’s basement, a precious relic from a childhood long ago.

I gave it a good shake, then read what it had to say, its first words to me.

WITHOUT A DOUBT.

“Oh, cool!” Maggie said. “I always wanted one of those. You should get it.”

I wasn’t a frivolous spender, but for some reason the 8 Ball seemed like a necessity.

“Yeah,” I said. “I should.”

When I brought it to the vendor, a man in a backward cap and oversized flannel, he furrowed his brow. “Where’d you find that?”

“That bin. Over there,” I said, pointing.

He shrugged, then looked me up and down and said, “Twenty bucks.”

It seemed steep, and I almost put it back. But there was something about the weight of it in my hand, how it fit so perfectly in my palm, the way my fingers curled around it, an easy grip. I wanted it, and right as I had this thought, right as the want took root, I looked down at the 8 Ball and now it said, YES—DEFINITELY.

I thought it a funny coincidence.

“Fifteen,” I told the vendor.

“Okay,” he said, nodding.

I’d never haggled before. It was exhilarating.

“Look at you,” Maggie said, “Miss I Never Find Anything at the Flea.”

I cradled the 8 Ball in my hands. I knew it was illogical to have spent fifteen dollars on something I could have gotten for half that from Amazon, and I typically felt immediate guilt after any impulse purchase, even something as small as gum at the register. I waited for the buyer’s remorse to set in, surprised it hadn’t already. “Well, I guess this is the exception.”

“See, Jordy? When you loosen up and are open to things, you find them, and they find you.”

I laughed, charmed by Maggie’s faith. “Sure, if you say so. And you know you’re the only one who can get away with calling me that.”

“Come on, Jordan. Let’s keep looking. See what treasure awaits.”

As we walked, I glanced down at the 8 Ball.

OUTLOOK GOOD, it said.

*   *   *

Later, Maggie and I sat in Brooklyn Bridge Park, eating sesame bagels with too much cream cheese and drinking iced coffee, savoring our patch of grass and the view of downtown Manhattan. Maggie admired the cameo brooch she had bought at the flea. I took the 8 Ball out of my bag.

YES, it said.

“That will be useful,” Maggie said. “You tend to be indecisive.”

“Me? No, never,” I said. I shook the 8 Ball, which now read, AS I SEE IT, YES.

I put it back in my bag.

“You should ask it if Kenny is going to propose.”

“Mm,” I said, suddenly queasy.

“Apologies,” Maggie said, pulling at her collar. “I was just thinking of silly sleepover questions. Does he like me? Is he going to ask me out? Considering you’re already past that, well . . .”

I shoved some bagel in my mouth as an excuse not to respond.

“Let’s ask it something better,” Maggie said, sitting up on her knees. “Why don’t we ask it if we’ll be friends forever?”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really!” she said. “Please. Let’s have a little fun.”

“All right.” I fished out the 8 Ball and asked, “Will Maggie and I be friends forever?”

I closed my eyes and shook.

I opened my eyes. When I saw what it said, I gasped.

“What?” Maggie leaned over to see. She read it out loud. “‘Better not tell you now.’ Hmm. How mysterious.”

“It’s a toy,” I said, slipping it into my bag and then zipping the bag shut.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “Still . . .”

“Still what?”

She shook her head and then tilted her gaze up, up toward the high noon sun. She was like a sunflower, always seeking the light. She had her summer freckles, abundant across her nose and the tops of her shoulders.

“It’s such a beautiful day,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Beautiful.”

*   *   *

Kenny was in the kitchen, making gnocchi. Making a mess.

“Hey,” he said. “How was the flea?”

“You know—the flea,” I said, searching the fridge for a seltzer.

“Get anything?”

“No.” The lie made a hasty escape. It caught me off guard.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Did Maggie?”

“Yeah. She always does. She got a brooch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“A decorative pin,” I said. It was what my mother would have called a comma-dumbass sentence. When I was a teenager, I developed a problem with my delivery, my tone. My condescension was out of control. My mother would say, “If it sounds like there’s an implied ‘comma dumbass’ at the end of the sentence, try again.”

I opened my mouth, ready to apologize to Kenny for how I’d spoken to him, but part of me resented having to take responsibility for his obliviousness. I changed my mind.

“Ah,” he said, unaffected. “Like grandmas wear.”

“Exactly.”

“Cool,” he said. “Dinner will probably be around seven.”

“All right. I’m going to go for a run.”

He gave a murmur of acknowledgment and returned his concentration to the gnocchi/mess.

I went into the bedroom and changed out of my sundress and into my running gear. I pulled my hair back. I stretched. I thought about the 8 Ball, where I could put it that Kenny wouldn’t find it. I didn’t understand why I was so averse to him discovering it, to him touching it, but the idea made me itchy. I thought he might disturb its energy, which I knew was ridiculous. It was unlike me to indulge in such ridiculousness.

Still . . .

I took out the 8 Ball and asked it, “Am I being an idiot?”

CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN, it said.

I huffed. I closed my eyes and gave it some thought. “Is it silly that I don’t want Kenny to know about you? That I don’t want him to touch you with his gnocchi fingers?”

MY REPLY IS NO, it said.

“Is that more about me or more about Kenny?” As soon as I asked, I knew it was too complex a question for an 8 Ball. I whispered, “Is it him?”

ASK AGAIN LATER.

“Is it me?”

CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN.

“All right,” I said. I opened the drawer of my nightstand, moving aside glasses cases and assorted tubes of hand lotion to make space for it.

I was closing the drawer when I saw the 8 Ball now said, BYE.

I didn’t know that was one of the responses.

“Bye,” I said, and then I went for my run.

*   *   *

Maggie came by my desk the next morning for our usual nine o’clock coffee run. She was wearing a plaid blazer with the brooch on her lapel. Her hair was in a French braid. She wore lipstick, and I noticed because she didn’t usually. It was a divine shade of lavender.

“Should we go get Chrissy?” I asked on the way to the elevators.

Occasionally Chrissy, the administrative assistant on Maggie’s team, would join us. I liked her. She was fresh out of college and brimming with nervous energy. She always had a story about a hot hookup, about a wild night out, about someone she liked who didn’t like her back, about the perils of app dating. She complained about her roommates, about the intricate dramas of unwashed dishes and who paid for toilet paper. She made me feel grateful for my age, for the fact those chaos years were behind me. There are too many hard lessons to be learned in your early twenties. Too much crying outside of H&R Block, in bars, on the subway, in some random hookup’s dingy bathroom. Too much crying.

Now that I was thirty, I barely cried. I was delightfully numb. And I could afford things like Venti Starbucks beverages every morning, an Uber during a downpour, after-work cocktails, meditation apps. Small luxuries that made the days easier.

“She’s out today,” Maggie said. “Sick day.”

“Poor baby.”

“Please,” Maggie said. “She’s probably hungover.”

I laughed. “Poor baby.”

Maggie shook her head and pressed the elevator button. When the doors closed, she did a funny dance. She liked to dance when we were alone in the elevator. I liked to watch.

“What if there are cameras?” I asked her once.

“Free show,” she said, spinning around. “You’re welcome.”

We got off on the tenth floor and headed to our little corporate-cafeteria Starbucks.

“So, what will it be today?” Maggie asked me. “Back on the chai train? A flat white? A Red Eye? Maybe a matcha?”

She was mocking me because I changed my order every day, constantly waffling about what I wanted while waiting in line. I could never settle on a signature drink.

“Not sure,” I said. “Thinking.”

“This is why you need the 8 Ball,” she said.

“The 8 Ball isn’t going to advise me on if I want a hot hazelnut latte or a caramel iced coffee.”

“It might,” she said. “And it might tell you to just send that email without reading it four thousand times.”

“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “I’m meticulous.”

“Sure,” she said, grinning. “So, what’d you do last night?”

I shrugged. “Went for a run. Kenny made gnocchi.”

“Did he? Impressive.”

I waited for her to tell me that I was lucky. That was what everyone said. I was so lucky to have Kenny. I knew they meant well; still, I thought it was mildly insulting at best, dangerous at worst, to say this to someone. Relationships are complicated, and no one could ever really know what goes on from the outside looking in. Why reinforce a reliance, a codependence? Why create this completely unnecessary sense of desperate gratitude? Kenny was great. He was affable and creative and generous, but he was also terribly irresponsible with money and a certified slob. To tell me that I was lucky to be with him dismissed his flaws and my contributions. I did his taxes. I set up his IRA. So lucky.

I wasn’t certain about much, but I was certain that when it came to relationships, luck was never in play.

At least, fairly certain.

“Make your decision, miss,” Maggie said. “You’re up.”

“You go first.”

“Nope,” she said. Her flat palm moved up my back and landed between my shoulder blades. She gave me a gentle nudge forward.

My body prickled in the wake of her touch.

I stammered at the counter. “Um . . . sorry . . . I’m sorry. Hazelnut . . . No, sorry. Caramel iced coffee, please. Venti. Light ice. Thank you.”

I heard Maggie giggling behind me.

I gave her a look, and she put her hands up in surrender.

We waited for our drinks and then said our goodbyes at the elevator, going to our separate sides of the floor.

I’d been at the company only a few months. Before I started, I worried about the rigid corporate environment, but I ran into Maggie in the bathroom my first week and she invited me to coffee. We became fast friends, a rare fluency between us I’d never quite experienced before. I was excited about her. I told Kenny, all my friends. I’d find any excuse to talk about her.

“Maggie has perfect skin, and she swears by Cetaphil.”

“Maggie gave me the recipe for this bomb salad dressing.”

“Maggie also loves [insert movie, TV show, musical artist, food, writer, podcast, etc.].”

“As a kid, Maggie almost drowned in Lake Champlain, and she swears Champy saved her.”

“I’m glad you made a friend at work,” Kenny would say. “We should have her over.”

And when he said it, I felt the same way as I did about him with the 8 Ball when I brought it home. I didn’t want to let him anywhere near her.

*   *   *

The following weekend Kenny and I went to Coney Island with his best friend/former college roommate, Sam, and Sam’s new girlfriend, Alexa, who had never been.

“It’s not how I pictured it would be,” she said, her disappointment tangible, contagious.

I felt myself catch it, the threatening tickle of it in the back of my throat. It proliferated swiftly, suffusing me with negativity, cynicism.

When Kenny and I had first started dating, we were constantly taking trips to Coney Island to ride the Cyclone and eat Nathan’s and walk up and down the boardwalk, playing new-relationship trivia, where the answer to every question is always prizeworthy, and the prize is you.

Did you ever get injured in gym class growing up? Yes? That is . . . very endearing! You move on to the next round!

A few years in, we already knew pretty much everything there was to know about each other. There was no trivia left, the prize already won. I knew that in third grade Kenny had bruised his coccyx in an unfortunate scooter-board-derby accident. The injury forced him to sleep on his stomach, something he still did to this day. I knew what he was allergic to (shellfish, penicillin). I knew everything he loved (thunderstorms, Dave Grohl, the Yankees, Italian subs, Prospect Park Frisbee, me). I knew his Social Security number.

We were together, game over.

It wasn’t that I found him uninteresting. He was well-read and curious. He consumed new information daily and would share it with me over dinner or over text or as we attempted to fall asleep.

“Did you know that aluminum is infinitely recyclable?” he’d said to me the night before as I popped in my retainers.

“No,” I responded. “I didn’t. That’s interesting.”

I meant it, but for some reason, it came out with a hint of sarcasm.

That was when I realized if someone you’re bored with tells you something compelling, it really doesn’t matter what it is. He could have told me that NASA had video footage of little green aliens doing the Macarena on Mars, and I would have yawned.

“Skee-Ball?” Kenny asked me, dragging me out of my head and back to Luna Park. “Jordan is the Skee-Ball queen.”

“It’s true,” I said, and then proceeded to dominate. I missed the paper tickets, plastic tokens. It was all digital now, your points downloaded onto a card. I felt sorry for younger generations.

When I expressed this to the group, Sam shrugged and said, “It’s easier this way.”

I looked to Kenny, who nodded in agreement, then to Alexa, who wasn’t paying attention. I turned back to Kenny. He smiled at me.

I felt very alone.

That’s when I realized if you’re looking at someone that you’re supposed to love and you feel alone, you have a big problem.

I had a big problem.

“I’ll be right back.” I handed my arcade card to Kenny and said, “Go crazy.”

“Ooh, baby, you treat me so nice,” he replied in a funny voice.

I didn’t laugh.

I found the nearest bathroom and locked myself in a stall. It smelled terrible, and there was damp toilet paper on the floor, but I found it preferable to the arcade.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the 8 Ball as I removed it from my bag. “I apologize for taking you out in these less-than-ideal surroundings, but I need to ask.”

I held the 8 Ball in both hands and closed my eyes.

“Am I losing my mind?”

VERY DOUBTFUL, it said.

“Do I love him anymore?”

OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.

It was a strange sensation to simultaneously experience the relief of validation and the stark cruelty of the truth.

“Why?” I asked. “Why?”

REPLY HAZY, TRY AGAIN.

I slipped the 8 Ball back into my bag, wrapping it in a scarf.

When I emerged from the bathroom, the stink of it lingered on me. I walked away from the arcade and toward the ocean. I stepped onto the sand, my feet sinking with every step. I watched the waves simmering in the sun. I witnessed the relentless push and pull of the tide. I liked how small and fragile it made me feel, how powerless.

You can’t do anything about anything, the ocean seemed to say. So why bother?

I wanted to walk into the water. I wanted to march straight into the ocean’s mouth and have it swallow me up.

I thought about Maggie almost drowning in Lake Champlain. I thought about Champy, the American Loch Ness Monster. I thought about how sweet it was, her faith in folklore. The first time we had gone for drinks after work, she told me she wanted to take a weekend trip to the Pine Barrens to search for the Jersey Devil.

“Why?” I asked her.

She smiled against the rim of her coupe, a gin gimlet swirling below, anxious to meet her lips.

“Because,” she said. “Because I like to meet other strange creatures. Good to know I’m not alone.”

*   *   *

On the train back from Coney Island, Kenny held my hand. It wasn’t typical behavior, but Sam had his arm around Alexa, so perhaps he felt obligated.

The four of us went to dinner at a restaurant near Sam’s apartment in Ditmas Park, and afterward we walked around admiring the neighborhood houses.

“We should live here,” Kenny said to me. “Get one of these. Chill on the porch.”

“Sure,” I said. “Definitely.”

“I like this area,” he said.

I wondered if he was serious, if he actually thought we could afford one of the massive Victorians. I wondered what it was like to be such an idealist. I wanted a cigarette.

“Is it too far to walk?” he asked me. “To walk home?”