When my aunt first moved into my house, I thought everything would be alright. She was nice, I guess; I mean, I never got to know her very well, and I thought this would be a good way to connect with her.
Before she came, though, my mom started acting really weird-- she would stay up all night pacing around the kitchen. And she just kept baking pies. I know that she would bake when she was nervous, but this was, like, constantly-- at least 10 pies a night. Cherry, apple, walnut, pumpkin, pecan. Anything you could think of. I mean I knew that it would be hard having her husband’s flighty sister stay in her home office on a futon, but I didn’t think it would be this hard on her. Believe me, pies were a big deal around this house. I didn’t even want to think about what she would be like when Joan was actually here. And when she actually got here, it was just as I expected: the obvious avoiding... the false, empty smiles... the harsh whispering between me and my parents that would abruptly stop when Joan walked in. I felt bad that we were basically ostracizing her to her little bedroom. So I took it upon myself to go and talk to her a few days after she was all settled in. I went up and knocked on the door that was usually my mom's home office and it creaked open, clearly unlocked. “Oh, sorry, Aunt Joan. Um... can I come in?” She quickly responded: “Yeah, one sec, Georgia.” I heard rustling from behind the door; I guessed she was throwing her suitcase under her bed or something. “Alright, Hon, come in.” It was kind of weird being invited into a room in my own house, but I mean, whatever. So I walked in, and that’s when things started getting really weird. There was this massive doll just, sitting there on the dresser. I probably wouldn't have thought anything of it in any other situation, but this time I was taken aback by it-- because it was an exact replica of my mother. Well, at first glance it was my mother. But the more I looked at it, I realised it didn’t look like her at all-- at least not real life her. This doll was my mother as a completely flawless being, completed with high cheekbones (as opposed to my mothers rounder ones), neatly combed and dark flowing hair (she usually just wore it up in a big clip), dark, almost black, brooding glass eyes (my mom's were more of a hazel) and plump, painted red lips (mom never wore makeup). Now I’m not saying that my mom isn’t as good looking as this doll, but man, there was just something captivating about it. Joan noticed me staring. “Oh, don’t mind her,” she laughed. I laughed too, wondering if I should ask why the doll looked so much like an apparition of my mother. But I didn’t, I just kept quiet. “So, what are you up to right now? Just snooping around?” she continued. “Oh, no, I just wanted to make sure you had settled in okay over the past couple of days. Nothing really important.” Until I walked in, that is. I so wanted to ask about the doll; just, like, its name or something. I needed to ask some unsuspicious question to get more information. “So you’re okay, then?” I finished awkwardly, electing to drop the subject of the doll. “Yes, yes, just fine. Did you enjoy dinner last night?” she asked, seeming to want to keep the conversation going. “Oh, yeah, no, it was really good! Was that Grandma’s recipe?” I remembered the warm, hearty taste of the mince pies she had made us and secretly wished she was cooking again tonight. “Who other’s could it be?” She laughed loudly, and I copied, although I didn’t find it that funny, but I didn’t want to be rude. Joan seemed to laugh after a lot of things she said. “So you really don’t need anything?” I scratched the back of my neck looking quickly back at the doll, then back at her as I responded: “No, yeah, just checking up on you. Let me know if you need anything, ‘kay?” She nodded slowly. “You’ve got my word.” I turned around to walk out and go to my when suddenly I felt a cold, bony hand grip my upper arm. “Where are you going? I wasn’t done catching up.”
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Mimi WytheA collection of gothic short stories. Archives
March 2015
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