Nightmare Fuel, Brain-Child of Bliss Morgan
Day 8 Prompt
Prompt Artist Unknown
Great care was taken as he surgically cut out her eyes. The thump of his heart was a drum in his ears.
"Don't worry, my love. We will be together soon."
His hands were steady as he placed them in a bed of soft cotton. He gently moved the mask into place. His poppet was finished.
Opening the old, tattered tome, he spoke. Old words he knew not the gravity of.
He waited, wondering if he'd done everything precisely right. The offerings, the directions, the colors. Everything he'd spent months preparing for. The doll exhaled, its voice a slow whisper.
"What is this?"
The eyes peered mercilessly from behind the white mask. Hunger leaked from its lidless expression. He stumbled over his words, unsure how to tell her what he'd done.
"I've kept you alive, my love."
Simple. She didn't have to know the intricacies. In fact, he knew nothing of the consequences of his actions, but she did. This bodyless soul. She already felt it growing inside her.
"I need to feed."
He swallowed, lump growing in his throat. Threw on his coat and hat, pulling it over his eyes as he walked against the rain. His thoughts churned violently, landing where any rational man's would. Prostitutes.
"Need a date, handsome?"
"Yeah, let's go to my place."
"You good for it?"
Her eyes widen at the roll of money. She stuffs it in her stocking and they quickly head to the house at the bottom of the hill. He nearly drags her inside. High heeled steps wobble, unsure.
Slammed door shakes the pictures as he drags her, screaming. Into the room with the poppet. His wife.
"Kill her, so I may live."
He takes the athame from the table and plunges it into her chest many times. Afterward, there's quiet. Like the calm before a storm.
The poppet changes slowly, growing larger. Taking form.
She steps forward to touch him, not a doll anymore.
The mask is bound to her face, but she's a poppet nevermore.