“No,” she said and left the room.
The day you give up on your dreams is the day you give up on yourself.
—Unknown
Pulling her hair into a knot on top of her head, blowing a few loose strands out of the way, Rose turned on her computer. It was an old PC, its fan was loud and hot, and it took a full five minutes to load. She was afraid that one day, it wouldn’t turn on at all and then she didn’t know what she would do. You could hardly mail newspapers handwritten articles. That definitely wouldn’t be considered professional.
She’d slept better last night, maybe because there was too much to think about, too much to worry about to even bother. Her exhaustion was stronger than her anger and frustration, and so when she went to bed she’d fallen unconscious almost instantly, waking up with a claggy mouth. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth. But the rest had given her a new sense of determination, something that even the two rejection emails she’d received from the jobs she’d applied to yesterday couldn’t shake.
She took a swig of Coke, the cold bolt of flavor pushing back against the sleepy heat.
When her computer was finally on, she linked it with the Bluetooth on her phone. She tried to use as little of Rob’s resources as possible. She bought her own food, used her own internet plan and never used the home phone. It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to be indebted to him. She also hated the idea of touching anything he used; she despised everything about him. Not that it mattered much anymore.
All morning she had replayed last night’s conversation with her mother. Rose wished she had made it clear, at the very least, that she hadn’t been stupid in calling the cops. Say the word pedophile and she was sure she could get that breathless panicky quality back into her mother’s voice. The idea did something strange to people, especially parents. Everyone agreed that pedophiles were the lowest scum on the planet, yet people also seemed weirdly fascinated by them. Their stories were always in the news the longest, front page after front page of disturbing stories in sickening detail. Maybe people enjoyed feeling horrified.
The screen lit up and, already, she felt a little wired. She’d dismissed the idea of writing about the dolls almost immediately. Dolls on kids’ doorsteps was hardly a story.
But maybe it didn’t even matter.
She opened a blank Word document and typed the title in, just to see how it would look: Porcelain Terror in Colmstock.
Everyone loved a good mystery. Her fingers started flying across the keyboard, trying to shape the strange truth of what had happened into something more menacing. Trying to make it into a story.
It wasn’t the sort of thing that would ever stand a chance in the Sage Review, but maybe it would be possible in the Star. She and Mia only read the thing for laughs, and because it had the most ridiculous star-sign predictions. The tabloid was always filled with tacky sensationalist articles, like how a suburban man had made his wife swallow an entire live snake as part of a voodoo ritual or how a mother was addicted to eating her children’s glue sticks, in between full-page advertisements for diet pills.
It was fun writing something dramatic and salacious. By the time she had to leave for work, she’d emailed the article to the Star. Usually, she would spend at least a few weeks on a piece, but this one she kept short and to the point. If they didn’t like it, they could go fuck themselves.
PORCELAIN TERROR IN COLMSTOCK
By Rose Blakey
Mystery dolls threaten children of small town.
A mystery is an unusual thing in the town of Colmstock, which all but disappeared from the map after the closure of the Auster Automotive Factory. Now, to add insult to injury for the residents of this forgotten place, a bizarre case has emerged that has the local police baffled.
Multiple families have made the terrifying discovery of old-fashioned porcelain dolls on their doorsteps. Most horrifying of all, the dolls are the spitting images of their young daughters. Hair and eye color of these unwanted gifts exactly matching the scared little girls.
Local police have attempted to calm the victims. However, these families may be right to be frightened for the safety of their youngest daughters. Inside sources have revealed that possible links to child molesters and pedophiles are being investigated and that the dolls are marks of this anonymous sicko’s intended prey.
With the limited resources available to the impoverished Colmstock, the community fears the offender may not be apprehended until it is too late.
* * *
Rose leaned into the wide freezer in the storage room of the tavern. She stroked the back of her head, combing her hair with her fingers so that it came off her sweaty neck. She let it dangle around her face like a veil.
Today had been an especially hot day, the humidity making the air a sweltering, oppressive weight as she’d walked to work, her shoes banging against her bandaged heels. The road had felt like it had been sizzling. Her head was full of dolls, although as soon as she’d started walking she’d realized what she’d written was crazy. It didn’t even really make sense.
The freezer reeked. It was as if something had died in there, froze, then thawed, rotted a bit and then froze again. Still, the cool air on her skin was worth it. It felt like little icy pinpricks on her face and neck. She could happily stay there all day, but Jean would notice her absence soon enough and come to find out why she was slacking off. Reaching into the freezer, she pulled out a hunk of frozen meat wrapped in plastic. It was wedged in there, and the sound of the icicles squealing against each other as it scraped against the side of the freezer made her wince. It was heavy; she held it tightly with one trembling arm as she slammed the lid of the freezer closed with the other.
The meat started to stick to her forearms as she walked up the corridor. She passed Will’s room. The light inside was on, but the Do Not Disturb sign was still plastered to his door. Rose dropped the hunk of meat down on the kitchen bench.
“Thanks,” Jean said from the stove; her white shirt was damp with sweat. Rose couldn’t imagine trying to cook on a day this hot.
“Look at her go.” Jean pointed her chin toward the bar, a smile playing on her lips.
Mia was flirting with Bazza outrageously. She was leaning against the taps, literally twirling her hair. It was almost laughable, but Bazza was eating it up.
“I’ll give them a few minutes,” she said to Jean and went over to the bin. It wasn’t completely full yet, but Rose didn’t really want to go back to the bar. It was only a matter of time before Frank asked her about the cadetship, and she’d have to tell him that she hadn’t got it. She didn’t want pity, not from him or anyone else. Plus, the longer you left the bin, the more likely it was that you’d leak foul-smelling bin juice down the corridor. She tied the black plastic rubbish bag into a knot at the top, then slid it out of the bin; it was already heavy.
Holding it in one hand, as far away from her body as possible, she walked quickly down the corridor. The back door to Eamon’s, past the keg room, was propped open with a brick. They always left it like that when the pub was open. People went into the back alley for cigarettes sometimes, or, very rarely, for make-out sessions. Rose couldn’t imagine anything less romantic. The concrete was cracked and uneven, and the large metal Dumpster stank, even when it was empty. The thing had probably never been cleaned. It smelled like sweet, rotting rubbish and made her want to gag. There was no light out there except for the streetlights around the front and the light that spilled from the open door down the four cement steps. Rose let the bag slide down the steps next to