Become my doll . . .
"Shit." Alright, so it's not the most poetic thought to have, but it's not like Oliver dreamed of being a poet or anything. Hell no. He hadn't dreamed of anything other than minding his own business and was it really asking too much to ask for Life to just ignore him? Apparently it was, and Oliver must've pissed off Life pretty badly to deserve ending up in a mess like this. He'd only been picking up a shift for a friend and . . . maybe he should start from the beginning.
His friend Mark had just broken his leg and was getting his brand new cast set today, so obviously the guy was in no shape to run around delivering packages. That's where Oliver steps in by picking up the shift in Mark's name (for a little extra cash of course). It was an easy job so Oliver never thought much about it and just went about with the rest of the guys on shift, dropping off what needed to be dropped off and what not. Everything had been going smoothly until this one house- 416 Lancaster Ln.
The box was too big so the rest of the guys made him get up and hand deliver the package. That's where the story should end, right? Well there he is, standing on the porch getting ready to ring the doorbell, but something doesn't feel right. He can't put his finger on it, but just being near this house is making him feel nauseous and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to drop everything and run. Oliver felt like one of those rabbits or deer in headlights everyone likes to talk about. Problem being that there were no cars on the porch and Oliver sure as hell wasn't some animal.
That's when he should have just put down the box and left, but that isn't what he did. Not even close. Because this was the moment when the man took a nice deep breath and realized just what was making him so nervous- Formaldehyde. The scent was so disgustingly familiar that there was no way that he could have mistaken it for anything else. Carefully, he placed the box on the ground and knocked . . . once . . . twice . . .
"It's not like anybody would be stupid enough to leave their door unlocked these days," Oliver grumbled to himself, but the door opened immediately when he tried the doorknob. "Shit." The stench hit the man even harder now that the door was open and he gagged, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. Okay, everything about this situation was giving him the chills, but damned if he was about to turn around at this point and get told off by his friends who he could already hear yelling at him for opening the damn door in the first place. Yeesh.
Everything in this place was spotless to the point where it unnerved Oliver. There wasn't even a speck of dust on the window ledges (he checked) and who in their right mind kept a house that spotless while still that vile. Point being- it was a dumb combination. But the dead probably don't have to worry about what their houses smelled like in the first place all considering. There was no mistaking that the young man before him was dead as doorknobs too.
Either someone re-positioned the corpse after the deed was done or this was one convenient and comfy death. Some big viewing room off to the side of the hall had its door open, the only out of place thing, so Oliver was compelled to take a peek. All of the furniture had been cleared from the room, excepting for one cushioned chair, because why position a corpse in an arm chair if you're not going to make it the center of position. Wouldn't want the curtains to steal the show or something . . . whatever . . .
They were impeccable, whoever they were. Cheeks so round and eyes so glassy that Oliver almost mistook the corpse for the creepiest, life size doll in existence. The full suit didn't exactly help matters either. It was a deep black, making the near translucent skin seem even paler, without a single wrinkle to mar the fabric. The suit . . . that was all Oliver wanted to focus on, but screw those dolls and their eyes that always hooked into your soul and pulled until you couldn't look away.
Oliver would go into greater detail into the weird ass scene before him, but already he found that he could already breathe. Ha, the irony. Losing breath in front of the dead guy. Vision too, fuzzing around the edges til the man couldn't see a damn thing. He could barely notice the shouts behind him and the way the floor swayed beneath his feet. Damned if he did know the guy. Damned if he didn't.
All Oliver could think of were those glassy eyes and the laughter that danced on the edge of his consciousness. Not like it was malicious laughter or anything like that. If anything the sound was lonely, maybe even regretful. In one second the images flashed before Oliver- thin fingers forcing a smile, the fading pigment of blood loss, the pleas. Before he could think of anything else, Oliver squeezed his eyes shut against what he was painfully sure was just another long lost memory.
