#witchdoll

“How long are you going to keep this up?” I ask on my lunch break.

It shrugs at me, then after my shift it follows me home.

“Please leave me alone.”

“sorry,” it says, not sounding sorry at all.

It waits outside my apartment building. I consider calling the cops on it, but then I think about what they might do to it if it doesn’t go away. The doll doesn’t deserve that. It isn’t like it’s dangerous. Just a little annoying. I wake up in the middle of the night and look outside. It’s still there, standing still in the shadow between the garages, where it can be seen from my window. It’s not look toward me, though.

It isn’t trying to peer inside like a stalker; it just wants to make sure I can see it.

I put on clothes and go outside.

“It’s kind of chilly out.”

“don’t worry about me, miss. this one doesn’t feel the cold.”

I suppose that makes sense. It isn’t shivering or anything.

“Can I get you anything? You don’t…eat, right?”

“this one does not. but…if you could wind its key, it would be grateful.”

I’m not totally sure I want its gratitude, but it turns around to show the key on its back. I wind it a few times until it says “thank you, that’s enough.” And then I go back inside.

It follows me around again the next day, too. When I go home, I think about it standing out in the parking lot again and get sad, so I ask “Would you like to come inside?”

“this one has no particular preference.”

“Okay,” I say, “well, it’ll bother me, so if you’re just going to stand out in the cold otherwise, then please come in.”

“yes, miss.”

“Don’t call me miss.”

“oh. would…sir be preferable?”

“Listen, just call me Mike.”

“yes, sir, michael.”

*

Letting the doll in was maybe a mistake. It solved one problem, because the doll no longer follows me around all day long. But now I have a roommate that insists on cleaning up after me.

“You don’t need to do that.”

The doll pauses momentarily in cleaning the oven to shrug.

“Please, stop.”

It looks up at me, blinks, and stops. Just fully freezes in place. I panic, then make sure its key hasn’t wound down. No, it’s fine. It’s pouting because I told it not to clean the stupid oven. Well, that won’t work on me. I pull it out of the way, put away the cleaning supplies, and go about my business. But the next morning when it’s still frozen in place in the kitchen I snap.

“Okay, okay, fine,” I say. It starts moving again as though nothing had happened. It pulls out the cleaning supplies and resumes the job. “I’m sorry.”

“it’s quite alright,” it say, utterly without rancor. “it is difficult to become a witch.”

“I’m not a witch.”

The doll smiles at me.

*

I have to watch what I say around it, because if it sounds like I’m giving it an order, it will do it. I have to watch what I do around it, because if I thoughtlessly make a mess, it will immediately start cleaning it up. It’s stressful. I think about what I’m doing all the time now. I didn’t want to adopt this stupid doll and now my whole damn life is based around it.

It’s better, though. My apartment is so much nicer when it’s clean. And it feels nice to clean up after myself so that the doll doesn’t have to. I’m eating a lot better, too, because I don’t want to just eat frozen pizza when it’s watching and it helps carry the groceries. It makes me tea in the afternoon, which I always thought was something I wouldn’t like but is actually pretty good.

The doll doesn’t talk much, but that’s okay because I don’t either. I used to do a lot of online gaming, but I’ve started preferring the doll’s silent companionship.

I still feel bad, though. It’s expecting something from me.

“I’d like to be a witch for you,” I tell it, “but I don’t know how.”

“a witch is not something you do. it is something you are.” It shrugs. “don’t worry. you don’t need to do anything. you’re my witch.”

I’m not, though.

*

I go to a witch bar. I think, maybe I’ll ask someone about what’s going on. A real witch will know what I should do. But when I walk by the doors and see the witches and dolls inside, I feel like such an impostor that I can’t bring myself to go in. I wish I had the confidence in myself that my doll does.

I do my best to take care of it. I wind its key. I make tea for it. I sit in stillness with it.

When I go out with my friends I find I have little to say. My life has gotten fairly simple. “A doll followed me home a month ago.”

“Have you fucked it?”

I leave.

“It’s not that kind of doll,” I hear myself saying.

“That’s too bad.”

At home, it sees the look on my face and says “do you want to?”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

“you’re my witch. it is perfectly alright.”

“Um. Maybe, when I believe that more. Okay?”

“yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir.”

The doll starts sleeping in my bed. I’m cold a lot of the time now, and it doesn’t warm me up, but it’s something. Something is changing. I get a little excited. Maybe this is what it means to become a witch.

I start taking estrogen. Just in case that will help.

*

a year passes. i hardly even realize it.

i'm still not a witch, but it no longer worries me.

i am cool and smooth to the touch. my doll and i go hand in hand to the grocery store. i lost my job and got a new one. i am better at this one, although it pays less. i have fewer friends, but the friends that I have understand me better. i wind my doll’s key and she winds mine.

and finally one day i say “you made a mistake. i was a doll all along.”