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The China-Faced Doll.

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The China-Faced Doll By Owen Gates It seemed so harmless, just another one of its kind. Everyone was captivated by its innocent grin and other charming characteristics. If only everyone knew the truth. Everyday I feel the pain of my losses, living the consequences of a crackpot's corrupted mind. My story begins nigh on one hundred years ago, when I was unborn but the crackpot was not. Although various stones have been left unturned, my research of the matter has proved fairly successful and has led me to believe many a thing that may seem improbable. The maniac that I speak of is a man, a man with an intention, an unethical intention! For the past century, people have rumoured theories as regards the man's life, his immoralities, and his disturbing suicide. Only now do I understand the reality. The man had a gift for art, and made his wealth and local fame in his unique production of china-faced dolls. During the course of his life he became more and more reserved, keeping himself to himself and his friends far away. These friends, therefore, and all people, lost interest in him and he became somewhat of a loner. Through this deficiency of companions he developed a grudge against mankind, and gradually a hate for all living things. ...read more.


All these deaths were occurring in the northern suburbs of the city. Although they were suicides and people were doing them of their own free will, you can't help feeling in danger and vulnerable. People were saying that the city was cursed and that it was all a big jinx. Other, more logical, people said that there was a serial killer making it all look like suicides. But police and forensic scientists were certain, and all evidence proved it, that there was no other person involved except the victim of depression. The part I played in these events began at my discovery. After a long battle of figures at the office I stopped off to buy a flourish of flowers as it was the five-year anniversary of being married to my wife. On purchasing the bloom I found that near the bottom there was a small doll of blazing red hair and a priceless china face. It was very worn, it's flaming locks were grubby and singed. The tattered clothes marked the ancient age of the doll. I should have returned it, but on gazing at it's child like eyes, one of which was loose and rolled about in the socket when the other was fixed, I fell victim to it's hypnotic innocence and felt that I had to keep it. ...read more.


My mind lost control over my body. I brought myself to my feet and snatched the knife from my wife's hand. Unwillingly but still in a hypnotic trance, I started to press the machete into my chest. At the moment that it began to pierce my skin, the police came bursting through the front door, and the feeling came back to my body and my arms fell to my side. I glanced at the doll whose smile was now an apparent frown. It only took one look at me, from the police's perspective, knife in hand standing over my wife's slaughtered body before I was handcuffed and knocked unconscious. And so it was inevitable that I would be sitting here, in my prison cell, formulating my nightmares into words of terrific horror. After all who would believe that a doll was responsible for over twenty consecutive deaths. But be merciful. Deal me death, not isolation where for every minute of every day I am to mourn my losses and live in misery. Maybe I am mad and I did just think the whole thing up. But I think not. I think that I am right and other people must now face the consequences of a detective's disbelief. The doll has been passed on and somewhere, somehow, someone is always dying. ...read more.

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