Gole was tempted to shove the slab as far back as he could from the kiln and to peer into the pit to see what was talking. What frightened him most was the thought that what was in the structure was a small child, perhaps one that was only playing a prank on him with some of the others. He couldn't afford to kill a child; where would he go, if he went through with their prank and ended up burning what they wanted to make him think was some sort of abomination?
He had to of imagined the doll, still somewhat pliant, despite the drying process that it had undergone, squirming worm-like in his hand, like a creature trying to escape his grasp. He had to of imagined that; it was unthinkable otherwise.
Are we playing a game, Gole-y? You're not going to light it on fire, are you? I'm scared. Where are you?
Gole located the flint despite the panic that rose in his stomach. He turned to face the kiln like it was an enemy. The small voice returned, and Gole felt rage and fear build up inside of him, until he screamed out, "Shut up, shut up! If you're trying to trick me, you'd better stop it now, damn it. I'm going to light the fire, so if you're just trying to trick me, you had better make some sort of noise or say something before I light it!"
Gole crouched at the feet of the kiln and readied the flint, waiting first for any sort of sign from whatever was in the vessel. A voice came through the kiln, sounding all the more scared and sad than it had before.
Please, please, if I have to do this, please come in with me!
Gole shouted out, "Last chance! Knock on the lid if you don't want to burn!"
Nothing came, and Gole readied to light the fire on the stack of wood. As he stretched his arm out to light the center of the stack of wood on fire, he had been expecting a change in the voice in the kiln. He was correct to expect a change in voice, but it was nevertheless one that he wouldn't have ever wanted to hear.
A strange, distorted voice arose from the kiln, this time in a frighteningly clear tone, free of any of the bizarre distortion that reminded him of a well, filled with water.
Come in the kiln with me, Gentrrryy... the voice faded out on the sound of the name that Gole hadn't been called in a year, then it picked up, the strange voice dropping in lieu of the voice of the scared girl who sounded as though she was speaking from a far-away place.
I love you Gole, I want to be with you. Don't you want to be with me?
The sound of her crying broke Gole, and he shakingly lit the fire wood under the kiln, shutting his eyes when he heard the screaming from inside of the kiln. For a moment, during the screaming, Gole was certain that he had heard a difference in the child-like voice as it screamed wordlessly; it was a voice that, for as short a period as it rang through the small back room of the shop, made Gole think of something horrible and ageless. Something rotten.
After a few minutes, which Gole spent rocking back and forth on the hot dirt floor, his arms wrapped tight around his legs, the screaming stopped, giving away to the gentle hush of the fire beating against the floor of the kiln.
Gole awoke the next morning when the old woman who owned the shop jabbed him repeatedly in the side and asked him why the kiln was still warm if he had actually doused the fire when he was supposed to the night before. Gole removed the lid of the kiln, fearing what would be inside. He was relieved, and shocked, when he saw that the bisque doll had baked perfectly, despite the fact that, for the kiln to still be warm, the doll should have been burnt to a mess.
Once the thing cooled down, Gole removed the doll, and was only too happy when the old woman wrenched it from him, telling him that she would never allow him to be a part of the process of making dolls, and that he would do well to go to his own bed and sleep until one of the other children would come for him.
Gole was later surprised to be awakened by the small child who leaned over him, shaking his shoulders to wake him. He couldn't believe that he had actually fallen asleep, remembering the voices that had earlier come from the kiln.
He went into the store and was told by the old man that despite what the old owner of the shop had said, they were too behind with doll orders for man to take care of the doll himself. Despite this assertion, the old man seemed suspicious of Gole and acted as though he did not want to give control of the making of the doll back to Gole.
Gole seized onto this fact, and, remembering the night before, asked the old man if he could possibly work on another doll instead. When the man told him to not be superstitious, Gole asked why he was the only one of the children who was assisting with the making of dolls. The man was incensed by this question, and told Gole that he was the oldest of the children, and had lately been frightening customers when he worked in the shop itself. If he wanted to stay - and be fed - he would stop acting as though he wasn't a worker.
Gole accepted it, as he was always wont to, but he took it with a deep feeling of fear and dark resignation. He was brought to the kiln room and was left with the doll and the tools he would use to paint the first part of her features.
As the door shut, allowing the owners, customers, and the children to be in the shop without the truly gloomy kiln room to be seen by passers-by, Gole wondered if the events from the night before would come back to haunt him.
He clutched the thin-bristled paint brush and nestled the vague doll-shaped form in his lap, reclining it back so that he could get a good look at where its face was to be.
Dabbing paint on the bristles, he looked back at the doll, and realized that the head was turning of its own accord, moving in a manner that sickly reminded Gole of the way a blind creature attempts to get a bead on an object of interest.
The voice came, as Gole somehow knew it would, sounding, as it had before, somehow like a parody of a frightened little girl. I can't see you, Gole, where are my eyes, I can't see.
Gole bit his bottom lip and tightened one of his hands around the thing's head to steady it. The voice disappeared, and was replaced by the sound of panicked breathing. Gole, what are you doooiiinnnnnnggg-
Although he had clutched the head as hard as he could without breaking the near-brittle bisque, the thing managed to squirm as he tried to draw a delicate set of lips on the doll's face. The paint ended up smeared on the doll's cheek, and Godel clutched the doll's head harder, causing the the thing to shriek shrilly. He found an old work cloth and began to rub furiously at the paint, and was only partially relieved when all of the paint came off the blank face.
Gole, let go, let go, don't squeeze so hard... My face is under this bisque, if you let me show you it, will that make you stop? Please, Gole-y, let me have something with a small, heavy end to it.
Gole wanted the thing to just shut up, so he laid the doll against the bench and handed the outstretched hand of the blank doll to do what it wanted with his heavy knife. Slowly, the thing turned the knife around so that the blunt end of the knife was facing it. It stood in its legs and Gole as unable to look away from the doll as it moved, slowly, trying not to wobble as it pulled the blunt end away from its face and then abruptly smashed the end of the knife against its face.
What emerged from under the smashed bisque was something that was reminiscent of an aborted fetus, its eyes not seeming to be fully developed beyond small rolling pin pricks. Gole launched himself backwards, finally falling out from the thrall that the thing had had him in. He bit his hand to keep from screaming, afraid of what would happen if the thing were to turn around and to look at him with those under-developed eyes.
It dropped the knife and looked over at Gole, extending its arms up and towards him.
Can you clean me up? I need some help, cracking this shell around me...
Gole fell on his back as he felt himself lose control of his legs. He wanted desperately to run... but what would be waiting for him, if he decided to run and talk about the creature that looked so earnestly at him, as though it wanted him to come to it and hold it?
Looking back at the door, Gole imagined the reaction he would receive, bursting into the shop, panting. Would they even listen to him, such a sight he would be to whoever was unfortunate enough to be the one he could hear then, talking beyond the door as he fell into the room? No; it was more than likely that he would be thrown out on the street on sight, even before they had a chance to see the horrible creature for themselves.
He looked at the doll, where it remained, waiting for him with its little arms extended towards him. He had to kill it, he realized instinctively. He could not allow a thing like it to continue, in whatever existence it had.
He located the small box of tools that sat near the bench, where in it lied the ball peen hammer that he would use to ruin its body, which did not have any right to exist, as nightmarish as it was.
"I'll help..." Gole vaguely thought that he murmured as he readied the hammer and crawled over to the bench. Although it was grotesque, and he could not be altogether sure, Gole believed that he could see a look of relief pass on the thing's face.
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