Working in a pawn shop, we get all kinds of weird shit. But there’s one thing they all have in common: their condition. Dresses are stained, handbags are ripped, even jewelry is wonky and bent.
That’s what made the matryoshka doll so special: she was in perfect condition.
I found her while sorting through Wednesday’s sales. As soon as I saw her, I gasped. Almond-colored wood, finely carved into a peanut shape. A beautiful face, painted more photorealistically than other matryoshka dolls I’d seen. Sparkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks, with a colorful scarf tying up her black hair.
I set her on the table, with the other goods destined for the back of the shop. But then, my curiosity got the better of me. I picked her back up and—pop!—twisted her open.
An identical doll stared back up at me, just a little bit smaller. Rosy cheeks, pretty blue eyes, pink and white flowers painted on her dress. I took her out of the bottom shell and—
Pop!
Inside, another doll stared back up at me.
Except this one wasn’t identical.
It was nearly identical. But the woman’s mouth was open this time, in a little O. Her hands were unclasped, as well, and hanging at her sides.
Huh. I thought they were all supposed to look the same. I’d seen some matryoshka dolls that made changes to the woman’s dress—different flowers or patterns—with each iteration. But the woman’s face usually appeared identical.
I twisted her open again. Pop.
The woman’s mouth was open wider. Her eyes were wider too—the black strokes of her eyelids bulging out from the previous almond shape. Her elbows were bent and her hands were moving up, towards her face.
I paused, glancing from this doll to the other three.
Pop.
I froze.
The fifth doll’s mouth was open wide. As if she were screaming. Her eyes were so wide they were nearly perfect circles.
And her hands were held out in front of her body… as if she were trying to defend herself.
I sat there for a long time, staring at that painted face. This was starting to feel like some sort of joke. Someone trying to scare me. Come to think of it, the matryoshka doll didn’t look that different from me. Black hair, blue eyes.
Is this supposed to be some sort of threat?
I shook my head. Sighing, I twisted the doll open again—
And it clattered to the floor.
The woman’s face was covered in blood. Dark red painted in meticulous lines down the side of her face. It dripped off of her face and onto her dress, staining the pink flowers red.
When I picked it up, I felt a deep scratch in the wood—on the back of her head.
I felt sick. I set the doll down on the table and took a deep breath. I’ll get here early, finish inventory in the morning. It was almost ten o’clock and there was no way I was going to stay here another second with this creepy-ass doll.
But as I began to stand, my curiosity again got the better of me. I snatched the doll off the table and pulled her apart again.
Pop.
My blood ran cold.
The doll looked similar to the previous one. Blood dripping down her face, onto her dress. Mouth hanging open in a silent scream.
Except, in this one, her eyes were closed.
And her skin was so pale it was almost blue.
My heart pounded in my ears. Hands shaking, I pulled at the ends of the doll. My hands slipped against the wood. But on the third try, I finally got the doll open.
There wasn’t a doll inside.
Instead, there was a folded piece of paper.
I was shaking like a leaf. But I pulled the paper out of the doll and unfolded it, little black dots dancing at the edge of my vision.
Four little words, written in sloppy scrawl.
I’ll see you soon.
I ran out of the pawn shop. I thought I heard the distinctive thump of footsteps behind me—but I dove into my car without looking back. When I got to my apartment I drew the deadbolt and collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.
The police haven’t been able to find who did this. My boss remembers the man who sold it to us, but his description matches nearly every white, brown-haired guy in America. The name he used was fake, and we don’t have security cameras.
He’s untraceable.
I quit my job and moved to a new apartment. But other than that, I don’t know what to do. Part of me thinks that, since nothing has happened in months, he’s moved on.
But then I have the nightmares.
Nightmares of being crammed into a life-sized matryoshka doll. The wood closing in like a coffin, the sliver of light at my waist getting narrower by the second. Then—pop!—the wooden ends meet and I’m scratching at the wood, screaming for help, my mouth open in an O like the painted face of the doll.
But nobody can hear me.