When I was little, like around 3-6, I struggled a lot making friends. I was very shy and different to the other kids. When I was 4 I was diagnosed with cancer. For a long time I was pretty much bed bound and wasn’t allowed to leave my bedroom.
It was always dull. We had just moved into this new house and the moving truck was delayed due to an unfortunate accident on the motorway, so I had practically no toys to play with, and basically slept all day. The house was very big, and empty, like one of those big Tudor mansions in the countryside. My dad liked it because he said it had “a lot of history.”
One day, whilst my parents were in the garden, trying to sort out all the weeds and get it back into shape, somebody knocked on my door. I said,”Come in.” But nobody came in, I said it again, nothing. I put my slippers on and got up to open the door. Nobody was there. I looked down and saw a large box. I picked it up and placed it on my bed. It was very dusty, and it wasn’t sealed or anything.
I shut my door so my mom didn’t know I’d gotten up, and went back to open the box. To my joy, it was full of toys, but not the colourful plastic type of toys you’d get back then. Old, dishevelled toys. Baby dolls with limbs missing, teddy bears with no eyes, that kind of stuff. There was no toy cars or Barbies, old stuff. I thought my dad put it there as a surprise for me, so I decided to be grateful and make-do with what I had.
As I got to the bottom of the box, I noticed a black rectangular package, with a wax seal on it. “Don’t open that yet.” Said an unfamiliar voice behind me. I turned to see one of the dolls, it’s mouth wasn’t moving but there was a voice coming from it. I picked the doll up, I held it out infront of my face. “Are you talking to me?” The doll raised her arm as if she was waving to me. The dolls head slowly nodded. “My name is Catherine. What is yours?” “Uh.. I’m Michael.” I said, hesitantly.
“Why can’t I open that box at the bottom?” I said with confusion. “Because you are not ready for that yet, I see you would like a playmate, am I correct?” “Um, yeah.. it’s getting pretty boring up here on my own.” “Wonderful! I have so many lovely games to play with you.” Her mouth starting to shift into a smile.”
During the time I had Catherine I did everything with her. My mom didn’t know anything about Catherine, because she had given me strict instructions not to mention her to my mother or anyone else. Her games were usually fun, and I loved playing with her.
But I hated her night games.
Catherine would often wake me up during the night, and ask me to play games with her. Her special night games, she called them. I would say I needed to go back to sleep, because I was tired, but she would persist until I got up. These games often included challenges with knives, walking around in the dark blindfolded, and in one of her games she would make me self-harm, and she convinced me it was fine.
In one of her night games, she took me to the kitchen. She instructed me to open the cupboard and get my mom and dads favourite mugs. She opened one cupboard herself, and handed me some liquid rat poison. “Get one of your paintbrushes and brush this around the edges of these cups. It tastes delicious and your parents will love the taste.” “Wait, mommy said that hurts your fingers, and it’s dangerous.” I said. “No no no, it’s perfectly safe.” She said, her mouth once again contorting into a sick smile. “I’m going back to bed Catherine. I’m really tired.” I walked back up the stairs, leaving Catherine in the kitchen.
Catherine always carried round a tiny knife inside her dress. During her night games she would usually tell me to hurt myself with them. I didn’t tell her that it hurt because I didn’t want to upset her.
This carried on for an entire year.
It was the day before Christmas Eve, when she finally handed me the black box. I was nervous but so excited to find out what it was. I ripped open the wrapping around it, to find a board with a bunch of letters on it, and a small tear shaped thing with a hole in it.
“This contraption is called an ouija board. It helps you talk to people, I’ll tell you what to do, and then my special friends can visit you.” I started at the board. Thinking about what I should do. That’s when I heard my mothers scream. “FIRE, MICHAEL THERES A FIRE! IM COMING!” “There’s a fire Catherine! I need to find my mommy, stay here ok?” I got up and ran straight downstairs to my mom and my dad. The house was covered in orange flames. My mom scooped me up into her arms and we all ran as fast as we could outside.
The house was engulfed in flames, with Catherine inside.
A week ago, when my dad hosted out family Christmas party, my mother began talking about our old memories, and that old house. “Hey, do you remember when you gave me that box of toys, with that really creepy doll?”
“No son, what doll?” My dad said, clearly puzzled.
“It was a doll that I sort of turned into my imaginary friend, a few weeks after my diagnosis, did I not speak about her? She was called Catherine I think.”
“Mike, I never gave you any toys, neither did your mother.”
“Hey hold on,” my cousin ,Shayla, interjected. “Did you say her name was Catherine?” She asked. “Yeah, Catherine.” She handed her phone to me. “Read that article.” She said. It was a newspaper article from 1918, it said a little girl called Catherine-Elise smith, was murdered by her parents in a country Manor House in near Devon, my house. Shayla zoomed into the picture of the girl.
She was holding an old doll.