Anyone missing a doll?

I'm not a stranger to weird junk happening in my life, but I know a lot of you don't care what I have to say (stop reading, then) or don't believe all the stuff I post. Tough. Angelica wrote journals to make up for her horrible memory. I write this all down to sort out my thoughts, and with a head so full of other people's, I kind of need that. So if you're one of Angelica's past clients hoping for an update...well, that makes two of us. If I have some good news, it's going here first.

In the mean time: weird junk!

It's been chilly here lately, but actually pretty normal. A decent stretch of normal, and I honestly forgot how much I like the mundane. Jet's doing well in school, the dog's behaving. I've even been keeping a weekly date with by brother (hey, Dyl!).

Then the stupid basket showed up.

It was last week Tuesday. I got home from the store and there was a gift basket on the step. No big clues--I can't shovel in my condition, and Jet does a crap job because she's just a kid. So there was a mess of footprints with no way to tell who had been there--postal worker, big, small, man, woman...nothing.

There wasn't a card or anything, and the basket was just filled with rags. Not being someone who casually touches random objects, I grabbed part of the molding that I keep meaning to nail back onto the house (when it's warmer) and poked at the rags, pushing them out of the way.

Now I've seen some shit. I was expecting at best a kitten and at worst a severed head. Layer after layer of rags and old kitchen towels, I was wondering if scrap cloth was gonna be it. Then the face.

Not too proud to admit I screamed like a girl, even though it's kind of a given. Being a girl with man-voice makes it tough to actually scream like one, but I managed.

Anyway, big basket, small face. Stupid doll made a really bad first impression, which hasn't improved at all.

Okay, skip to that evening. I'd actually forgotten about the doll--I just left the thing as it was on the steps. No way I was going to bring it in, and I really didn't want to touch it. Who knows what sort of vibe I'd get from it? Not on your life.

Jet gets home from school and marches straight into the kitchen with the doll while I'm trying to make pork chops. I almost screamed again.

It's more disturbing when it's not covered in rags. It has a 40s-style, cherubic plastic face with stylized doll eyes that waggle when Jet moves it--I think they're supposed to close when it lies down, but they never quite get there. It's wearing light brown slacks that look like actual wool, brown leather shoes, a white linen shirt with little buttons and a collar, and a brown sport coat looking thing. It's got a grey wool touring cap covering most of its sculpted plastic hair, and some of its paint job is worn off.

The creepiest part of that doll is the cracked plastic on either side of its mouth. I'll post a photo as soon as I'm brave enough to get close to the thing.

"What's this from?" Jet said, completely oblivious to the fact that she almost made me crap my pants.

Not one to mince words, I told her it freaked me out and I'd like her to throw it away, along with the rags and basket.

She shook her head. "That ain't nice. Note says we hafta take care a' him."

"What note?" I said. There seriously wasn't a note on the basket.

"It was pinned ta his shirt," she said, pulling a torn-off half of a sheet of paper out of her pocket. She's been doing really well reading, and loves to show off. She read it pretty well: "'Please take care of my son James. He is the light of my life. I hope to be back soon.' An' then there's a bunch'a stuff."

She held out the paper, and I used my pork chop tongs to take it. I wouldn't touch something that strange, even with gloves on. Jet's "bunch'a stuff" was a list of James's favorite foods, when his bedtime is, and a mention that he really loves watching reruns of The Golden Girls.

For the past week, Jet's been pouring that doll a bowl of cereal every morning. She won't eat it, and the doll certainly won't, so I throw it out. I've started keeping the cereal out of her reach, but yesterday she got it down from the top of the fridge. I told her not to climb on the counter, but she insists James brought it down.

I came home from work yesterday and the stupid thing was propped in the loveseat across from our broken old television, watching The Golden Girls in yellows and greens. Jet was doing homework in the kitchen. I told her not to waste electricity like that, and she declared that James was sad and the TV helped cheer him up.

The dog? Yeah, whichever room James is in, he avoids. He doesn't even bark anymore when people knock.

I get this face more often than not:

Whoever left the doll on our steps? I hate them.

I'm still alive

Wow, skip a couple posts, and your little brother goes nuts. Dyl. I'm fine. FFS, you saw me on the 28th.

Granted, a lot can happen in a couple weeks. I don't blame you for freaking out. I'm still looking over my shoulder here and there, even though I'm pretty sure the coast is clear. But you're right: the Piper came back once, so who knows? And you know what? Who cares? We beat him once, we'll beat him again.

So update. The "new" washer has been behaving. I haven't seen any weird echoes or anything since week one. Creepy Guy hasn't followed me anywhere lately. Jet's keeping up with school, which still makes my head spin.

Let me just muse about that, actually. Jet's in school. Like it's the most normal thing ever. They were able to start her in the fourth grade, since she actually tested darn close to where she should be. Her grammar's still awful, but that's about it. She does homework every night while I do the dishes. She's made a couple new friends and seems to be enjoying her new life off the street.

Seriously. For someone in her position, with all that's happened to both of us, we get normalcy. She's in school. I'm working. Maybe not regularly, but it's a paycheck. And we get to join the rest of the human race in pretending that powerful supernatural creatures don't exist, aren't planning anything, and haven't ruined every other aspect of our previous lives.

But that's all it is: pretending. So I'd like to belatedly start the new year by toasting a hearty "screw you" to all the spirits and nasties that Angelica and I beat before you finally won. Enjoy your victory. You earned it.

But I'm not dead yet.

It's cold outside.

I'm not really the weepy type. I consider myself a tough chick. I yell stuff at the "break a nail" women on TV about how they should suck it up and, you know, actually matter. I consider myself a Buffy type.

But it kind of hit me today as I opened the door to a blast of cold air: Angelica's been gone for almost half a year. I got a little misty. It wasn't because of anything big, like you see in movies; I wasn't carved out by sudden loss.

It's the little stuff. The devil's in the details. All that happened was I got a lungful of cold air, the same as has been happening to me for over 20 years. But this time it reminded me of how much Angelica hated the cold. It's stupid--I should see something that reminds me of something she loved, you know? Something that's associated with her, which I guess this is.

But it's like seeing a horse and being reminded how your best friend never rode horses. That's stupid.

Anyway, I might not get a chance to post something else until after Christmas. Jet and I will be celebrating by ourselves, since my mom's in one of her moods and decided I'm out of her favor this week. I don't even know if she reads this. Don't care. Hi Mom!! Merry Up Yours and Happy Ho-Days!

Sorry, dirty laundry. But looking at that last sentence makes me smile and helps me forget that Angelica hated winter. And when spring comes, I'll be reminded how she made fun of my allergies. Then summer will come and I'll remember how happy she was with the warmth and sun. And in the fall, I'll get weepy when the anniversary of our first meeting comes around.

I hate feelings sometimes. Merry Christmas (except you, Mom).
~R

The "new" washing machine

Doing laundry today. Yup--the glamorous life. It's been a while since anything really weird's happened. The last one was a couple weeks ago when that guy (or maybe "guy" in quotes) followed me and Jet to Giant Eagle.

It's annoying doing laundry with gloves on, but you know. Such is life. I loaded the washing machine, added detergent, all that good stuff, and walked away. I remember thinking specifically that the stupid thing better work.

Yeah, so back up: this is the new washer. Again, "new" in quotes. Angelica had some old front-loader since the dawn of time, and a month ago it crapped out--I came home to a small lake. Long story short: getting it fixed cost way more than I could justify, so the kid and I trolled Craigslist for a replacement and found this one cheap. Gabe helped us muscle it in, and I finally hooked it up today, since the laundry piles were getting embarrassing.

First load was done. It has an awful buzzer that sounds like a halfway point between a gameshow buzzer and a dying Jetta. But there wasn't a lake, so I figured it was a win. Until I opened the lid.

Not too proud to admit I screamed like a final girl in a horror movie. You would too. The first thing I saw was a thick pool of blood with most of what was left of some kind of animal swirling among socks and who-knows-what. I'm really hoping it wasn't someone's pet. The scream was part of the package where I dropped the lid and jumped back against the wall.

Steeled my nerves, reached for the lid, and opened it. That's the joy of being a homeowner, you get to do all the cleanup yourself. But you guessed it: nothing. Just a bunch of Jet's clothing, clean and nicely spun, ready for the dryer.

So this is my life. I don't know how long it'll take for this impression to fade from our "new" washing machine, but I'm pretty sure I know why we got it so cheap. It ate one of Jet's socks, too.

So this happened...

Jet and I were out getting groceries (hey, girls gotta eat) and this guy started following us. Probably drunk, I figured, since he was dragging his feet. I wasn't super worried, since he's not even remotely the scariest thing we've dealt with. So we just kept talking. I don't know what about--Avengers again, probably. Jet's still addicted to movies, and there's something about the superhero stuff that electrifies her.

Anyway, we kept walking and talking, and I kept doing that thing where you kind of reach back with your mind and you just know someone's there, right? And that guy was still there. I could hear the scraping over Jet's talking if I really listened.

We made it to Giant Eagle and did our thing. Jet: also still addicted to pizza bites. Don't judge me--I never wanted to be a mom, so it's double not my job to parent an orphan kid. I got her pizza bites.

We left the store with our crap, and of course I kinda looked around to see if our friend was still there.

Nope. Great.

Until we were like a block away from the store--seriously, the first alley we passed, and suddenly the little hairs on the back of my neck got prickly. I really don't need this sort of thing. It's not like I'm worried my heart's gonna explode from fright (just, you know, everything else), but when I'm having a quiet night with the kid, I don't want to deal with all the weird junk like we used to.

So I turned around, ready to read him off, and there's nobody there. I still felt that "you are not alone" feeling, so I looked all over the place. Jet was just confused, so I asked if she remembered the guy that followed us to the store.

She just stared at me like I was nuts, so I pointed out our old tracks in the snow, with the dragging tracks marching right between ours from where he was following us. I explained he followed us right up to the front door of Giant Eagle, and as we were following his dragging tracks toward the store, I noticed there were more dragging tracks coming back from it, right behind us. But the freaking tracks ended like four feet behind where we stood. They just stopped.

Yeah, so go figure. We went home, nuked some pizza bites, and watched the first Avengers movie.

If that guy follows us again, he's getting hit.

Closed for business.

I'm sorry to inform everyone that Brandt & Coleman is no longer in the business of private investigatoring. Angelica is officially missing, and I can't run her business and keep searching for her at the same time. Don't worry about me--I should have enough saved up to keep this going for a bit, and if not, you'll see us reopen in the future.

I've pulled down our contact information and photos, and hidden a lot of the old business posts for a fresh start. If you're an existing client, feel free to contact me at the phone number you've got on record.

Since the business is on indefinite hiatus, have a two-sentence story:

I wasn't very alarmed at all the strange creaks and groans in the old apartment, and not even the weird footsteps in the hall bugged me very much. I did finally move out, though, when the apartment started whispering my name.

Sort of inspired by actual events.

I'll post random stuff here so concerned parties (Dylan) know I haven't died yet.

Thanks to all our old clients, hi to all our friends, and we'll be seeing you.