Let's get something straight. I'm a proud skeptic at heart; I don't believe in the supernatural. I'd believe the Earth was flat before acknowledging the existence of the paranormal.
That was...until the incident.
Two days ago, we buried my grandmother. They found her floating in a tub, decomposed beyond recognition. Her body was nearly bursting at the orifices. She was bloated─covered in green, blue patches of rot. Her hair and nails had fallen off. What seemed like retained body fat, as well as other forms of decayed matter, floated in the water. I can only imagine the smell. She'd been dead for several months, according to the cops. Heart failure, or probably a stroke. The cops couldn't tell. She was an old woman with apparent health problems.
The funeral was closed-casket, and the whole ordeal of arriving there was a blur. I barely remember getting a call that we had to go to America, then flying to all the way from Quebec to California. It was a messy service. The tension was tight enough to suffocate a rock when they lowered her six feet under. It was like watching a flock of vultures waiting for the kill. Everyone held their breaths whilst the undertaker piled the last of the dirt on top of her. Next thing I knew, my Mom and Aunt Amelia were arguing over who-gets-what in Grandma's will. They proceeded to get physical after Mom's snide remark about being Grandpa's favorite.
My brother and I had to wrench Aunt Amelia and Mom apart. We didn't escape unscathed. Allen had scratches all over his arms, I had bruises on my chest. Mom and Aunt Jess were barely 5'4. Allen and I were Hockey Scholars , standing at 6'2. I was impressed with the amount of damage they caused.
My Dad never looked so embarrassed in front of his in-laws.
I never really knew my grandmother that well. Last time I saw her, I was ten years old. We were visiting my mom's ancestral home in Crowbell, California. My fondest memory was watching her doze off on a rocking chair on the porch. Softly singing to a half-burned porcelain doll.
She creeped me out. Especially the doll.
Apparently, my Mom and Aunt Amelia had a little infant sister named Carrie. Their old house was burned to the ground, and only Carrie didn't get to escape. Grandma never got over losing her youngest daughter. She's convinced that the doll was indeed Carrie; and that she's still alive.
My Grandmother would scream like hell broke loose every time they tried to take the doll away. I remember an instance where Aunt Amelia tried to throw "Carrie" away.
"My baby! Where did you put my baby!?" howled Grandma.
Even after all these years, I can still picture her hysterical crying and her wild-eyed gaze. Grandma frantically rampaged around the house turning everything upside-down to find the doll. Mom had to get Aunt Amelia to fess up and give it back. She ended up having to fish it from the dumpster.
The doll itself was nothing impressive; it'd seen better days. It had stringy, blonde ringlets, burned and balding over patches on its head. Its plain dress was stained with who-knows-what; torn, threadbare, and moldy. A thin crack ran down the side of its cheek, trailing like a teardrop. The lips were faded and dull,twisted into a crooked half-smile. Its porcelain hands and face had worn grey over the years. It leaked stuffing at the chest.
