Childhood Fear

“Mama! Mama!” it cried in its mechanical monotone.
With tooth-jarring whirrs and screeches, it jerked one foot in front of the other and shuffled towards us. It was hideous, as big as a real toddler but with dead glass eyes and unnaturally garish skin. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, wishing it was the horror’s fragile neck.
“Jason, you know I hate dolls like that,” I called out my open window. Across the carpark, my brother grinned at me.
“Awww, but it looked so lonely in the charity shop! Don’t you want to love and look after it forever and forever?”
“Mama! Mama!”
My stomach churned. It was only a few feet from my bumper now. My fear was daft, but deepset. I wrenched the gearstick and adjusted the pedals.
“Jason, I’m warning you. Get rid of that thing.”
“Mama! Mama!”
With a feral growl, I pressed down on the accelerator. The car raced forward and with a delicious thump, struck the doll. It bounced over the bonnet, its face crushed.
A single shoe tumbled beneath the car as I sped away.

View this story's 2 comments.