Forgotten Childhood
Paulette Whitehead woke with a start, her heart pounding with fear and her body bathed in perspiration. It was the dream that woke her, the same one for the fourth night in a row. The details never varied. The setting was always the quaint Cape Cod-style house beside the ocean, the same blue flower boxes filled with impatiens beneath the windows, the same second-floor bedroom with the white canopy bed and the same cloth doll resting on the frilly pink pillow sham.
Why do these innocent images terrify me so? she wondered.
A cup of coffee and a hot shower helped calm her down, but the lack of sleep left her feeling tired and distracted.
"You're looking pale today," Paulette's employer, Dr. Ellery Radcliffe, a prominent Boston physician, observed when she arrived at work later that morning. "I hope you're not coming down with something. Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine. I just haven't been sleeping well the past few nights."
"Oh? Is there a new man in your life?" the doctor teased his young nurse.
"I wish," she replied with a grin.
Paulette, who lived alone in a small studio apartment located above a real estate office in Quincy, couldn't remember the last time she'd had an actual date.
"What's been keeping you awake at night then?" Ellery asked.
"I've just been having a few nightmares lately. It's nothing serious."
"Did you eat anything before you went to bed? Whenever I do, it's a certainty I'll have vivid and sometimes frightening dreams afterward."
"No. I usually don't eat in the evenings after dinner. Honestly, Ellery, don't worry about me; I'll be fine. I'll go to bed early tonight and get plenty of rest. I promise."
Dr. Radcliffe took his prescription pad out of his desk drawer, scribbled something on it, ripped the page off and handed it to Paulette.
"Here's a script for sleeping pills."
"I don't need ...."
"Take it," her employer urged. "They're mild and non-addicting."
"You're the doctor," she laughed, taking the prescription and putting it into her pocket.
After a light dinner—salad and a grilled chicken breast—Paulette took a hot, relaxing bubble bath. She then put on a comfortable nightgown and bathrobe, sat in her reclining wing chair and picked up the novel she was reading. Usually, she would fall asleep in less than an hour. Not tonight, however.
I can't sleep, she thought, looking at the mantel lock. Probably because I'm afraid that if I do, I'll have that same nightmare again.
Ellery's sleeping pills did the job. Paulette took two at ten o'clock and was fast asleep twenty minutes later. Unfortunately, it was not a peaceful slumber. The nightmare returned. It was the same as on the previous nights.
There was nothing overtly frightening about it, no murderous people chasing her with lethal weapons, no creaking doors or stairs, no ghosts or monstrous creatures waiting to devour her. It was only a normal Cape Cod house, a little girl's bedroom and a cloth doll lying on a bed.
* * *
"You're still not sleeping, and you're noticeably thinner," Dr. Radcliffe observed with concern a week later. "I guess the sleeping pills I prescribed aren't working."
"Oh, they work, all right. They help me sleep," the nurse explained, "but the nightmares haven't stopped. I'm still having them every night."
"I want you to talk to an old friend of mine from med school, a psychiatrist up in Puritan Falls by the name of Lionel Penn."
"I don't need a psychiatrist," the nurse protested weakly.
"I'm not suggesting you be carried off to Danvers Asylum in a straitjacket," Ellery laughed. "Just talk to him. He might be able to help you find out what's troubling you."
At first, Paulette resisted, but two weeks later, desperate to rid herself of the disturbing dreams, she contacted her employer's old college friend.
Her first impression of the psychiatrist was the same as most women's: Lionel Penn was one of the most handsome men she'd ever met. He was so good-looking, in fact, that she was hesitant to discuss her nightmares with him. However, it didn't take long for the dashing doctor to put Paulette at ease, for he was as charming as he was attractive. Moreover, he was an excellent, deeply compassionate psychiatrist who had helped many patients overcome their phobias and other emotional and mental ailments.
"Reoccurring dreams and nightmares are often the result of our subconscious mind trying to communicate a warning or a forgotten memory to our conscious one," Dr. Penn explained. "You might have seen or heard something recently that triggered the partial recall of a repressed memory. I think the only way to get rid of these dreams is to remember whatever it is you've forgotten."
"Do you think therapy will help facilitate the process?"
"It might, but traditional psychotherapy takes time. I'd like to try hypnotherapy."
Although Paulette was skeptical about hypnosis, she decided to give the doctor the benefit of the doubt and cooperate.
"I want you to return to that bedroom," Lionel said after his patient was deep in a hypnotic trance. "Are you there?"
"Yes."
"Describe the room for me."
Paulette recounted in uncanny detail the ivory-colored wallpaper covered with tiny pink roses, the dotted Swiss café curtains, the child-size writing desk, the rocking chair, the canopy bed and matching dresser and the cloth doll.
"Tell me more about the doll. Who does it belong to?"
"It's mine."
"Then the bedroom must also be yours."
Paulette nodded her head.
"My mother made it for me," she explained. "She cut up some of my old baby clothes and made the doll from them."
"It must have been very special to you, then. Whatever became of it? Do you still have it?"
Paulette knitted her eyebrows with confusion.
"I don't know."
"And your mother—when was the last time you saw her?"
"Years ago."
"And why is that? Is she dead?"
"I don't think so."
"Then why haven't you seen her? Did the two of you have a falling out?"
"No. I just don't know where she is."
"Would you like to find her?"
Paulette was hesitant.
"I don't know. I do, but—I'm afraid."
"Of what?"
"I'm not sure."
"Well, I think you do want to find her. I think that's why you've been having these recurring dreams about your old bedroom and the doll she made for you."
"I suppose so."
"Where is the house located?"
Paulette shrugged her shoulders.
"You must know something. Where did you live? In a city? A small town?"
"It was by the ocean."
"That's it," the doctor encouraged her. "You're making progress. Try to remember as many details as possible."
"I see trees, rose bushes, a swing set in the backyard, a mailbox and a road."
The psychiatrist scribbled the details down on his notepad.
"I want you to look down the road. Do you see any signs?"
"I don't—wait. There's a street sign. It says ATLANTIC AVENUE."
"Very good. Keep going down that street. What else do you see?"
"A little town, a church, a small grocery store, a library and a school.
"Now look for names on the buildings. Do you see any?"
"Yes. There's the Outrigger Restaurant, a florist and gift store, a veterinarian's office and—wait a minute. I see something."
There was a long pause.
"There's a newspaper rack that sells the Whitewood Tribune."
The doctor smiled with triumph.
"Excellent. Whitewood isn't that far away. It's about halfway between here and the New Hampshire border. I think if you were to drive up there and take a look around, you might discover the cause of your nightmares."
* * *
Paulette left Lionel's office in Puritan Falls and headed north toward Whitewood, Massachusetts. After driving along the coast for twenty minutes, she arrived at her destination.
Whitewood was a typical, quaint New England coastal town, similar in many ways to Puritan Falls. Paulette found it undeniably beautiful, but it did not stir any memories.
Could I have grown up here? she wondered. If I did, I must have left at an early age because the only place I have clear memories of is Quincy.
She parked her car in the municipal lot and walked to the center of town. As she approached the Whitewood Public Library and the town hall, Paulette felt a vague sense of familiarity but no real recognition. She walked across the street and entered the post office.
"Excuse me. I need some help," she told the clerk working behind the counter.
"Ayah. What can I do for you?" the middle-aged woman asked with a friendly smile.
"I'm looking for a house."
"You'd best try Robert Wilson Realty. Bob will know if there are any houses in this area on the market."
"No. I don't want to buy one. I'm looking for my childhood home, the house I grew up in. I don't know much about it, only that it was a small Cape Cod on Atlantic Avenue."
"There are lots of Cape Cods along that road, I'm afraid."
"Could you tell me how to get there then? Perhaps if I see it, I'll recognize it."
"Ayah. I'd be glad to. Just take Main Street north to Bedford Road and head east until you come to the ocean. It's right there along the water."
Paulette drove slowly down Atlantic Avenue, examining all the houses she passed. None of them was the one in her dreams.
This has been a complete waste of time! she thought with exasperation.
She was about to turn around and head back to Quincy when she spotted a red brick chimney rising above a cluster of trees. There was something about the simple scene that called to her, so she continued to drive ahead.
Paulette stopped the car in front of the house. Her heart was beating wildly.
This is it! I can feel it.
It was the house where she had once lived as a child, where her mother probably still lived. Why then did she feel such an overwhelming dread?
The frightened nurse fought the overwhelming urge to turn and run, for she knew she would never find peace of mind if she didn't enter the house. No, she must meet her fears head-on if she was to ever get a decent night's sleep again.
Bravely, Paulette got out of her car, walked to the front door and knocked. There was no response from within. She knocked a second time and a third, but there was still no answer. She then reached out her hand and turned the doorknob. Unlocked, the door easily opened at her gentle push.
"Hello," the nurse called, sticking her head through the half-open door. "Is there anyone here? Hello?"
She spied a small table in the foyer with an oil lamp burning on top of it. Someone must be home, she reasoned, for no one would go out and leave a lamp burning.
"Hello," she repeated, opening the door further and stepping inside the house. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Where are you?"
Paulette caught her breath when she saw the staircase that separated the living room from the dining room. Her eyes followed the steps to the landing and to the door on the right. There was no longer any doubt in her mind: it was the door that led to her bedroom.
No, I don't want to see it, she thought, again faced with the urge to escape, but I must.
As though her feet were weighted, Paulette slowly climbed the stairs, forcing first one leg to rise and then the other. She stood briefly on the landing and, with a trembling hand and pounding heart, pushed open the door.
The bedroom was exactly as it had appeared in her dreams—the pink roses on the ivory wallpaper, the dotted Swiss curtains, the canopy bed and matching dresser ... and the cloth doll. Paulette walked into the room and lovingly touched all her old belongings: a plush teddy bear, a collection of well-read children's books and a set of wooden building blocks. Finally, she walked to the canopy bed, picked up the cloth doll and hugged it.
Suddenly she heard the back door slam shut. Fear gripped her heart.
Someone's coming!
Her instinct for self-preservation won out over her curiosity. She ran to the closet and crouched down inside it, clutching the doll to her chest. The footsteps came up the stairs at a slow but steady pace. Then Paulette heard the bedroom door open.
"Where are you?" a woman's voice called. "I know you're here. You've come home at last, haven't you?"
The footsteps crossed the room, getting ever closer.
"Are you hiding in the closet again?"
The woman chuckled.
"Whenever something frightened you, you'd run into the closet with your doll."
The door was flung open, and Paulette cried at the sight of the old woman.
"You're not my mother," she cried. "My mother is young and pretty."
"I was—once."
The elderly woman looked at Paulette. Her eyes were filled with love and something else; was it a taint of madness?
"You were my little girl. I loved you so much! You were my whole world."
A brief image of an attractive, sad-faced man flitted across Paulette's memory.
"What happened to my father?" she asked.
"He died," replied the old woman whose eyes misted with tears. "It was a terrible accident."
"Liar!" Paulette screamed, beginning to remember what she had buried deep in her subconscious. "It wasn't an accident. You murdered him."
The old woman nodded, not bothering to deny her guilt.
"I had to, darling. When I found out what he was doing to the children at the church—what he had tried to do to you—I had to stop him, to protect you and them."
Paulette buried her face in the doll's soft cloth body. Only a few moments earlier she had wanted to remember her childhood. Now she desperately prayed to forget it.
Her father had been a quiet, mild-tempered individual, a religious man who taught Sunday school and attended church services every week without fail, but he was also a sick man with an unnatural fondness for children.
"I had to kill him," her mother confessed. "It was the only way to stop him."
"I saw you do it," Paulette sobbed as she relived the painful past. "There was so much blood. Some of it even splattered on my dress."
"Oh, my poor darling," her mother cried. "No wonder you ...."
Suddenly Paulette screamed and put her hands over her ears.
"No! Don't say it! I won't listen to another word. Do you hear me? Not another word."
"Don't you know where you've been all these years?"
"Stop it!"
"What you've become?"
"SHUT UP!"
The old woman paused, unsure whether she should tell her daughter the truth. Then she continued to speak softly, lovingly.
"I kept your room just like it was. All your things are here: your clothes, books, toys and especially your doll. They're just the same as they were when you were alive."
"No!"
The banshee-like wail startled the old woman momentarily.
Then Paulette, still carrying the cloth doll in her arms like a cherished infant, pushed past her mother and raced down the stairs. In her mad dash to leave behind the horrors of her childhood, the young woman knocked over the small table in the hall, sending the oil lamp crashing to the floor. By the time she started the car and put it in reverse, the hallway rug had caught fire, and by the time she sped past the Whitewood post office on her way out of town, the entire hallway was in flames.
The old woman stood on the second-story landing, looking down at the spreading fire. She knew that with the hallway in flames, the only way for her to escape was to jump out one of the upstairs windows, but why should she bother? Life held no joy for her; it hadn't ever since her ten-year-old daughter had committed suicide more than forty years earlier.
"Please forgive me, Paulette," the old woman cried.
Then she walked into the little girl's bedroom, lay down on the canopy bed and waited for death to claim her.
* * *
Dr. Ellery Radcliffe and his friend, Dr. Lionel Penn, stood outside the door to Paulette's Quincy apartment. The young woman had left for Whitewood the previous week, and neither man had seen or heard from her since. Fearful for his nurse's safety, Ellery convinced her landlady to let them inside.
"I guess you being a doctor and her employer and all, it'll be safe to let you have a look around," the woman said as she unlocked the door and let the two men inside.
What they saw surprised all three people.
"Where do you suppose she's gone off to?" the landlady asked when she saw the room completely devoid of furniture and personal belongings.
"Maybe she located her mother and moved back home," Lionel suggested optimistically.
"What's this?" the landlady asked as she picked up what she had initially assumed was a pile of rags at the bottom of Paulette's bedroom closet. "It looks like a doll."
"May I see it?" the psychiatrist asked. "Yes. It's her doll, all right. She told me all about it during our session. Her mother made it for her out of some old baby clothes. I can't see her leaving it behind. It meant a great deal to Paulette."
"If that's so, she might have taken better care of it," Dr. Radcliffe said. "It looks like it's been to hell and back."
Certain that she had seen the last of her tenant, the landlady took the scorched and smoke-stained doll from the psychiatrist and tossed it in the trash. Then she led the two men out of the apartment and locked the door behind her.
This story was originally written as an entry to a Horror-Web.com short story contest. It was to be inspired by the picture in the upper left of the page and had to be under 1000 words long. This is an expanded version. [The original story won the contest that month.]
How could I ever forget Salem's childhood. Wasn't he adorable?
