#flashfiction
Marianne got out of her rusting Volvo and stared up at the looming Victorian façade at the top of the low hill. She lifted the clipboard from its spot on the seat and double checked the address against the one on the mailbox nearly buried by tall weeds.
Marianne shook her head in resignation. Her job as a social worker had taken her to every level of society from mansions to trailer parks but she had never been sent to a house that looked so much like the set for a horror movie before.
“It’s just an old woman who can’t keep up with her property,” she said. “Stop over thinking and go do your job scaredy-cat.”
Marianne pulled her briefcase from the back seat and settled its strap on her shoulder. Holding the clipboard like a shield she walked up the steep concrete stairs to the house.
Marianne pressed the doorbell, waited a moment and then pressed it again. No sound came from beyond the door; of course the bell didn’t work. She knocked on the door which then creaked open under the impact of her hand.
“Mrs. Werner?” she called. “Mrs. Werner my name is Marianne Jones. I’m a social worker from APS.”
She stood as still as a statue, straining to hear any reply. Beyond the door she could make out threadbare furniture covered in dust. The room was as dark as a cave. Thick drapes and filthy windows denied the morning sun entry.
“Mrs. Werner are you home?”
Maybe the old woman had gone out. “Stop dithering,” she thought. Abigail Werner was a shut in. The old woman was an invalid who had not left her home in years. The only reason Adult Protective Services had sent Marianne was because the service that delivered the old woman’s daily meals had not seen her in three days and there was concern that the octogenarian might have died.
“Mrs. Werner I’m entering your home.”
Marianne walked through the door and stood in the gloom for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The scent of mold and dust tickled her nose. How could people live like this? The room was filled with the bric-a-brac that collects over many years of a person’s life. Framed photos, barely visible through layered dust, out of date furniture and rugs that looked more like soil than carpeting filled the room. On the far side, stood a tall wing back chair facing a television that must have been forty years old. Marianne could make out the top of a head in the chair.
“Mrs. Werner?”
She took a step toward the figure in the chair. The thin wispy hair moved from the air displaced by her movement. The figure made no other motion. Marianne felt her stomach plummet, the old woman was probably dead.
Marianne walked across the room, dust swirled around her feet as she moved. She came around the chair and gasped. Mrs. Werner was dead. The old woman sat with her eyes open but dry and filmed over by death. Her skin looked like old parchment. In her lap sat a child. No, it wasn’t a child, it was an extremely lifelike doll.
Marianne exhaled the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding and began to unzip her bag to get her cell phone. A creaking sound drew her eye back to the corpse. The doll’s head turned toward Marianne and its eyes clicked open.
“Will you be my mommy now?” Its voice was that of a very small girl.
The door slammed shut behind Marianne. No one outside could hear her screams.