Mal's Dolls

	The house was old, rotting walls hiding decades of termite damage, leaving hollow places reverberating the screams and moans of years past. A light breeze would make it shiver and moan like a withering old man before the breaking of a storm. The entire street of Depression-Era houses all strangled in the same aged decay.
	Samuel shuddered as the old Ford truck ground to a halt on the cracked pavement unable to believe someone would turn one of these old buildings into a doll shop.  He got out of his truck staring at the sign, its paint peeling around faded black letters reading Mal's Dolls. The name was simple, yet his niece insisted she wanted a doll from here like one of her friends had received three weeks earlier. No one else seemed willing to purchase one for her when asked; they weren't saying why.
	The porch looked as if someone had pulled it straight from a bad horror movie, ready to crumble in large sheets at the slightest touch, a weather-stained oak rocking chair empty and staring at the desolate street. An old screen door hung, only half on its hinges, with a small steel sign clinging in the middle beckoning readers to come in. The barely-lit entrance room's various stains on the wall showed where furniture might have once been; replaced now by shelves lining every wall turning a living room into a now functional shop. Cold porcelain eyes stared endlessly outward, as if piercing straight through him while examining the shop. There was no emotion in the faces of the many dolls lining the walls, garbed in old dresses and suits, miniaturized copies of the clothing worn in decades past.
	He stared at the dolls while wandering around the room. Their porcelain skin was finely shaped making them appear very much like small, lifeless humans. Shuddering, Samuel looked at them, examining their faces looking for some sign of imperfection and finding none. Despite the outwardly human appearance, no life existed in them, only the pain and sorrow of abandoned children.
	“Do you like them?” a quiet voice rasped from behind, grating through his spine.
	Samuel didn't jump. His muscles were too taut keeping him from shivering with the cold chills the voice sent down his spine and the churning it left in his stomach.
	“They're very lifelike,” Samuel responded, his voice as steady as he could make it.
	“Failures, all of them,” the man said harshly, glaring at the doll in front of Samuel, “they all lack the vigor and emotion of a true masterpiece. If you're interested in them, we could come to a price though.”
	“What do you mean these are failures?”
	“They lack the life of a masterpiece. Don't get me wrong, they're fine dolls and I'm sure whoever receives one will be pleased to have it; you'd be hard pressed to find a better doll. But they're empty shells, none of them showing the care put into a perfect doll.”
	“They all seem sad to me.”
	“That's just it! They have nothing more to them, no love, no ideal craft. The materials were all wrong. I needed something better, something I haven't had in years.”
	“How much do you normally charge for them?”
	“Up to five-hundred dollars, but I could specially make one better than all of these. I just need the materials, you see.”
	“And what would it take to get one that wasn't a failure?”
	“One thousand dollars, and a special kind of commitment, though I must say the doll will be cherished for generations to come.”
	Samuel wasn't sure about the prospect, after all a thousand dollars on a single doll seemed a ludicrous price. But the idea of a great doll that would be loved for years to come made the choice seem easy. He'd spend the thousand dollars on his niece. Samuel wanted to leave something behind knowing he would be leaving for work in a week for up to five years.
	“I'm interested in one of your masterpieces.”
	“Ah! Good, good. If you would follow me we can draw up the papers and arrange for payment and delivery.” The old man held out an arm towards a dark doorway behind the counter leading deeper into the house. From behind him Samuel felt as if all the failed children were begging him not to go. He shook the feeling off and went into the back room.
	Within five short minutes the contract had been signed, a check exchanged, and the delivery scheduled for three weeks hence, his niece's birthday. Samuel was glad he'd made the deal. He was sure his niece would be thrilled with the doll. Because he was so consumed by his contentedness with the deal he didn't notice as the old man walked behind him, grabbed a fire poker, and with flawless accuracy, slammed it into Samuel's head.
	“The perfect materials with perfect commitment. Time to get to work,” the old man commented as Samuel's body collapsed, a lifeless heap, to the floor.  A smile spread across his lips as he dragged him from the room.
Three weeks later...
	Jessica was mixing together the eggs, milk, flower and cocoa powder as a knock resounded through the house. “Coming,” she called as she cleaned her hands. By the time she'd reached the door the delivery man had already left. Bending down she picked up a large, light box labeled with a large fragile sticker and addressed to her daughter, Samantha, from her brother Samuel. Taped to the top was a letter addressed to Jessica from Samuel.
It read:
		To my sister, Jessica:
			I'm going on a trip for business and won't be able to make it to Samantha's
		        birthday. Make sure she gets the enclosed doll. I had it made especially for her and his
 			name is Samuel. I hope she enjoys it for years to come.
									Your loving brother, Samuel.