Ghost Doll

Boston – June 29, 1885 – 2:17 AM

Emily O’Sullivan pushed her husband away. “I said, no!”

Patrick rolled off onto his side of the bed and kept going, landing on the floor with a thud. She didn’t want sex—hadn’t wanted it for a while—especially now, when she still felt sore after the long and painful birth last week of their firstborn, Olivia. Plus, Patrick was drunk as a skunk and smelled worse.

Moreover, Emily was exhausted. Martha, Patrick’s bulldog-faced mother, had come supposedly to help with the baby, but she only stayed only two days after the blessed event. The midwife had not brooked any interference from Martha, which put the older woman in a sour mood. She just sat on a chair in the corner of the bedroom with a scowl on her face during the entire labor. After the birth, all her mother-in-law did was bark orders at Emily, demanding to be waited on and telling her what she should be doing with the infant. Emily was in no mood to comply. It seemed to her that any maternal instinct Martha once possessed was used up on her own ten children. So, after two days, her mother-in-law packed up and left. More than ever, Emily missed her own mother, who never spoke an unkind word but had died of a fever earlier that spring.

On top of everything else, Emily had been unaccountably weepy the past few days. Everything seemed to set off her tears. Yet she didn’t shirk her responsibilities, feeding and caring for her child like any loving mother. She even insisted Olivia be moved into the bedroom with them, so she could easily feed the infant during the night. Emily hoped Patrick’s drunken advances hadn’t disturbed the baby.

She turned up the low flame on the kerosene lamp and looked over at the crib. Olivia seemed fine. Emily reached over to dim the light, but a hand grabbed her arm and pinned it to the bed. Patrick did the same with her other arm. He kicked back the sheet and thin blanket and mounted her, taking an awkward moment to hike up his nightshirt.

“You have a duty to me as my wife.” His words came out slurred, but what mattered was straight.

Emily turned her head to the side and wept. It did hurt, and his insensitivity hurt just as much. He’d been a good husband until now. Since the birth, however, he’d taken to drinking with his pals and staying out until all hours, leaving her to tend to the baby. And now this—the pain, the humiliation. A moment later, she let out great gulping sobs, but that didn’t stop him—not until Olivia started screaming louder than she’d ever heard.

“Now you’ve done it.” Patrick finally stopped and rolled off. “Go take care of your daughter.”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Emily got off the bed and gasped. Olivia was suspended in the air, about five feet above her cradle, floating without any obvious cause. The infant flailed her tiny arms and legs to no effect, and her face shone bright red as she screamed with all her might. Emily screamed too, even louder, as she ran to save her child.