Fallen by James Somers Page B

flame rose in intensity across
the room, revealing Tom. “This way, Brody.”
    He stood next to another door. Junk lay
everywhere around me—old papers, books and ragged clothing. I
walked through the twisted path cut through the heaps and came to
where Tom was already opening another door. He went through with
the lamp in hand. I followed.
    “What happened to Mr. Sinister?” I
asked.
    “Oh, he’ll be along in a moment.” Tom
stopped and turned to me. “Brody, Mr. Sinister is a very important
and powerful man. One piece of advice—don’t cross him.”
    I stammered for an answer, wondering why
such advice should be given, or how I might cross the man. After
all, I was only seventeen years old and posed little threat to
anyone, least of all Mr. Sinister. Tom turned, continuing down a
narrow hallway leading to a circular stair rising through the
ceiling.
    We ascended the stair and came directly into
a room filled with sewing machines on small wooden desks. Behind
each, a woman sat sewing material resembling burlap. Other women
labored at worktables cutting the coarse brown cloth into patterns
vaguely human in shape—each having two arms, two legs and a
head.
    When two halves of the pattern were sewn
together, more women stuffed them with sawdust from a pile next to
their workstation. A hole remained over the heart of each crude
doll and into it went the stuffing. The final item added came from
a small pile of knick-knacks and accessories. Leather wallets,
handkerchiefs, hairbrushes, pendants, earrings and other sorts of
personal belongings lay there. Once one was selected, a woman
placed it into the hole, down in the sawdust, then stitched it
up.
    I tapped Tom on the shoulder as we passed
through the large workspace. “Are they making some sort of
dolls?”
    Tom shot me a sly grin. “Yeah, that’s just
what they’re doing. Nice aren’t they?”
    I didn’t answer. In truth they were hideous.
Very poor workmanship. And they were as big as the women sewing
them. The hair was made of stitched-on straw and they had big
button eyes.
    “Who in the world would want to buy one of
those things for their children?” I asked.
    Tom patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,
Brody, it’s a very exclusive market we serve. Now, let’s get some
food into you.”
    I followed him through, taking one last look
at the women and their handiwork. The whole scene became even
creepier to me as I noticed the expressions on their faces. They
seemed to be in a trance. Their eyes never fell to their work, yet
they completed the tasks as though born to them.
    The woman nearest me worked a sewing machine
running two halves of fabric under the bobbing needle. I gave her a
little wave as we passed. She ran her hand right under the sewing
machine needle and stopped. She did not scream, even though blood
oozed out of her wounds. She simply backed up the needle, removed
her hand and went back to her work like nothing had happened. Her
eyes never ceased staring straight ahead toward the wall.
    I stepped back from the little desk into
Tom, who had stopped and come back for me. “There’s nothing to see
here, Brody.”
    I looked at him, my horror written all over
my face. I started to complain, but his stern look told me it was
best not to bother. Another life-sized doll flew from a worktable
to the growing pile in the corner. We moved on.
     
     
     
    Tom and I took another two flights of stairs
upward toward the attic of the building. Here a host of children,
all boys of various ages, lit upon plain wooden bunks, rickety
chairs and even the rafters above. All of them wore the same shabby
apparel.
    Most of them looked our way when we came to
the top landing and stood. Some of the boys smoked hand-rolled
cigarettes, still others smoked clay pipes. None of them looked
pleased to see us, which meant they were not pleased to see a
stranger among them—namely me.
    Some of the boys, nearly a dozen of the
fifty or so present, sat huddled upon a