Post by cannonlongshot on Nov 17, 2016 0:15:35 GMT
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Statement of Derek Casey, regarding a gift received by his daughter at Christmas, 1971.
Statement 9720803 begins:
There’s something visceral about opening a present, isn’t there? You can be opening an envelope that you know is a electricity bill, but you’ll still be hoping that it’s some letter from a distant relative’s lawyer promising you a forgotten family fortune. I think it’s something to do with the human drive to explore the unknown. By discovering what’s inside an envelope, or a parcel, or a gift, we feel like we have some semblance of control over it. It’s pretty universal in all cultures that there’s some kind of gift-giving celebration, or festival. I think my theory goes some way towards explaining that.
My point is that when humans are surrounded by these mysterious symbols of generosity, we tend to lose focus on what we’re meant to be doing. That’s why my wife, Doreen, and I probably didn’t notice it under our tree this last Christmas. Sarah, our daughter, is an only child, so she gets a lot of presents every Christmas. As well, my parents emigrated from Connecticut when they were younger, so our family has a tradition of doing a full meal for Thanksgiving, as well as rather… “full-on” Halloween celebrations. By the time Christmas rolls around the whole family is a little burned out. I suppose the weird gift I’m going to tell you about was under our tree for most of December, with me assuming it was from my wife’s side of the family, and her assuming it was from mine. If it hadn’t been for a comment made by her during an argument two months later, we’d have probably never realised that this wasn’t the case.
Anyway, on Christmas morning I’m talking about, Sarah had already torn off the plain brown paper and string before I could take a look for a label. She was holding up what looked like a grubby old stuffed toy with patchwork across its rear half. It was on all fours, with a conical, tapered head. It didn’t even seem to have glass eyes, just sewn crosses, like some kind of cartoon of a dead animal. It looked like it might have been a horse, mostly a dirty tan with, like I said, patchworks of green and red upon its haunches. A saddle sat upon its back. I couldn’t tell at that time, but later I would see that engraved in the underside of the leather were the initials “H.P.”, in what looked like a child’s hand. Sarah seemed… engrossed, I suppose the word would be, for a good ten seconds. If Doreen hadn’t been opening her gift from me, I’d have paid more attention to that, I think. She kept that thing by her side all day, even with the nicer, far less ragged dolls we had bought her. You never can tell what children will take to, I suppose.
That horse began to freak me out over the next few months. I called it Mister Ed, as a joke, but it seems like that name stuck. I’d hear Sarah talking in the middle of the night, and when I entered her room I’d see her chatting with it. Just baby talk, to begin with, but over time it became full conversations. Whenever I entered the room to tell her to go to sleep, she’d just look at me, perfectly silent. Then, she’d lie down and I wouldn’t hear a peep out of her for the rest of the night. It creeped me out, to be honest - especially on the days when she only started talking in what my ma called “the witching hour” - 3am to 4pm. One night, I decided to eavesdrop, to see what was being said instead of sending her to sleep instantly.. I couldn’t make out words, but Sarah seemed to be whining, with a lot of negatives - can’t, won’t, shouldn’t. Again, as soon as I opened the door she stopped. That damned horse was sitting in the centre of the room, with Sarah perched on the edge of her bed. This was new - normally she was holding the toy, so why she’d decided to place it away from her was a mystery to me. I have to admit I lost it a little, at this point. Not only had this behaviour been keeping me up at night, but it just didn’t seem normal. Doreen had said that she’d been the same when she was a child, just an overactive imagination - but why had it only started that Christmas? Why did that doll make me feel so uneasy? And why, when I picked it up, fully intending to throw it out, did Sarah’s little face look up at me so scared, before I flew across the room, breaking five ribs?
I didn’t take it from her, in the end. I just started sleeping wearing earplugs.
STATEMENT ENDS
Archivist’s Notes: Spooky dolls, now, that’s not something we’ve seen before.* Nothing too unusual here - probably just a lack of sleep caused by not adapting to the rigours of parenthood. Still, I’ve had Tim look for any other instances of “H.P.” in the archive. Nothing there apart from some incidents of alleged witchcraft in the nineties involving a popular fiction series. Mr Casey reports that, forty years later, Sarah still has the doll, though now she keeps it in the attic.
*We have. Many times.
END NOTES
Statement of Derek Casey, regarding a gift received by his daughter at Christmas, 1971.
Statement 9720803 begins:
There’s something visceral about opening a present, isn’t there? You can be opening an envelope that you know is a electricity bill, but you’ll still be hoping that it’s some letter from a distant relative’s lawyer promising you a forgotten family fortune. I think it’s something to do with the human drive to explore the unknown. By discovering what’s inside an envelope, or a parcel, or a gift, we feel like we have some semblance of control over it. It’s pretty universal in all cultures that there’s some kind of gift-giving celebration, or festival. I think my theory goes some way towards explaining that.
My point is that when humans are surrounded by these mysterious symbols of generosity, we tend to lose focus on what we’re meant to be doing. That’s why my wife, Doreen, and I probably didn’t notice it under our tree this last Christmas. Sarah, our daughter, is an only child, so she gets a lot of presents every Christmas. As well, my parents emigrated from Connecticut when they were younger, so our family has a tradition of doing a full meal for Thanksgiving, as well as rather… “full-on” Halloween celebrations. By the time Christmas rolls around the whole family is a little burned out. I suppose the weird gift I’m going to tell you about was under our tree for most of December, with me assuming it was from my wife’s side of the family, and her assuming it was from mine. If it hadn’t been for a comment made by her during an argument two months later, we’d have probably never realised that this wasn’t the case.
Anyway, on Christmas morning I’m talking about, Sarah had already torn off the plain brown paper and string before I could take a look for a label. She was holding up what looked like a grubby old stuffed toy with patchwork across its rear half. It was on all fours, with a conical, tapered head. It didn’t even seem to have glass eyes, just sewn crosses, like some kind of cartoon of a dead animal. It looked like it might have been a horse, mostly a dirty tan with, like I said, patchworks of green and red upon its haunches. A saddle sat upon its back. I couldn’t tell at that time, but later I would see that engraved in the underside of the leather were the initials “H.P.”, in what looked like a child’s hand. Sarah seemed… engrossed, I suppose the word would be, for a good ten seconds. If Doreen hadn’t been opening her gift from me, I’d have paid more attention to that, I think. She kept that thing by her side all day, even with the nicer, far less ragged dolls we had bought her. You never can tell what children will take to, I suppose.
That horse began to freak me out over the next few months. I called it Mister Ed, as a joke, but it seems like that name stuck. I’d hear Sarah talking in the middle of the night, and when I entered her room I’d see her chatting with it. Just baby talk, to begin with, but over time it became full conversations. Whenever I entered the room to tell her to go to sleep, she’d just look at me, perfectly silent. Then, she’d lie down and I wouldn’t hear a peep out of her for the rest of the night. It creeped me out, to be honest - especially on the days when she only started talking in what my ma called “the witching hour” - 3am to 4pm. One night, I decided to eavesdrop, to see what was being said instead of sending her to sleep instantly.. I couldn’t make out words, but Sarah seemed to be whining, with a lot of negatives - can’t, won’t, shouldn’t. Again, as soon as I opened the door she stopped. That damned horse was sitting in the centre of the room, with Sarah perched on the edge of her bed. This was new - normally she was holding the toy, so why she’d decided to place it away from her was a mystery to me. I have to admit I lost it a little, at this point. Not only had this behaviour been keeping me up at night, but it just didn’t seem normal. Doreen had said that she’d been the same when she was a child, just an overactive imagination - but why had it only started that Christmas? Why did that doll make me feel so uneasy? And why, when I picked it up, fully intending to throw it out, did Sarah’s little face look up at me so scared, before I flew across the room, breaking five ribs?
I didn’t take it from her, in the end. I just started sleeping wearing earplugs.
STATEMENT ENDS
Archivist’s Notes: Spooky dolls, now, that’s not something we’ve seen before.* Nothing too unusual here - probably just a lack of sleep caused by not adapting to the rigours of parenthood. Still, I’ve had Tim look for any other instances of “H.P.” in the archive. Nothing there apart from some incidents of alleged witchcraft in the nineties involving a popular fiction series. Mr Casey reports that, forty years later, Sarah still has the doll, though now she keeps it in the attic.
*We have. Many times.
END NOTES
