Phillip Psutka

Thank you for joining me in this strange small town in northern Ontario. My name is Phillip Psutka. If this is your first time visiting, I’ll be your guide; if you’re a familiar face, it’s good to have you back. The town embraces newcomers and old friends alike, but be warned: it doesn’t easily let you go. 

So dim the lamps. Settle in. Welcome to Dark River.

The catalogue lay in the drawer of the side table. It may as well have been a sacred artifact, for Beth was forbidden to touch it, which, of course, made her want to pursue it all the more. But her father was very clear on the matter: this was not a toy; it was the source of their comfort and must be respected.

Beth’s family lived on Richman’s Line and the name said it all. Giant houses lined the street -- each one with a spectacular view of the river. The mine owners and wealthier businessmen who had taken advantage of the industrial boom in the north had all built their houses here, away from the rough labourers and common folk. Before they had established their part of town, they had sought out the most beautiful vantage point of the river and proceeded to clear the trees around it so as not to have anything obstructing their view. Beth’s father owned a pulp and paper mill, so much of the timber that came down went right to his business.

From there, Richman’s Line was formed: a row of millionaires’ dwellings, each surpassing the previous one. And many of them from Eaton’s. 

While settlers from many different countries struggled to make a life for themselves in Northern Ontario at the turn of the century, shrewd businessmen saw an opportunity for quick and continuous profits. As they gobbled up the seemingly unlimited resources around them, they enjoyed the benefits of living the high life in comfort. No need to clear their own land, nor borrow necessary farm equipment from their neighbours. Their workers could do all that for them. And now they had the advantage of another massive company that was making life across the country easier for those who had the means to pay for it.

Eaton’s had quickly become the country’s largest department store, selling everything from toys and cookware to clothing, medicines, furniture, and farm equipment. They even sold blueprints for structures and prefabricated houses that could be shipped via rail to remote communities to be assembled there. 

Beth’s family’s mansion was one of these. The catalogue that her father had ordered their house from was now a prized possession and no twelve-year-old was permitted to flip through it lest she tear one of the pages or worse: lose it. Her father had made it exceptionally clear that this “Homesteader’s Bible” was to be treated like the Holy Grail itself.

Of course, Beth’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. Several times. She had snuck downstairs in the middle of the night when she was sure that her parents were asleep to look through this forbidden treasure. At first, she was disappointed. It was just pictures of things – many of which they already had in their house – with prices next to them and descriptions that sounded full of energy and excitement. But how exciting could a family food cutter or a man’s handkerchief be? 

But after a while, the objects listed began to fascinate her. She particularly marvelled at a giant iron and brass bed frame and a durable “reliance” tea set. These objects were things that adults used in their life-sized houses with their life-sized lives and she was just beginning to taste independence and the sense of agency that comes with transitioning into a capable adult. Having sampled the amuse-bouche, she was quickly becoming hungry for the main course.

And it was on one of these dark nights in June that she first saw Eaty. 

She was examining a Family Food Cutter – “Only 1.00”, it advertised, with its long spindly handle and four separate disk attachments ranging from course to pulverizing – when she felt eyes on her. Instinctively she turned around, but the dark room and its accompanying familiar shadows were all that greeted her. All silent, save for the grandfather clock in the corner steadily ticking away. 

Still, she decided that it was time to head back upstairs to the safety of her bed. She reached for the catalogue as she was standing and her hand knocked it off the table. It fell to the floor with an angry flap. 

She froze in the silence that followed, acutely aware of all the sounds around her in the dark, straining to hear for the inevitable footsteps of her father descending the stairs. But they never came. 

She gently lifted the catalogue off the floor to examine the pages before putting it away. No crinkles or folds! Sweet relief flooded through her just before cold fear hit her in the pit of her stomach. 

The page was looking back at her. 

Shiny smooth skin, slightly chubby cheeks, perfectly trimmed eyebrows, a slightly open tiny mouth, and large black round eyes – all framed by an organized mop of brown curls. Her peripheral vision took in the white dress that came down to the knees, long white socks on each stubby leg, and the tiny white shoes with real laces tied in bows, for it was the eyes that held hers and she was powerless to look away. 

A slight white halo adorned the doll as if it was floating in a black void and though it remained perfectly still on the page, Beth couldn’t help but feel that there was movement behind the eyes.  

She snapped the book closed to break her reverie. The face was gone and once again it was just her alone in the room with the catalogue, though the image of the eyes was still burned into her mind. She replaced the book and returned to bed, though not to sleep.

She yawned her way through the lessons with her tutor the next day, but it wasn’t her exhaustion that kept her from focusing. Her mind was tucked in the drawer along with the catalogue fighting to open it again, like a spider slipping into a crack. 

She both anticipated and dreaded nightfall. 

When it was finally time for bed, she pulled the covers over her head. This was a trick that she had developed to keep her awake, for under the covers her breath was augmented, as was her awareness of her surroundings. Because she couldn’t see what was on the other side of the covers, her sense of hearing became sharp and the faintest of sounds would keep her awake. She heard the last creak of the floorboard as her father got into his bed and she began to count to six hundred.  

When she hadn’t heard a sound for the full ten minutes, she snuck out of bed and down to the side table. She could already feel the pull of catalogue through the wood and as she opened the drawer she once again felt the eyes on her. She flipped the book open, pulling back the veil, and their eyes held one another’s again.  

She didn’t return to bed until four in the morning. 

This continued night after night, and each day she got progressively drowsier. But the instant she pulled the covers over her head for her nightly ritual, she was instantly wide awake, anticipating her time downstairs. 

Until one night when she opened the drawer and found it empty.  

Staring into the wooden void where the catalogue used to be, she could swear that the eyes were still on her, watching her from somewhere nearby.

She never saw the catalogue again. Her father must have noticing the creases and hid it somewhere else. While she was angry that this had been taken away from her and anticipated a scolding from her father later on, a small part of her was relieved, for no longer would she have to experience the moment of dread before her hands touched the pages. Over the last few nights, it had felt like the doll was opening her up each evening.  

Thoughts of the catalogue were quickly replaced by the excitement of her birthday the next day. Her family had always put together small surprises for her that were mainly made up of experiences – trips to the lake and carriage rides through town to pick up something of her choosing at the general store, only to come home to a big cake her mother had made especially for her.  

But what made this day special was that it was one of the few days of the year when Beth felt like they were all a family. Her father’s work kept him far too busy to be involved with her life in any meaningful way and her mother was as nurturing as someone who was drowning.  

Birthdays meant memories that would carry her through the rest of the year, and this one would be no exception. 

When she woke up the next morning, she was surprised to see her father standing at the foot of her bed. “Happy Birthday,” he said, with a slight smile. 

She stretched and returned the smiled. She had slept well – better than she had for many recent nights as she was no longer keeping herself up until 4am. “Your mother’s making pancakes. And there may be a few other surprises in store. Hurry up, get dressed, come downstairs.” 

She launched herself out of bed as her father crossed the room to leave. She was so excited that she nearly pulled off her nightgown before he had left the room, but caught herself in time, for he had paused and turned back to her at the door.  

“Keep your eyes peeled,” he said. “You never know where a surprise may be hiding.” And with that he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. 

She pulled off her nightgown and stepped into her dress, excited for what the day had in store for her. She reached for the handle, looked up, and recoiled violently. The bed caught her as she nearly fell back onto it, her eyes never once leaving the door and the eyes on the door never once leaving her. She froze and they stared at one another.  

The doll was hanging from the back of the door, half limp, half alert and shining its empty gaze upon her. 

Happy Birthday was the thought that entered her mind, though it seemed to come from a voice that she didn’t recognize. Its alien echo ricocheted off the walls of her mind and she fought to bring back clarity. The voice dissipated, but the doll remained.  

They stared at one another for a very long time. 

When she finally got the nerve to approach the door and open it, she slipped through into the hallway as fast as she could, shutting the door tightly behind her. She heard a small thud from inside her bedroom, which must have been the doll falling off the hook, but she was already well on her way down the stairs to the kitchen.  

Her parents, of course, wanted to know what she thought of her new companion. “Don’t you love it?” her mother exclaimed. “It’s an Eaton beauty doll. Your father noticed the crease in the catalogue and thought someone had been doing some late night snooping.”  

Her father flashed one of his sly smiles again. “Once I noticed what was one that page, it all made sense.” 

She thanked them and vowed to do her best to keep the smile on her face and her thoughts out of her room for the rest of the day. The last thing she wanted after having been caught red handed with the catalogue was to reject the very thing that seemed to draw her to it in the first place. I’ll find a way to live with it, she thought. Or I’ll say I lost it playing outside. 

It didn’t dawn on her until later that day that she would not be able to figure out a solution before night fell.

The day breezed by far too quickly and dusk approached. This was a time that she used to look forward to, when Eaty was just a face on a page in a drawer. Now, however, the real Eaty was waiting for her upstairs and was so excited to see her. 

She pretended to want to stay up late for her birthday so that her father had to usher her into her room to tuck her in, which was something he rarely did anymore. Young women, after all, are no longer little girls and don’t need to be treated as such. But if her father thought her a little old to be playing with dolls, he didn’t show it.  

As they entered her bedroom, her eyes glanced at the floor around the door for where she thought the doll had fallen earlier. Eaty wasn’t there. They must have hung it back up during the day, she thought, and waiting with dread for the moment her father left, closing the door behind him.  

“Sleep well,” her father said. 

Then he turned and walked towards the door. She closed her eyes before he slipped through it and she heard the sound of the door closing and the latch clicking home. After a deep breath, she opened her eyes to confront the face on the back of the door. 

But the door was the same as it had ever been. No doll. 

She sat up, peering over the edge of her bed. Perhaps it had fallen to the floor. There was nothing there. A cold wind blew through the window (it seemed far colder than any June evening she could remember), but what sent a chill down her spine was the black figure in the window. 

The doll had been watching her from the sill. Although it was propped up facing towards the door, the eyes were focused on Beth. All she wanted was the window closed and the doll outside for crow’s food. Slowly, she got out of bed and approached the window. 

She hugged the wall, but the eyes followed her still. Closer she got and closer. The window and the doll were almost in arm’s reach. She tentatively stretched out her hand; she would have to reach past it to get to the latch. Her fingers were almost on it. The doll sat rigid, poised, as if waiting for a cue. Her fingers touched the latch.  

The doll slowly turned its head and looked directly at Beth. 

Next thing she remembered, she was in her father’s arms on the floor. She couldn’t remember screaming, nor could she remember her father rushing into the room. When she had pointed to the window sill, he looked out and told her that there was nothing there. “No,” she had said, “on the sill. Get her off.” But he still didn’t know what she was talking about and it wasn’t until she looked through her tears that she understood why. The doll was no longer there. She didn’t have to look towards the door to know that Eaty had hung herself back up neatly.

Her father took the doll out of the room for the night, although it was clear that he thought she was just having nightmares. She met his suggestion that she try sleeping with it as a way to “get to know one another” with stiff resistance and he didn’t press the matter. The doll was gone and that was enough. Still, it took her over two hours to fall asleep.  

She had just drifted off when she heard a strange sound. Humming. Two notes, the first higher than the other, drifting down the hallway and under her bedroom door, as if it was looking for her 

“MMMMM-mmm.” 

Beth slowly began to shake her head, but the humming continued. 

“MMMMM-mmm.” 

No, she thought. No no no. 

Now the hum changed to a word. “MO-mmm.” 

“I’m not your mommy,” Beth whispered and the singing faltered for a moment, but then resumed and when it did this time the voice had dropped lower. 

“MO-mmmy.” 

“Go away please go away!” Beth said, a bit louder this time. As if to match her volume, the voice got louder as well. 

“MO-mmmy.” 

“Daddy!” yelled Beth. 

“MO-mmmmmmmmmy.” 

“Daddy!” she screamed again. 

“MOOOOO-mmmmmmmy.” The voice was now almost a growl. 

“Please go away please please please…” 

“MOOOOO-mmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.”

“It’s just a dream,” said Beth, rocking now, eyes tightly shut. “It’s just a dream. I will wake up any minute, I will—” and that’s when the door to the bedroom slowly creaked open. 

Thank you for listening thus far. In a moment, we’ll return to the dark bedroom. But first I’d like to let you know that we have new original spooky stories coming every three weeks, so follow the show on your favourite platform so you never miss an episode. And, if you enjoy your time in this haunting town, please leave a review on Apple Podcasts and tell your friends and family about it. In this time of isolation, sharing stories is one of the best ways to bring us together. But now, let’s return and face the doll.

“It’s just a dream,” said Beth, rocking now, eyes tightly shut. “It’s just a dream. I will wake up any minute, I will—” and that’s when the door to the bedroom slowly creaked open.  

Now Beth was nearly crying and all she could do was repeat over and over: “I don’t want to be a mommy I don’t want to be a mommy I don’t want to be a mommy…” 

She heard the creak of each floorboard and the small wooden steps approaching her. 

“No, I’m not your mommy I don’t want to be I don’t want to be I don’t want to be—” 

Closer they came, and closer, until they were nearly upon her. Her voice caught in her throat and she couldn’t manage even a whisper. The room was silent as a tomb.  

… 

“MO-mmmy?” 

And that’s when something inside of her snapped and Beth opened her eyes, looked directly into Eaty’s, and she said, “I don’t love you. I don’t want you. Find love somewhere else.” 

Silence. The eyes didn’t move. Then, a single tear welled up in one of them and ran down the porcelain cheek and Beth said: “You’re not real. I wanted you to be, but you’re not.”  

The tear ran off the smooth chin and hit the floor with a small splat.  

“Go,” said Beth and she closed her eyes once again.  

When she opened them, the doll was sitting on the window sill as it had been earlier that evening. The eyes were facing the opposite wall. The window was closed. Beth got up, crossed the room, and opened the window. She looked down at the toy.  

“Goodbye, Eaty,” she said. The toy, of course, didn’t move. She wasn’t sure it ever had.  

But when she awoke the next morning, the doll was gone. She rose and looked out the window to see if it had fallen, but there was no trace of it below. She would check around the house later that day to be sure, but she knew that she had seen the last of Eaty.  

She resolved to never look through a catalogue of luxuries again. Things can claim you and may not choose to let you go. This one had. Understanding that now, she vowed that, if she was ever to fall in love with something again, it would be a person – a real child – and not a toy. 

She looked out the window at the rising sun. The warmth poured into her room, evaporating the morning dew on the window. But the small stain on the floor remained. It would never fade. 

Off in the distance, two porcelain eyes looked back at Beth.  

Nearby, a mother bear lumbered down to the river and drank. When she turned to head back to her den, she found a doll sitting against a tree. She sniffed it cautiously. It smelled odd, but it was soft and strangely comforting. After a moment’s inspection, she latched on and took the body of the doll with her to give to her cubs.  

But only the body: she wouldn’t touch the head.
  

This has been a tale from Dark River written and hosted by me, Phillip Psutka. I also produce the show, as well as compose the music for it. The podcast artwork was done by Chris Psutka. For more history of small town life in Northern Ontario in the early twentieth century, be sure to follow our Instagram @darkriverpodcast. Though based on actual history, this story is a work of fiction – any resemblance to persons living, dead, or artificial is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Thank you for stopping by, and see you soon.