Microhorror Writing Contest

The room was a shrine for the little girl who no longer lived. Last week, she was lying in bed, drawing her last breath. Abigail’s funeral was such a sad affair, with the small white coffin and hundreds of curious gawkers who came to offer their condolences.

The inconsolable mother stood in the room, trying to feel her daughter again. Abigail’s doll, Mirabelle, sat in a tiny rocking chair next to the full-length mirror. A small bird hung from the ceiling on a string; her favorite bedtime book sat on the nightstand. How many times had she read that book to her daughter, trying to ease her pain? Abigail knew when the book ended, the sleeping medication would take hold, and she would leave the pain behind, if only for a few moments.

Sarah picked up Mirabelle, holding her to her heart.

“You and I miss her the most,” she whispered to the doll, Abigal’s favorite. She never went anywhere without it until she was buried. Sarah struggled with putting the doll in Abigail’s coffin, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She needed the doll to be on this side of the grave. She wanted to talk to Mirabelle just as her daughter had.

“Oh, Mirabelle, I wish I knew where she was. I need to know if she is happy or at peace.” Sarah stroked the doll’s hair and set her back on the small chair. This routine had become her daily ritual; visiting Abigal’s room was like a prayer for her, easing her broken heart.

The following day, when Sarah came to visit, Mirabelle had fallen off her little chair and was lying on the floor. Sarah rushed to pick up the beloved doll, holding her close.

“I’m so sorry, Mirabelle, I didn’t put you on the chair safely, and you fell off. Please forgive me.” Sarah hugged the doll, catching herself in the mirror as she swayed to an unsung song, comforting the doll as she had once comforted her daughter. She looked ridiculous, a grown woman desperately clinging to a doll.

She needed to go on with her life, Sarah knew that. This behavior wasn’t healthy, but she was drawn into this room by the ache in her heart; she needed to be with her daughter. Something drew her back to where Abigail was last seen alive.

She hugged the doll, stroked her hair, and put the toy back onto the empty chair, making sure she couldn’t fall out again.

“See you tomorrow, Mirabelle,” Sarah whispered as she closed the door behind her

A week after Abigail’s death, Sarah came into her daughter’s room to find the doll Mirabelle standing in front of the full-length mirror, looking into the glass, her tiny hand reaching out to some unknown vision.

Sarah’s breath came out in gasps; how had the doll gotten out of the chair? Had Abigail come to visit her dearest friend? Is that where her daughter was, on the other side of the mirror?