The Terrifying Tale of Toothems

I’m likely eight at this point and I don’t recall ever receiving a doll for a present… ever!

Maybe I did before I can remember, but I doubt it. So, Christmas comes around. Everyone’s so hyped getting ready for the fat man in the red suit to break into the house, through the chimney, if you can believe that! We even left food out to feed the B&E offender…

Anyway, I digress.

Christmas morning comes around and I pretty much knew what I held in my hands before opening it. It was large, rectangular and thin, you got it, a book. It was a nice book of fairy stories, but as I tore the last piece of paper from it, I caught sight of my younger sisters present.

I turned my head slowly. Didn’t make eye contact, and sat very still. Holding my book in hand, flames flashed through my eyes–You get the idea–There was a bit of, put the dog down Damien horror occurring, but just before it came into scene, I heard it.

She held in her hands a doll, but not just any doll, she held a talking doll. Its name was Toothems, and I had a, put the doll down do it now, moment. Now what I’m about to tell you, you’ll say, ‘Yeah! I can definitely see her doing that.’ But for the record, I did not do that.

She took that doll everywhere, so when it went missing, all eyes turned to me. The house was turned over and accusations were made. She cried so much that my father’s wife went and bought her another one.

Now I can’t say it was me, I was definitely angry enough to do it, but I don’t recall taking the doll. If I had, the scenario would’ve gone like this;

  1. Grab the doll when she’s sleeping
  2. Take it out into the oasis of hot white sand, with tumble weeds rolling across it, and bury it.
  3. Run to the hay shed, that way I’d be nowhere near the spot it was buried, and wait for the chaos to unfold.

If I’d done it that is, but I didn’t.

Toothems is one of those fixed moments in time. The doll always get it! It never showed up, but was seared into my mind. Now I’ve written it down maybe Toothems will leave me alone?

Here’s to hoping.

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