The Dollmaker

I know you like stories of the strange and unexplained, so I need you to check out Jim Harold's Campfire. It's where real people share their true spooky stories in their own words. The concept is simple. Jim talks to everyday people about their strange encounters and publishes it as a ninety minute episode every week. There's no exaggeration or anything. The stories basically speak for themselves. I recently told a story on there, so let's see if you can spot it. And there's more stories too, like the one about a child who had vivid past life memories or the one about a woman who found a ghost in her bed. Now, not all the stories are horrifying. Some are heartwarming, like a visit from a past loved one or a peaceful near death experience. Perhaps regardless, they are true and fascinating, as told by ordinary people who've had extraordinary experiences. Now do me a personal favor. Tune into Jim Harold's Campfire on Apple, Podcasts, on Spotify, or wherever you listened true scary stories again. You can find it by searching for Jim Harold's Campfire. Welcome to Scary Story Podcast. Today's story will take you into the lonely world of a dollmaker who struggles with the existence or the lack of it. My name is Edwin. Here it's a scary story. Dansville is a very small town near the coast where my aunt and uncle live. Now mostly a spot for people driving through with their families or lost tourists looking for one of the waterfalls that showed up in an older issue of National Geographic at one point. But perhaps better than the waterfalls, this town's claim to fame is actually about the town next to it. It was an old, abandoned place that got left behind after some of the larger cities incorporated and this one refused to join the road network. Then it became where people used to go film movies and then leave behind the sets alone to rot. A very niche group of movie fans would track the place down for pictures of forgotten films. Now, I know this story is going to sound odd, but I do ask you to remain respectful of the old man who existed, since his life and struggle has to be worth something, even after the many years since his passing. I was in high school back when I first heard of his story and wanting to be a big shot journalist at one point I wanted to explore it. I had already done stories on the mailman's retirement and the future of libraries once the Internet came in, but some of the most interesting ones were of the missing lambs and the strange lights that Missus Hill would see from the side of her house late at night. With pictures and everything, I was able to get a headline image on the actual town newspaper, and then later it was picked up by the county. The answer to the lights was just gas, That's what the scientist said. But this story, this one was different. A man nameless at this time, still lived in the town where everyone had left. He would get groceries delivered once a week by car, where he would make a list of materials he needed to make repairs on his home. And although the poor man was getting older, nobody seemed to want to take care of him. He had no family, no friends, and he didn't seem to want to talk to anybody. Yet he was an important person and pretty well known. That's what I wanted my story to be about. So I got a ride from the man at the grocery warehouse one day, and perhaps too hopeful. I also packed a tent, a sleeping bag, and a large bottle of water. Also carried two cans of raviolis in my school bag. I wanted to be able to spend the weekend there. I wanted to meet with this man, get a story and publish it. Maybe he would finally get out of that town, perhaps just get some help. Everyone around the school knew part of the story of the man in the haunted town, yet nobody could describe where he lived. That would be the first I met up with the kind man, with the truck already loaded with all sorts of prepackaged foods, soaps, and chunks of spare wood pieces bags that looked like pillows. They were stuffed at the top of whatever light material was inside. I thought he was joking when he said to meet him at five in the morning. We drove through Dansville and into the edge, the one labeled by the last hill before Everything became flat and grassy, with the greenery slowly getting larger until it turned to trunks and then trees that surrounded the small two way road, and it seemed like it too, was vanishing as it transformed into dirt and then gravel. Jim at that point rolled up his window and asked me to lock my door up ahead the broken down sign of Frinton, the letters now being able to be read thanks to the parts of the sign that faded first, the grass growing through the asphalts now as we passed by, the buildings still intact, perhaps a broken window here and there. But I still felt nervous about going through the intersection without looking both ways, even though I wasn't driving. Jim, the driver who worked at the warehouse, had tried to make conversation with me early on, but we ran out of things to talk about, or simply dived into the moment of going to a place lost in time. We kept going through the main street and into another patch of trees, where the buildings houses now were more spread. Apart by the large oak tree was a corner house slightly larger than the others. The area surrounding it had no grass growing into the sidewalks or the streets. I knew we had arrived. There's no kid, Jim said, as he stopped the car. He saw how we got here, right, that's the way back. He then said that if I got past the wooded area, a car surely would see me and I could hitch a ride. And even though he was trying to be helpful, I couldn't stop thinking about that one word he said, if if I got past the wooded area, I would be okay. I tried to forget about it as I helped them unload the bags and boxes to the porch of the old wooden house. Once we were finished, he knocked on the door three times hard and shot me one of those looks that asked if I was sure about what I was doing. Then he suddenly got back to the truck and drove away, his arm sticking out the window. It took about two minutes when I finally heard steps coming up to the door. I clearly remember being so nervous, even more nervous than when I interviewed the mayor or when they picked up the body of Tracy Mom from the edge of the river and I was there to write a story on it. The old man opened the spring door and looked at me, asking if I was all right and how he could help me. I told him that I was a writer and that I wanted to do a story on him with all of the confidence I had. His entire demeanor changed right then the story He said on me. Why in Heaven's name would you want to do that? He asked with a chuckle. He then invited me in. His house was neatly decorated, although the stacks of newspapers on the center and dinner tables were out of place, he seemed to have things in order generally, Ben, he said, Ben gritsmore as he stretched out his hand for a handshake before wiping off foot looked like sawdust from his hands and trying again. I introduced myself and asked if I could help him bringing the stuff. He took a deep breath, knowing it would be a lot of work, and then look down, nodding while getting the energy to go outside and grab the bags. He said he needed to finish up a few things in the back and that I could wait for him for a bit while he came back for interrupting himself to ask where I would be staying or if I would be getting picked up. I pointed to my backpack, and he got the point, saying that he had four rooms in the place that if I could shake off the dust on one of them, I could stay there. I remember wholeheartedly believing that I would be staying on the porch of a random house with my tent and sleeping bag, thinking it would somehow make a good story for the place itself. But I had never been camping and I didn't know what I was doing, so I was really happy to have agreed to it. Besides, from all of the stories heard about the town, I was not sure I would actually want to see it alone in the dark, And so the man and I moved every thing inside by the kitchen counter, and he rushed back outside toward the backyard. Rumor said that this man Ben was a doll maker, and he would not make just any type of doll, but specialized replicas of children that had died. Some people said he started with the dolls for his own wife and daughter, while others said that the tale had a more sinister beginning, stories that dated way back to when the town had people in it who told and retold the story of the legend. Himself the dollmaker a Frinton, but with no more people to tell his tale, it would end up being just me, the one who had to have the accurate account of a story and share it to keep it alive. And I remember sitting there watching as the sun went high up in the sky and then later came back down through the trees. In front of me. I could hear the scra sounds of sanding material coming from the backyard with sudden brakes from the old man. I had already gone through a can of my food and a couple of SIPs of water by this point, with time flying by, as I thought of the questions I would ask Ben, and wondering how he would react to the rumors of him from the nearby towns. I was young, and if I could go back in time, I would have helped them get out, and I would have gotten out of there myself before nightfall. Part two of the doll Maker is coming upward. After this stay with me, Ben came around the house and toward the porch just as the sun had set. He walked straight to a large barrel on the side of the porch, and with another bucket, he took out some of the water and rinsed off his hands. He smiled nervously as he looked around and said in a near whisper that we should go inside. As soon as we got in, he shut the door in the three locks before going around the windows and the side entrance to do the same thing. His house had electricity. At one point I could see the old television in lamps all over the place, but now he seemed to get around with oil lamps and candles, like a trip back in time. And I had my camera with me. But even back then, a piece of advice I heard from my teacher had been to watch out for photographing inside private spaces, so I held back the urge. The place smelled like dust but was otherwise clean, and I watched as he opened up the bags we had brought him, and he made two sandwiches baloney and mao that he got from a small packet on two slices of white bread. He quickly walked over to the chair next to mine and sat down, taking a big bite out of his food. That was my chance. I asked him about himself, his family, and everything was going well until I asked him why he lived alone in the town with no people. There are no people here, he said, but not alone, not alone. If the man was talking about his dolls keeping him company, I knew that this story would be too much for me, and that I would need to find another angle to it or be very cautious. With a person like that, one never knows what to expect. He changed a subject upon, probably realizing that I was uncomfortable with everything. Then he told me about one of his sons who was helping support him with the deliveries, and that he would come by every once in a while to help out with projects here and there. He went on for a while about himself, and then talked about the things he would eat and how he gets his water, and then he mentioned how the town used to be, before pausing and then quickly changing the sun object again. Mister Gritsmore, I asked, I'm here to do a story about you, as the last resident here in your life. What do you do all day? Oh? Well, I make dolls, he said. Everyone knows that they've been photographed, and I've told their stories hundreds of times throughout the years. He continued. It turns out this man had been making them for almost fifty years. Twenty or so of those years had been all by himself. In the town. He pretty much watched it die, and if anyone knew the story of Frinton, it would be him. But as it dug deeper into his knowledge of the town, itself, I found more questions and answers. He said that it was a very old town, with certain areas dating back hundreds of years as one of the first settlements. He spoke of the major historic events and and other difficulties of the people of the town. The place itself was a testament to the survival of human civilization. He continued, exaggerating sentences with his hands as he spoke. He spoke of the elections for mayor, the people who made it out of town for bigger things, who later returned to settle back in and live out their years. And then just like that, the smile went away from his face. Everything was good until it wasn't. He said, I need to first explain that this story was never written for the school newspaper, and in fact, it never saw the light of day, and anything what I heard there was so bizarre and personal that I decided to keep it to myself as a form of tribute to Ben. But at the time, I guess I had my doubts that maybe I just didn't want to damage my own reputation. Plus Ben cared for the town so much much that he died with it, and who knows of the many secrets that would be at risk of being discovered because of uninvited guests looking for a thrill, completely ignoring the actual events, and just following a blind story written by a high school kid. Ben stood up and went over to the back of the house to a sort of second living room. He had back there to grab a crate. I could see the black hair coming out from the sides of it as he pulled out a doll with both hands, large about the size of an actual four or five year old child, and then set it on the floor. I was in awe of the thing. I walked over to it to look at its face, glassy brown eyes that sparkled with the light of the oil lamps from the other room. Its cheek imperfect like that of a real human face blemishes on the skin along with its dead expression. The doll was wearing a blue dress poorly sewn together with white cloth around the neck. I looked over to Ben, who, instead of being proud to display his creation, looked tired and solemn, a look more appropriate for a funeral. He explained that the dolls are what he makes, going into details on materials like wood and wax and composite natural hair and cloth from actual dresses. Days are spent sometimes on the faces and hands whenever he has a solid reference for them. But what surprised me the most was that each one was said to be completely unique, and I mean sure. I thought he must have meant unique, as in he would not be able to accomplish the same level of detail on every single one, but he expanded on it. Each one had a name, a last name, and was of a certain age. And that was intrigued. If this really was the case, the people of my town and the surrounding places had a reason to start rumors about the guy and his strange obsession. I figured I would tell him about the rumors at that moment, and risking getting kicked out into the darkness of a dead town, I told him. I said that the people talked about him, and in not the most positive light, that he was a creep who liked to live by himself, and that he had mental problems that would not let him join a serious society. He looked at me and smiled, making sure that I was not going to say anything else before he started talking. Kid, you're not the first person to tell me that, you know. I looked at him, waiting for him to continue again. Another tip from my journalism teacher. I wish I would have said something though changed the subject or I don't know, talked about his family again, but then he explained it early times of the town, stories were collected of a particular family who was not welcomed by the rest of the townsfolk, and that through every generation, the plot of the land that they had would be seized or swapped for a larger piece, with the condition that it would be farther away from the center of town. The family would usually agree to the offer easily, it was hard to refuse more land. They were able to keep it civil for some time, until one of the family member's husband passed away and was left alone to fend for herself against a town that did not want her there. Eventually, though, peculiar events started happening around the town, like things with the clock tower being witnessed by several people to be moving backwards at the time when thousands of rats arrived and destroyed wooden columns and the entire bakery. The event labeled on a wall at the tiny library. He said that talked about the birds that stopped and place in the sky, or the time the large white owl stood on a branch on the center square for over two days straight. The townspeople had gathered around the church and at the courts to talk about what had been happening, before deciding to do nothing because the events were simply peculiar things. Suggestions that they were evil would seem too silly to go on the public records, and so they decided to leave it at that. Suspicions had already grown about Bertha the widow being responsible for all of this, but nobody had any proof, and so she remained by herself at the edge of town. Eventually, the events escalated. Children were disappearing from the market, from the play areas, and some snatched in the middle of the night right from their beds. Siblings little kids would sometimes have to testify about the disappearances, saying that they saw a woman come in through the window and take their little brother or sister by the leg and then drag them straight out. All this time, I was looking at Ben's expression to see if he would suddenly smile or admit to be joking around, but he only kept getting more and more upset at his own memories. Eventually, family started leaving the town, everyone from the church people to the elected officials, and then hundreds of children over the years disappeared from Frinton and other nearby towns. Stories circulated about the widow searching for children to bring back to her house, but that part been assured was real, and he demanded for it to be added to my story. I looked at him, riting the eye when he asked me if I believed him. My journalism teacher never taught me what to say in such a case, so I just said my truth or was hard to believe. It's important to mention that eventually I did find records of the disappearances. But what about the dolls? You may ask, who were they for and why did he spend so much time on them. Ben's enthusiasm for answering the questions went away right then, and even today I consider the way I answered his question to be one of my biggest mistakes. He was still very polite when he answered the process of making his dolls out of photographs that were sent to him, every detail had to be right for them to be taken. He explained, everything from the shape to the weight and the color of the hair were spot on always, and I believed them. The doll he had made that evening was just so realistic. Before the conversation died out, I asked again, after building some report with him, why he did what he did. The man simply stared at the lamp about to die out, and then in silence, he took a deep breath and then said, more children will not go missing. When I think back on that conversation, I am not sure Ben knew if what he was doing would work, But there's a little left to say when you're sitting next to a sobbing old man. I was looking for an answer that was not there. Perhaps the guy only did what he was told and had done so for so long that it was all he knew, getting better with every doll that he made. For no reason at all, there were no kids left in what remained in that town, unless he meant kids from other places. Ben showed me the room where I would be staying and immediately walked over to the window and then pressed on the latch to make sure that it was closed. I heard him walk around the house to the other rooms to wiggle the doors and windows. The bed sheets were cold when I got into bed with my sleeping bag. It was sometime around three in the morning when I heard footsteps from the porch just around the corner from where my bedroom was. Everything was silent for a bit. The window had no curtains and the blue light from the moon was shining straight to my face. When I turned toward it, I waited for another creak, the kind you expect to hear when you lift your foot from the floor. But there was nothing. And that's when I saw the face of the doll, the same doll from earlier that day, right against the glass. It sank down toward the sill very slowly until behind it I got to see the face of an old woman as she smiled and then tap on the glass and then signaled for me to open it. I pulled up the sleeping bag over my eyes and waited for her to go away with all I could hear were the chuckles. After a few seconds, I heard the footsteps through the porch, and then the grass and the gravel as she walked away, making her way through the town once again. You can also listen to the stories add free on Scary Plus by going to scaryplus dot com. Or information is also available right on your Apple Podcasts app But remember the stories will always be available for everyone right here. If you want to get in touch to share something creepy, you can also find me on Instagram, or you can reach the team via email. More content is available on our other shows from Scary FM. Thank you very much for listening, See you soon.