Guignol was a place that everyone in Old Frane knew of. It was a small, cozy village nestled between two hills; a small farming community. It was a very tight knit community, where everyone there knew everyone else. It was warm and inviting, with an atmosphere that made everyone who visited there make them feel like it was their true home.

But this atmosphere, however pleasant, was not the reason that Guignol was so well known. No, that fame laid in one of its citizens, an aging man named Henry Buquet. He was a doll maker by profession, spending tireless hours handcrafting porcelain dolls. He was famous throughout the country for his dolls.

He made dolls of all shapes and sizes, from the little children’s dolls, to dolls the size of a full-grown adult. Each was carefully crafted underneath his calm hands, each face formed, each hand, each leg, every finger, and every toe. Though he always welcomed the villagers to watch him in his craft, he never hired any assistants. He would tell them that his magic lay in how much devotion and love he put into every doll. That, he said, was what made them such a wonder.

The doll maker hardly lived a solitary life. He had a daughter, whom he loved and cherished deeply. Her name was Elise and she too, was famous among the villagers. She had skin almost as pale as the porcelain dolls her father crafted, but her eyes were full of life, a bright blue color that matched that of the sky on a clear day. Her golden blonde hair fell to her back, and her warm smile was almost as bright as the sun.

Her father loved her deeply, always spending as much time as the girl as he possibly could. He had been devastated when his wife had died, unable to move on. The dolls that he made during that time, almost seemed to be crying out in pain, horrible, misshapen things that should have never seen the light of day. He had begun to think, looking at the twisted creatures on his worktable, that his magic had left him with his wife, his love of his life.

It was his daughter who awakened him from this state. She had never been able to create dolls as her father had, but she was a talented seamstress. The two had always worked as a pair, the father making dolls, as the daughter made their clothes. Even as her father sat despairingly on his workbench, she continued to create clothes for his dolls. With those gentle, loving hands, she carefully made clothing for his twisted, misshapen dolls, lovingly tying a bow or placing a hat upon curled wigs of all colors.

The father watched her work, watched as she dressed the dolls. She did them all, yes, even the one in which he had glued in the arms where the legs should be. She carefully dressed the poor thing in pastel clothing, decked it with lace, and somehow, somehow, managed to make it look beautiful.

Her father, at first, could not understand how this happened. It seemed very peculiar that such horrid creatures could ever be considered even remotely beautiful. But he slowly began to realize that the dolls changed the way they did, because they were being loved. His daughter loved every one of his dolls, every one.

The doll maker slowly realized that he had not loved his dolls in the same way he used to. He had let all of his love be sucked out of him at the death of his wife. Realizing this, he slowly turned down to the doll that he had in his hands, it’s joints far too sharp, it’s white teeth chipped and it’s nose twisted. He looked down at it and realized that his daughter was silently trying to tell him that he had not lost everything.

Slowly but surely, the doll maker began to produce his beautiful dolls again. His shell thawed as he spent each passing day with his daughter, the two of them carefully making his dolls together. Yes, he thought. Yes. This was perfect, this was all he needed. As long as his daughter was with him, he could endure life without his beloved wife.

But the daughter, with her warm smile and lively eyes, suddenlly took ill. Devastated, the doll maker spent every waking moment by her bed, desperately trying to bring her back to full health. He fought so hard to see her smile replace the contorted look of pain on her face that seemed to be growing worse with every passing day.

But despite his best efforts, as winter changed into spring, his daughter passed away. He was left alone again, only one year after his wife had gone.

The doll maker closed himself off from the world then. He locked the doors and windows in his home, refused to take any more orders. He sat for long hours in his daughter’s room, going over every possession his daughter had owned. Every needle, every shoe, each and every of her dresses, nothing was left untouched, unexplored. It was as if he was hoping that this somehow, somehow, would bring his daughter back to him.

Months passed, and the villagers began to worry. The doll maker had not been coming out. Though his food being delivered to him daily by sympathetic neighbors, neither word of thanks, nor even a glimpse of him was seen. So they decided that they must do something, they must get him to unlock his doors and come outside.

They knocked and knocked, calling his name, but he never answered. Growing more concerned by each passing minute, they had the village’s locksmith to come. Worried too about the doll maker, he used his copy of his house key to open up the door. Silently creeping inside, the villagers found something that horrified them.

Sitting amongst the plates of rotting, half-eaten food, the terrible misshapen dolls, was the doll maker, asleep at his worktable. And sitting next to him, on the table, was a life size doll, with clear blue eyes and golden hair.

He had been creating an exact replica of his daughter.

Horrified for the doll maker’s sanity, the villagers agreed to take the doll from his home and bury the thing. They could hear the frantic cries of the doll maker as he looked desperately for his doll, but none would tell him what had become of it. At the very least, he was outside now, and speaking to them.

That day ended and the next one came, as had always happened from the beginning of time. Today, however, something seemed to be off, though no one noticed it at first. Or rather they did, but they simply could not put their fingers on what was different. It was not until the next week, even, and then it suddenly hit them.

There were less people in the village.

Among those vanished were the locksmith, two families of three, and an old woman who had come to live in the country to relax. The day after they realized this, two more people vanished, a newly married husband and wife.

This baffled the villagers, until someone realized something both curious and frightening. All of them, except for the locksmith, had been neighbors of the doll maker. Frowning, they peered into the old man’s home, discovering something that made their hearts drop to their stomachs in fright.

There, sitting on the doll maker’s worktable, was the doll. She really was a perfect replica of his daughter, right down to her hair and her skin. She was even dressed in his daughter’s own clothing, the pink and white lace dresses that she was so fond of. The only thing that was wrong was her eyes- though as clear as his daughters, they lacked any kind of life.

And sitting around her, perhaps even more frightening were new dolls. Hurriedly made, the lot of them, but still very much resembling the two families, the locksmith, the old woman, and the newlyweds. The villagers suddenly felt the presence of many eyes upon them, and quickly left from the house.

More days passed and more people began to vanish. By now the villagers were in a state of utter terror. All of them but the doll maker- in fact, the man seemed positively ecstatic. He still went on, carrying about his daily activates, oblivious to the eyes watching him, knowing, knowing but never saying, the he was the source of all his. He and his doll.

The smart ones decided to leave, fleeing the place with as many of their belongings as they could. And still, people vanished. Some people locked themselves in their homes, but it did no good. They still vanished, one right after another. And every time, a small doll of that person was found in the home of the doll maker.

More and more eyes were watching the villagers, as their numbers dwindled. Until at last, there were only two people left in the whole village- the doll maker and the butcher.

A strong, board-shouldered man of forty, he had stayed until the end. He knew now that it would come for him that night, that strange mockery of life that was the doll. He was determined to fight it, to end this nightmare and return the villagers and their happy way of life. And so he waited in his home, brandishing his cleaver and his torch, waiting for it. Waiting for the doll.

He could hear her coming, the sound of her heels clicking against the cobblestone way. Everything was silent and despite the butcher’s best efforts to remain calm, he could still hear his heart beating loudly in his chest. The pounding grew louder as he heard them, more footsteps joining the dolls and those eyes, those awful eyes, bearing down on him, searing through him to his very soul.

The door opened, and the doll, with her lifeless eyes, came in, a twisted replica of Elise’s smile on her lips. Following behind her were all the horrid creatures that the doll maker had made, the doll with it’s misplaced arms, the doll with the twisted nose… the monsters that she had loved still.

And the eyes, unbearable now, bearing down on him, the cries of the villager’s ringing in his ears. Calling for him to avenge them, to set them free. Calling to him to run, turn on his heels and flee, leave them, leave everything behind…

It was too much. The butcher, for all of his waiting, planning, could not take it. The doll smiled at him again, reaching out to take his torch and his cleaver from him, tossing them away. Their eyes met, and the butcher knew nothing more.

The truth slowly turned into legend, the doll maker’s name and that of his daughter’s vanishing from history. But all knew that there, there in the Village of Dolls, she waited. The French Doll, with her father, his twisted creations. All of them waited. Watched.

For the daughter had always loved company.