“The Island of Dolls” • by Sam W. Pisciotta

Fog drifted off the dark waters around Xochimilco. 

Fantasma de la tierra, they would say. Ghost of the earth. Bent trees tangled across the island like charcoal smudges scratched into the land.  It was said that lost souls lived in that wood, twisting the trunks and creaking the branches.

Maya lay in the leaves beneath just such a tree—cheeks flushed, rose-petal lips held rigid and fixed, painted blue eyes turned toward the moon. In the distance, a child sobbed.

Every night was the same; the fog would rise and the ghost would weep—and the dolls would listen.

They were made from wood and plastic and cloth, and they hung from the trees and littered the ground. They were nailed to the decaying cottage where the caretaker no longer dared sleep.

The sobs brought scolding whispers from the dolls: Hush little girl. You’ll wake Coyote.

Maya glanced at Renata, who hung upside-down from a split cypress. “We have to help her,” said Maya.

“But we’ve never seen the girl.” Renata’s single button eye gazed into the fog. “She’s part of the mist.”

“Nobody can help her,” said Juanita. “She’s beyond saving.” Juanita was only a doll’s head stuck to the pointed end of a branch—but she had a lot to say. “Every night’s the same. Her crying wakes Coyote, and he chews up one of us. I wish she’d leave.”

“Juanita!” Maya snipped her words. “Remember who we are. Who we used to be, once upon a time.”

“Well, I don’t remember,” said Juanita. “Just flashes and odd feelings.” A beetle moved to shelter inside her head. “One day, that will be gone too.”

“I remember smiles and hugs,” said Renata, her own smile now torn and smudged.

Juanita clucked. “You’re new here, Maya. Eventually, you’ll learn what it means to forget. And to be forgotten.”

It was true. Maya had recently arrived on the island. Although the caretaker had placed her within a tree’s fork, a wind had knocked her to the ground. Still, her yellow dress and blue sash remained untorn and clean.

“Besides,” chided Juanita, “dolls don’t move. How could we ever find the weeping girl?”

Juanita was right. The child never left the fog. They say the caretaker had heard the girl, Bianca, crying for her doll; later, he found the child floating in a canal. Over the next fifty years, he brought dolls to the island to appease the girl’s spirit.

It hadn’t worked.

But Maya had a brilliant idea. “What if we call her to us?”

“That sounds like a horrible idea,” said Renata.

“What if Coyote comes instead?” said Juanita. “He’s already destroyed so many dolls.”

Through the fog, the child sobbed, and Maya remembered her own little girl, now long since grown up. She still had strong memories of Sofia, the child who once nestled her in the crook of an arm.

And there was a song she remembered—a lullaby Sofia sang to her while they hid beneath the blankets at night.

Maya lifted her voice and sang into the fog.

Duerme mi niña. No despiertes, mi hija. Sueña, sueña, niña pequeña.

“Quiet,” snapped Juanita. “He’ll come.” The dolls’ whispered words rose around her, but Maya only sang louder.

Sleep, my child. Do not wake up, my daughter. Dream, dream, my little child.

The song poured from Maya and wrapped her within memory. She hadn’t noticed that the other dolls had stopped whispering. It was the yipping of Coyote that tore her from song.

The dark figure pushed through the fog, a blotch of shadow between bent trees. And then the growl—like hard stones rattling inside a kettle—scratchy and tumbly.

Renata whispered down from her branch. “Quiet Maya! He’s here.”

If Maya could have closed her painted eyes, she would have snapped them shut and held her breath. Coyote sniffed at her hair, snorted into her ruffled dress.

All Maya could do was continue to sing. She needed to call the girl. It was the only way.

Dream, my little daughter. Dream, my little one.

Like a sigh released when waking, Bianca appeared on the threshold between here and there. The ghost stepped through, and Coyote stepped back, its dark shape returning to fog. Only the silhouette of a small child remained. Maya sang her lullaby, and her voice broke with joy.

Bianca, wispy and pale, stepped closer. She glittered with moonlight, and her dark eyes filled with stars. As Maya sang, the spirit stepped from the fog and lifted her. Maya nestled in the crook of the little girl’s arm. It felt right and true. The mist engulfed them, and they sang together until the morning broke.

Dream, little girl, dream, dream.

 

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Sam W. Pisciotta is an intrepid storyteller hurtling through spacetime on the power of morning coffee and late-night tea. He writes stories for people who want to visit other planets, learn magic from birds, or camp in haunted forests. His M.A. in Literary Studies from the University of Colorado trained him to deconstruct a variety of texts; living life taught him how to put them back together. Sam is a graduate of the Odyssey writing program. He loves holidays and birthdays, pints at the bar, and falling down the research rabbit hole. He would never choose the blue pill. Connect with him at www.silo34.com and @silo34 on X and Instagram.

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