Lifelike

by Sheila A. Nielson

  “Wren?” a soft voice said behind me.

  I jumped and almost lost my hold on the laundry basket. A figure came hurrying to my aid. It was Kat.

  “Whoa! I didn’t mean to scare you like that,” Kat said, putting out her hands toward the basket. I whisked it out of her reach, hoping it didn’t look too obvious that I had something to hide. I couldn’t even imagine what I could say to explain away all the blood. Luckily for me, Kat seemed more interested in talking than in checking out what was in my laundry basket.

  “I owe you an apology,” Kat said, slowly beginning to twist a strand of blue hair around one of her slender fingers.

  “An apology for what?” I asked in surprise.

  Kat looked at the floor, sliding the toe of her shoe against a small stain on the area rug beneath us. “The other day, when we first met, I said a bunch of stupid stuff. About your Aunt and your family—asking if they got along and all,” she broke off, rubbing at the back of her neck with a restless hand.

  I waited, wondering what she was getting at.

  “Your aunt told me today about why you came to live here,” Kat said. “About the accident.”

  I knew in an instant where this conversation was going. My limbs felt suddenly as heavy as fifty-pound sandbags. I tried to nod, but it came out more of a drunken wobble.

  “I just wanted to say sorry for being so clueless,” Kat said softly.

  “I should have said something,” I muttered lamely.

  “I wouldn’t have,” Kat said, flat out. “In fact, if I’d been you, I would have told me to go take a flying leap. Thanks for not doing that.”

  I gave her a weak smile to show there were no hard feelings.

  “I swear I didn’t know,” Kat’s face drew into an angry scowl. “Little Miss Secretive Gabrielle didn’t tell me anything about why you were really coming. I thought you were, you know, just visiting or something. I wouldn’t have said all that stupid stuff if I’d known about what happened—to your family, I mean.”

  “I’ve noticed you and Gabrielle don’t get along too well,” I said, trying to carefully shift the subject.

  “That is a huge understatement,” Kat said, rolling her eyes. “That woman just loves throwing shade. But I know how to get my own back.” Kat allowed herself a toothy grin.

  “I’m surprised she hasn’t fired you.”

  Kat glanced sharply at me, her attention riveted to my face. I shrugged in an attempt to soften what I now realized was the wrong thing to say. Then again, when did anything else ever come out of my mouth?

  Kat looked away from me a moment. I watched her hard gaze turn suddenly thoughtful. “You’re right. Gabrielle should have fired me a long time ago. But she never does.”

  “Aunt Victoria probably won’t let her.”

  “No, that’s not it.” Kat searched my face with her dark eyes. “Gabrielle knows my family is in debt up to our ears because of my little brother, Peter. He’s got Cystic Fibrosis.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again as I realized there was absolutely nothing I could say in response to this.

  “It’s an expensive disease to keep under control.” Kat tugged at the strand of blue hair in agitation. “Gabrielle and I had this big blowup about it the other day. I wanted time off so I could babysit my brother next week. My mom is barely working right now in order to stay home and take care of all Peter’s needs. But she got this offer for a one-time temp job. The pay is really good, but we haven’t got anyone to look after Peter that day.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Kat bit her lip a moment, then looked down at the ground as she spoke. “This morning Gabrielle offered to let me bring Peter to work.”

  “Sounds like the perfect answer,” I said.

  Kat cut me a look. “You don’t know my little brother.” Shaking her head slowly from side to side, she continued. “Last time Peter came here for a visit, he managed to find a way into the crawl space under the grand staircase. He kept thumping the wood underneath with his feet and frightened some old lady into hysterics. She thought a ghost was coming down the stairs to attack her. Gabrielle was furious!”

  And yet, Gabrielle had generously invited Peter back to the museum purely to give Kat’s mother a chance to make some extra money. I decided right then and there that no matter what Kat had to say about it—Gabrielle was a saint. I had a feeling that deep down, Kat knew it too.

  “I can watch Peter while he’s here,” I suggested softly.

  Kat looked up in surprise. For a second, I could see hope blossoming in her face, then she shut it all down with a snap. “Nah, I couldn’t do that to you. Peter would run you into the ground. Trust me, I know.”

  I looked at Kat, trying to read the thoughts going on behind her eyes. No matter how bad her kid brother was, I’d already suffered so much in my life that one more day of inconvenience would hardly make difference to me. But it would mean a whole lot to Kat.

  “I can handle him,” I said firmly. “Really.”

  Kat gave me a heavy-lidded look. “You only say that because you haven’t actually met Peter yet,” she said. “I love my brother to death, but even I have to admit he can be a real pain sometimes. I’m only saying this because I don’t think it’s fair to throw you to the wolves without at least letting you know what you are signing up for first.”

  “I grew up with a little brother myself,” I said. Kat got real quiet, watching me. “Trust me, I can take care of Peter.”

  “Thank you,” she said in much gentler tones. It was a little disconcerting, seeing the feisty, older girl look so serious and subdued. “I’ll find a way to repay you for this, Wren. Seriously, anything you need, I’ve got your back.”

  “I could use your help now, actually,” I said raising an eyebrow. “Do you happen to know where the washing machine is?”

  Kat glanced down at the laundry basket in my arms and then back up at me. The familiar, mischievous smile quickly returned. “Follow me,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I peered down the narrow, dimly lit basement stairs. A dank, wet smell lingered in the air. The soft sound of dripping water echoed up from somewhere below.

  “The basement used to be the servants’ quarters in Margaret Kensington’s time,” Kat explained. “Now we just do laundry and store our deepest, darkest secrets down here.”

  “Secrets?” I asked, only because I could tell she wanted me to.

  “Dolls that can’t be put on public display,” Kat said in mysterious tones.

  “Why can’t they be shown?”

  “I couldn’t possibly explain with words—you have to see them to understand.” Kat walked over to a large cabinet sitting against the far wall. She grasped the handles and pulled open both the doors revealing shelves and shelves of boxes. Piled in those boxes were dolls. Lots and lots of them.

  Some of the dolls looked all right, but most of them seemed to have been made in a hurry, their craftsmanship deteriorating in the rush. They had primitively stitched or painted faces. Some of those faces were incomplete, missing mouths, noses, and eyes. There was even one with no face at all—just an eerie blank flesh-colored piece of cloth staring blindly at me over the brim of the box that contained it. All of the dolls were a variation of the same theme. Green eyes, dark hair, white clothing, male. Over and over, in all different sizes and materials. Yarn, cloth, paint, buttons—anything their creator had been able to get their hands on. The same familiar emerald eyes, dark hair, white clothes. My breath caught as I recognized the bizarre pattern.

  These dolls were all very bad copies of the groom doll I was currently hiding in my room.

  “At the end of her life, Margaret Kensington started creating these awful dolls, one right after the other,” Kat said in a hushed voice. “There were dozens of the things planted all over Kensington House, in every room. She wouldn’t stop long enough to eat or sleep—just spent each and every hour of her day franticly trying to make more and more of these
monstrosities.”

  Kat reached out and pulled the faceless doll from the pile, scowling down at it. “Margaret’s cousin, Roberta, had her committed to an asylum. But even that didn’t stop Margaret from making these things. If they didn’t give her materials to work with, Margaret would tear up her clothes and bed sheets. She gave the finished dolls to Roberta and begged her to put them inside Kensington House for her.”

  “Did Roberta ever ask why the dolls were so important?” I asked, glancing over the boxes and boxes of dolls. There were so many of them.

  “Margaret told Roberta that leaving the dolls around the house would somehow keep Xavier safe,” Kat said. “But Xavier had been dead for decades at that point. Like I said, Margaret was totally out of it by then. I guess anyone would be after finding out their son was a murderer, poor thing.”

  Kat tossed the faceless doll back onto the pile. “Every one of these dolls is a Margaret Kensington original, but we can’t put a single one on display. Not unless we want to make visitors run screaming from the place. Victoria feels strongly about having people remember Margaret as she was, before the stress got to her.”

  I nodded, completely in agreement.

  “So now you’ve seen the deep, dark secret hidden in the basement.” Kat grinned. “That makes you officially a member of the team.” She shut the cabinet door with a swoosh, hiding the hideous Xavier dolls from sight. So why could still feel the weight of their empty stares?

  “Washing machine is over there,” Kat said, pointing to the east wall. I headed toward it, but stopped again, distracted by the sight of the gaping hole in the wall. It was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the drywall. I stepped a little closer and saw that the dripping sound was coming from a skeletal network of pipes which were slowly leaking water into a half-filled bucket sitting just inside the open wall.

  “Don’t mind that.” Kat said, noticing my stunned face. “There was a leak in the pipes a few days ago—the water completely destroyed the wall. The plumber had to order a part and doesn’t want to seal everything up until he’s finished working on it.”

  I nodded silently in response.

  “Well, I need to get back to work. Gabrielle will lose it if I don’t have the gift shop up and running in time for opening.”

  “Thanks for bringing me down here,” I said.

  “No prob. Detergent is on the shelf above the machine.”

  Kat headed for the stairs taking them two at a time—almost as if she was in a hurry to get out of there. Her footsteps faded into the distance. It was just me and the catacomb of a dimly lit basement. I listened to the soft drip, drip, drip, of the water in the bucket for a moment, then turned to the washing machine and placed my laundry basket on top of it. I looked around and spotted a sink to the left of the washing machine. Pulling out the sheets, I set to work, washing out as much of the blood as I could with cold water and a little liquid detergent. Rivers of pink water quickly disappeared down the drain as I worked to get rid of all evidence of my bloody mishap. I kept glancing over my shoulder at the stairs, silently praying that no one would come down while I was in the middle of the job. I was like a criminal, trying to clean up a murder scene as fast as I could before the cops caught me at it. It was only when the pink water turned clear and the sheets finally started to come clean that I found myself beginning to relax.

  Swish, swish, swish.

  The waterlogged sheets made a hypnotic sound as I pushed and kneaded them beneath my hands—the cold water running in and out of the cloth.

  Swish, swish, swish. Swisssssss. Swish, swish, swish. Swisssss-swassss-scrape.

  I froze, my hands suddenly still against the wet sheets. The sound continued.

  Swisssssss.

  Swissssss, scrape.

  I lifted my eyes trying to locate the source of the noise. It was in the roof, right above my head.

  Sweet sister of Stephen King.

  This was definitely not turning out to be my morning.

  Still as stone I listened, my gaze tracking the sound as it moved with painful slowness across the inside of the ceiling. It paused a moment, rustling softly in place, almost as if trying to get its bearings. Then it started moving again, heading straight for the hole in the wall.

  Whatever was in there, it wanted out.

  My pulse throbbed through my veins pounding up into my brain. RUN! RUN! RUN! it screamed at me over and over. My body wouldn’t obey. It felt like some badly put together folding chair. If I moved even a muscle I’d come crashing down in a useless heap.

  Forcing my lungs to take shallow breaths, I followed the sound’s progress with only my gaze, listening to it rustle and click its way toward the hole—drawn by the light, no doubt. When it reached the wall just above the hole, the noises stopped dead.

  Heavy silence and the slow dripping of the leaky pipe met my straining ears. Then—the quiet sound of something large and soft slid down the wall, dropping to the ground inside the hole, just out of sight. I tensed up, every muscle in my body poised and ready to spring into action if anything remotely dangerous came launching out of that gaping hole.

  Drip-drip-drip went the water in the bucket.

  No other sound came from the hole. Where had the thing gone? Further into the wall? Or was it just sitting there, waiting to make a break for it at any moment. If I wanted answers, I was going to have to go over and take a look inside the wall for myself. There would be no running. Not this time. I was done with fear. What was the worst a ghost could do, anyway? Kill me?

  I almost laughed.

  Glancing around for some kind of weapon, I found a mop propped against the wall on the other side of the room. Cause, you know, that’s going to do a whole lot of damage to a ghost.

  Armed with my useless weapon, like some kind of ninja staff held in both hands, I made my way cautiously up to the hole. It was pitch black inside. Slowly, I craned my neck forward, actually putting my head partway into the hole in order to see properly. The smell of stale smoke and damp ashes filled my nostrils.

  There was something there, all right. I tightened my grip on the mop, but the shapeless thing inside the wall wasn’t moving. It just sat there making a very convincing impression of a harmless bundle of grimy rags.

  I turned the mop and poked the bundle with the end of it. There was something hard and heavy hiding under all that cloth. It felt like wood. I used the tip of the mop to pull back an edge of the rags. A tiny, human hand lay underneath.

  Another doll.

  The grimy rags were all that was left of its clothes.

  I poked the doll one more time for good measure. It didn’t move or flinch. Or rise up and begin hacking bloody carnage in its wake. It just lay there looking for all the world like the body of a tiny murder victim who’d been stuffed into the walls to cover some gruesome crime.

  Fragile and damaged. Completely forgotten.

  A feeling of overwhelming sadness washed over me. Without thinking, I reached into the wall with my right hand and gingerly picked up the doll.

  Oh, yes, I did.

  The doll felt like someone had left it in the freezer too long. Waves of icy cold radiated through its clothing, flowing from the solid body hidden underneath. The outside of its clothes was coated with sticky cobwebs that clung to my bare fingers like hundreds of little insect feet.

  I flipped the doll over. A filmy piece of cloth hung in front of its face, obscuring it from sight. Tentatively, I lifted the cloth away.

  The face underneath must have been quite beautiful once. Shaped like a heart, it had large angelic eyes that should have made her look lovely and sweet. Unfortunately, she looked more like a horror movie prop rather than the work of art she must have once been. There were thick, dirt clogged strands of cobweb swathed across her lower face, making it look like she had no mouth. Her face was riddled with hairline cracks, pits, and crevasses where the surface of her skin had flaked away entirely. They looked like festering wounds left behind by a particularly bad case
of leprosy. Her once fair hair was a rat’s nest of tangles soiled by years of dirt to a dingy gray mass. Her eyes were still a lovely ice blue, undimmed by time. But they were in a strange position, flipped up and to the left, as if the doll were rolling her eyes at the world. The dress the doll wore had probably once been white, but it looked more like the color of ancient dishwater now. She looked so horrible and beat up.

  Just the way I felt inside.

  A sympathy for the doll grew inside me. I gently wiped the spider webs from her mouth. Underneath were a set of rosebud lips that looked like they were right at the edge of a smile—but not quite there.

  The coldness of the doll suddenly intensified, burning my fingertips with its icy bite.

  What the…?

  As I watched, the shadows at the corners of the doll’s mouth suddenly shifted and deepened—lengthening and stretching. Her eyes curled upward just bit as the doll, of its own accord, broke into an undeniably creepy smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I screamed.

  My whole body jerked involuntarily in response. The smiling doll went flying out of my hands and hit the cement floor with a sickening thud. Like a small human body impacting the ground. I found myself backing away from the thing, trying to catch my racing breath.

  Unbidden, Taylee’s frightened words came back to me.

  It crawled back into the wall, real fast.

  The frightened girl had said the thing in the wall, “looked broken.” If anything in this world could be described as being broken, this doll with her fractured face was definitely it.

  “Wren?” An alarmed voice called from the top of the basement stairs. Once again, my screams had brought Aunt Victoria running. “I was coming down the hall when I heard you scream. What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”