The Doll's Eye

by Marina Cohen

  Hadley lifted the little girl doll and puffed up her pink frilly dress. This girl was lucky, thought Hadley. She had the perfect family. Hadley wished her family were like these dolls. The room went cold and a shiver snaked up her spine.

  Someone’s walked across your grave, her mother would have said. It was a silly saying. An old wives’ tale. Hadley placed the doll back on its bed. The house was drafty. And she was exhausted. That was all.

  Hadley heaved the house into her arms. No matter whom it had belonged to before, it was hers now. Swaying under its weight, she maneuvered her way down the narrow flight of steps and into her room.

  She placed the dollhouse gently on the floor between her bed and the window. Then she took the eye from her pocket, placed it on her nightstand, and crawled back into bed.

  The numbness had traveled from her pinky finger into her palm. But when she reached over to massage away the pins and needles, she sliced through thin air. Her hand had disappeared.

  Seven

  “Whatcha doing?”

  Isaac thumped toward Hadley’s bed like a puppy whose feet had outgrown him. He stuck his face an inch from hers and grinned. Morning sunlight sparkled through the sheers, setting his rust-colored freckles on fire.

  “Sleeping,” she grumbled.

  Between searching for the rat and imagining that her hand had somehow evaporated, she’d gotten little rest. Such a strange thing—one moment, she could have sworn her hand was gone. And then, just like that, it was back again.

  His eyebrows stitched together. “If you’re sleeping, how come you’re talking? And how come your eyes are open?”

  Hadley sat up, forcing Isaac back.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to her nightstand.

  “Nothing,” she said, snatching the eye and closing her fingers tightly around it. “Quit being so nosy.”

  “What does fear smell like?”

  Hadley flopped back onto her bed. “What?”

  “People say dogs can smell fear, so I was wondering what fear smelled like.”

  “I don’t know,” said Hadley. “I guess it smells sour. Like sweat.”

  “Hey! Cool!” he shouted, diving for the dollhouse. “Where’d you get this?”

  Hadley scrambled out of bed. “In the attic. Leave it alone.”

  Before she could stop him, Isaac grabbed the man doll. “Let’s play!” He made the doll fly through the air like a superhero. Hadley snatched it out of his hands.

  “I. Don’t. Play. With. Dolls.” She pronounced each word slowly and clearly so there was no confusion. She set the man back in the family room on the sofa across from the mother.

  Isaac shrugged. “I do. I wanna play with it.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times not to come in here and mess with my stuff.” She was about to usher him out of her room when Mom called.

  “Breakfast!” she hollered. She didn’t need to call twice.

  Isaac raced down the stairs, practically tripping over himself to get there first. Hadley took her time, throwing on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She pocketed her eye, and arrived in the kitchen with Isaac already elbow-deep in a bowl of cereal.

  “Flaxy O’s!” he shouted, like they were the greatest things ever invented.

  Hadley dropped into a chair in front of a bowl overflowing with dirt-colored rings covered in flax seeds.

  While Isaac munched loudly, Hadley contemplated whether or not she should tell her mother about the rat infestation. She decided without evidence her mother would think she was making it up. The Flaxy O’s stared at her, looking annoyingly superior.

  “Weren’t you going to make egg-free rice-flour pancakes?” Hadley asked. Her mother had taken a few weeks off work to move and get settled. Hadley was hoping the free time would translate into some fancy breakfasts.

  “Not today,” said her mother. “I promised Ed I’d get a start on clearing out the garage. You’re going to help me, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question.

  Hadley shrugged. She could think of a thousand things she’d like to do with her mother—cleaning the garage was not one of them.

  She pulled her bowl toward her and poured cold milk over the muddy-looking O’s. Each spoonful tasted like sawdust. She had to stop several times to pick seeds out of her teeth.

  “Can I help, too?” asked Isaac, sputtering bits of cereal and milk over the table.

  Hadley cast her mother a frantic look. Can’t it be the two of us? Just this once? Please.

  Her mother turned toward Isaac and smiled. “Of course. We can use all the help we can get, can’t we?”

  We. Hadley used to like that word. Only we no longer meant her and her mother. We now meant Hadley, her mother, Ed, and Isaac. Hadley was developing a we aversion.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Hadley, happy to escape we for the moment.

  The dark wooden door was swollen with August humidity. Hadley gave it a hard tug and it flew open. She narrowed her eyes. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  It was Gabe. He held out a cinnamon-scented slab on a purple plastic plate. “My grandma made an extra date-and-nut loaf.”

  He swiped at his floppy hair. It drooped back over his eyes. He’d come by a few times, and already he’d decided he was Hadley’s new best friend. She was going to have to set him straight.

  “Isaac’s really allergic to nuts. We can’t even have any in the house.” She eyed the lopsided lump of a loaf, desperate for a taste of something flax-free.

  “Sorry,” said Mom, appearing in the hallway. “Tell your grandmother thanks anyway.”

  “We’re going to clean the garage,” said Isaac, pushing past Hadley. “Wanna help?”

  Hadley sighed. Apparently we now included Gabe. We might as well include the entire northern hemisphere.

  “Can’t right now,” said Gabe. “I’m breeding Amphimallon solstitialis.”

  Hadley frowned.

  “That’s European June beetle to you laymen,” he added.

  Hadley would have reminded Gabe it was August, but she already knew better than to encourage him. Long-legged, slimy, and slithering things were all he talked about. No wonder he spent a lot of time in the woods—alone. He wanted to be an entomologist. Or anthropologist. Or archaeologist. Some kind of ologist.

  “Well, have fun then…” Hadley was about to close the door when he held out his hand.

  “I’ll come by later,” he announced, as though he were doing her a huge favor.

  Before Hadley could protest, Mom and Isaac accepted his offer. Gabe nodded and left with his loaf, practically bouncing down the porch steps.

  Hadley shut the door and stomped back to the kitchen. She’d barely had time to sit down to her now-soggy bowl of Flaxy O’s when the doorbell rang a second time.

  “I’ll get it,” she huffed.

  Hadley yanked at the sticky wooden door again. “What now…?” she began, but her voice shriveled and slid back down her throat. It wasn’t Gabe.

  A woman with dark glasses and silver-white hair stood on the porch. She wore a white blouse and a faded lavender skirt. She had a round face and rosy cheeks.

  “Hadley,” she said. “I’m glad we finally meet.” She smiled a broad, satisfied smile.

  “Hello, Ms. de Mone,” said Hadley’s mother, who had come to the door. “Won’t you come in?”

  “No, no,” said the old woman. “I just stopped by to bring you this. I nearly stumbled on it while doing my morning walk.” She held out a newspaper rolled up with a rubber band.

  “Sorry about that,” said Hadley’s mother. “The driveway’s long and the paperboy’s lazy. I’ll tell him he’s got to bring it to the front door from now on.”

  As she took the newspaper, Hadley’s eyes snagged briefly on the headline. Bold black letters announced: MISSING

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a bit?” asked Hadley’s mother. “The house is a disaster, but you’re more than welcome to join us
for breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “But I’ve already eaten.” She extended a hand toward Hadley. “I live in the room above the garage. I’m Althea S. de Mone. But you can call me Granny.”

  Eight

  Papa has brought me the loveliest gift!

  It is a dollhouse identical to our new home. One of his glassblowers—who had previously apprenticed with a woodworker—has crafted it. It has such exquisite detail and, of course, real glass windows! Papa has even included the carriage house, above which Frau Heinzelmann lives.

  Naturally, I brought my dolls, Emmaline and Alexandra, with me from Boston, but Papa says he will have another surprise for me shortly, and I am delighted, for I suspect it will be a new doll.

  Though Papa still feels somewhat like a stranger—after all, I only saw him twice in the five years before Mama and I joined him—he is truly working hard to win my affection.

  I place the dollhouse in the parlor beside the fireplace, where I can keep warm as I play. When it gets chilly, I lift a heavy iron poker and prod the burning logs. Sparks burst upward in a dazzling display. The smoldering logs warm my hands and face.

  A whisper of snow already covers the fields, and the bitter November winds moan down the hollow throat of the chimney. Sometimes, when I am alone, I imagine I hear voices. They call my name.

  “The house creaks and groans,” I tell Frau Heinzelmann. “It frightens me.”

  She beats a ball of dough on the wooden table. She is making dark rye bread, which Papa insists has the taste and texture of a shoe sole.

  “That is only the kobold,” she puffs. “Pay it no mind.”

  Papa does not want me spending my days with Frau Heinzelmann. He has purchased several books for me to study, including a brand-new novel by the acclaimed author Herman Melville. It is titled Moby-Dick and tells the story of a crazed Captain Ahab and a great White Whale. It is quite interesting, but I tire of reading all day, and since Papa has yet to find me a suitable tutor—and with Mama lying ill in bed—Frau Heinzelmann continues to be my only company.

  “The kobold?” I ask, wrinkling my nose at the unfamiliar word.

  “Why, the house spirit, of course. Every home has one.” She slams down the dough. A cloud of flour puffs into the air around her.

  My hand flies to my mouth. “A spirit? There is a ghost in the house?”

  I stare horrified at the empty air around me, but Frau Heinzelmann goes about her bread-making business, seemingly indifferent to my concern. She waves her sausage-like fingers dismissively.

  “A kobold is a little sprite. A kind of goblin. Have I not told you the story of the shoemaker and his elves? Or of Rumpelstiltskin, that nasty little fellow?” She swipes a floured hand across her forehead, leaving a dusty trail.

  I shake my head.

  “Once upon a time, there lived a poor shoemaker and his wife…”

  I sit and listen, spellbound, as she recounts the entire tale of the kind elves that help the poor shoemaker and his wife until the wife makes them a set of clothes and they disappear forever. She goes on to tell the tale of the crafty imp-like creature Rumpelstiltskin, who helps a young maiden spin straw into gold.

  I sit transfixed, my entire body hanging on her every word. All the while she kneads her dough until it is round and smooth. When she is finished, she drops the ball into a greased pan and sets it aside to rise.

  “We are lucky,” she says. “A kobold is good to have. They help with chores. Sometimes, I am sure ours has folded the linens, for when I attend to the task, I find it has been done.” She nods and winks knowingly.

  Frau Heinzelmann picks up a bucket filled with soapy water and hands me a rag. She swipes the excess flour from the table with her large hands. When she is done, I run the rag over the surface, rubbing hard to clear any trace of sticky dough. Papa would be displeased to see me doing servant work, but I like to help.

  “Where were you born?” I ask her, as she tosses the flour into the sink and claps her hands. She washes them with some of the soapy water.

  “In Oberlahnstein—a small town on the banks of the Rhine River.” She does not look back at me, but her head rises and she stops moving, and I can tell she is picturing the place.

  “Do you miss it?” I ask.

  Frau Heinzelmann turns and smiles. “I do,” she says. “The rivers here are lovely, but they are quite different from the Rhine. Many old castles and ruins sit perched high on its banks. I miss the cobblestoned streets, the many festivals, and, of course, the bakeries. Yes. I miss the bakeries a great deal.” She pats her belly.

  “Do you wish to return?” I ask, suddenly sad for her as much as for myself.

  She pauses as if to think. “No,” she says at last, but more softly than I am used to her speaking. “Pennsylvania is my home now.” She reaches out and wiggles my nose, leaving a spot of dampness on the tip. “And it is yours now as well.”

  “Tell me another story,” I ask eagerly. “With elves and goblins and pretty maidens.”

  Frau Heinzelmann smiles. “First we finish cleaning the kitchen, or the kobold will be upset. They do not like untidy homes. And they can become quite nasty little creatures if you cross them.”

  Nine

  It rained unexpectedly that afternoon. Sheets of warm water draped to the ground, drenching the lawns, sending muddy rivulets gushing along both sides of the street.

  Without sunlight, the white walls of Hadley’s bedroom were gray and gloomy. She crouched in front of the dollhouse and picked up the doll that looked like Althea S. de Mone. She studied it closely. Its clothes were similar to the old woman’s. So was its hair.

  Rain trampled louder on the rooftop as lightning streaked across the sky. A loud clap of thunder shook the ceiling and walls. Isaac burst into her room.

  “Granny’s really nice!”

  “Stop barging into my room!” Hadley’s heart beat through her words. She placed the doll in the house. “Can’t you at least knock?”

  “Knock, knock.”

  “What?”

  “Knock, knock,” he repeated. “You say, ‘Who’s there?’”

  Hadley rolled her eyes and sighed. “Who’s there?”

  “Althea.”

  “Althea who?”

  “Althea tomorrow!”

  Isaac threw himself on her bed, erupting in giggles before she had a chance to react. “Althea—I’ll see ya—get it?”

  A smile muscled its way through Hadley’s frown.

  “Hey,” he continued. “What do you think her middle name is? It starts with an S.”

  Hadley sighed. “No idea.”

  “How about Someday—Althea Someday! Or Saturday—Althea Saturday!” He continued to laugh hysterically.

  Taking Isaac by the arm, Hadley escorted him to the door. “Very funny. Now can you please leave?”

  “All right, all right.” He yanked his arm free and strolled into the hallway. He poked his head back into the room. “Althea later!” He ducked back out and laughed loudly all the way down the stairs.

  Hadley lifted the girl doll. She looked about the same age as Isaac. She had curly brown hair tied back with a bright pink ribbon that matched her pink dress. Her eyes were soft and brown. Like Hadley’s. She set the doll back on her bed.

  Drops of rain wove zigzag paths down her bedroom window. Something Isaac had said kept echoing in her mind: Granny’s really nice.

  Hadley had never had a grandmother. She imagined what it would be like to have someone spoil her rotten. Someone who would invite her for sleepovers and bake all sorts of treats like cookies and crumbles. Together, they would watch old movies and play pinochle, collect worthless coins, and knit scarves so long only giraffes could wear them.

  She pressed her cheek against the cool glass and peered toward the garage. Dark drapes hung heavy in Althea’s window. A word tripped on her tongue and stumbled out of her mouth. “Granny.”

  It rained the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening. The only good
thing about the nasty weather was that it kept Hadley from having to clear out the garage. It also kept Gabe from pestering her.

  After dinner, Hadley helped her mother clean up in the kitchen. When she finished drying the dishes, she lowered the rag. She made a tight fist with her left hand and then slowly relaxed it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hadley said. She flexed her fingers and rubbed her palm. It still felt so strange and tingly—like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

  “Did you bump it?” Mom took Hadley’s hand and examined it.

  “I fell yesterday. Nothing serious.” She didn’t want to tell her mother she’d been spying on them from the attic window.

  “Well, let me know if it doesn’t get better, and I’ll make a doctor’s appointment.”

  Hadley nodded. It felt good to have her mother focused on her for a change.

  “Where did you find that dollhouse?”

  “In the attic.”

  “Looks like an antique. Could be worth a lot of money,” said her mother. “Take good care of it. They don’t make toys like that anymore.”

  Hadley considered the possibility. The house was well over a hundred years old. “There’s a doll that looks like Ms. de Mone.”

  Her mother laughed. “Really?”

  “It’s even wearing the same clothes as her. Well, similar. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “Why don’t you ask Ms. de Mone the next time you see her? She really likes you. She told me so.”

  Hadley smiled. Maybe she could get used to having a granny after all.

  That night, Hadley went to bed early. The dull day had made her tired. She got into her purple penguin pajamas and switched off the light. She was about to pull her blinds shut when she stopped. She stared at the dark drapes hanging in the window above the garage. She wondered what Althea de Mone was doing.

  “Probably sleeping,” she told herself. “Old people go to bed very early.”

  When she turned to get into bed, she glanced at the dollhouse. Something had changed. The family of dolls was sitting at the kitchen table. Althea de Mone’s doll was no longer on its bed where she’d left it. It was propped against the window over the garage. Staring at her.