Derek slid away the front of the house to reveal the other floors. The first contained elegant rooms, corridors and hallways, which were beautifully furnished but contained no dolls – or dolls’ blood. But when he began to investigate the cellar he saw something move, hide, move again and then scuttle on to the floor of the shop towards a pile of packing cases at the very back. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t a mouse, although it seemed to squeak. Or was he hearing words – words that tumbled over each other in venomous fury. Derek’s heart began to pound and the fear surged inside him, making him gasp with pain.
His gaze swept the cellar of the doll’s house and he saw that most of the space was packed with row upon row of tiny coffins. About half of them were open – and inside one was a female doll with a great gash at her neck.
Derek drew back, knowing that he couldn’t take much more of this. No wonder his uncle had been so afraid. Yet he had kept the doll’s house. Why? Was it because he hadn’t dared give it away? Uncle Ernie had been a good man and Derek knew he would never offload such a dreadful responsibility on to others.
Reluctantly and apprehensively, he walked down to the back of the shop, following the direction of the squeaking sound, and clambered up on top of the old packing-cases to find a long, wooden box where the noise seemed to have stopped. Not only was he terrified of what he might discover inside, but he was just as afraid of the even thicker cobwebs and the wildly scuttling spiders, some of which were enormously dark and hairy.
Derek brushed aside the debris, wiping clear the shipping label that read: MODEL SOLDIERS FROM ROMANIA. FRAGILE. THIS WAY UP. He tried to push and pull at the lid of the box, but soon found that it was sealed. Somehow he would have to break it open. There was a small hole on the top, but he could hardly get his finger into it and there was no leverage at all.
After finding a hammer and chisel, he spent half an hour banging and prising up the lid, which finally split open in a rending and tearing of dusty wood. Nothing could have prepared Derek for what he saw as he gazed, stupefied, into the wooden box.
Inside was the full-length figure of a rosy-cheeked gentleman in foreign-looking clothes, who was soundly and peacefully asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. At his side was a small cup of red blood. Squeaking at Derek angrily, a tiny creature crept from behind the figure and then ran back down the packing cases to the doll’s house – but not before Derek had recognized it.
Replacing the lid of the box and clambering after it, Derek saw the doll had returned to the cellar of the doll’s house and to the tightly packed coffins. Forcing himself, Derek slid open one of the coffins and discovered inside a female. She was heavy, and when he shook her he could hear the liquid inside moving. A convenient container, he suddenly realized, for a blind vampire who could no longer fend for himself.
The miniature vampire stared up at him, dark eyes full of hatred, and then scuttled towards him like a spider. Derek rapidly closed up the house and slid back the roof. The squeaking dimmed as Derek remembered Mrs Cole’s translation of the label.
More dimly he could also remember his uncle saying, ‘I’m stuck with it now. Can’t sell it. That wouldn’t be right.’
How long would the blind vampire be sustained by the dolls? When would he need fresh supplies? Presumably they had lasted a good long time. Or was his miniature assistant somehow getting out of the shop and refilling his cup? Or had sorcery been used and, like an everlasting spring, would the dolls always be magically replenished?
As he hurried towards the door and hastily locked up, Derek knew he would never dare to enter his uncle’s toy shop again. Looking up at the faded shop sign, he heard a noise behind him and he saw his father standing there. As Derek began to make flustered excuses, his father waved them aside.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘He had a fascinating collection. But I’ve managed to break the will and we’re going to sell the shop at last. So I thought I’d do a quick stock-take.’ He opened the door with his new set of keys and disappeared inside.
Derek was about to warn him, when he realized he wouldn’t be believed. He wondered how soon they’d find out …
Colin turned to Jodie, who appeared to be listening intently, but not to him.
‘Aren’t those footsteps?’ she whispered.
Jon got up in a panic and someone gave a little scream.
They all froze. Then a familiar figure appeared.
‘It’s the warden,’ said Jodie with relief.
‘What are you lot doing down here?’ he asked angrily. ‘You know I said the crypt was out of bounds. You don’t have to rush away though,’ he added persuasively. ‘Not now.’
The warden smiled, showing his teeth.
A Note on the Author
Anthony Masters was renowned as an adult novelist, short story writer and biographer, but was best known for his fiction for young people.
Many of his novels carry deep insights into social problems, which he experienced over four decades by helping the socially excluded. He ran soup kitchens for drug addicts and campaigned for the civic rights of gypsies and other ethnic minorities. Masters is also known for his eclectic range of non-fiction titles, ranging from the biographies of such diverse personalities as the British secret service chief immortalized by Ian Fleming in his James Bond books (The Man Who Was M: the Life of Maxwell Knight).
His children’s fiction included teenage novels and the ground breaking Weird World series of young adult horror, published by Bloomsbury. He also worked with children both in schools and at art festivals. Anthony Masters died in 2003.
Discover books by Anthony Masterspublished by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/AnthonyMasters
Confessional
Hidden Gods
Murder is a Long Time Coming
The Men
Children and Young Adult Books
Cries of Terror
Dead Man at the Door
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark
Nightmare in New York
Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain1995, Penguin Books Ltd.
Copyright ©1995 Anthony Masters
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
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printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN:9781448210190
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