The Doll Graveyard

by Lois Ruby

  “You were downstairs a minute ago, right? Tried to shove me into the space under the floor?”

  He blinks, clearing sleep out of his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Tell the truth, Brian Tate!”

  His face looks totally innocent in the shadowy green glow of his Yoda night-light. Even Brian isn’t that good an actor, and then I know, as sure as I know my own heartbeat, that it wasn’t Brian who pushed me.

  But then, who was it?

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell him, and I head for my own room.

  The dolls. I’m beginning to think those dolls, from tiny Baby Daisy to Isabella herself, are possessed or magical or ghostly or evil or something I don’t have a word for, and that they haunt this house.

  No, they rule it.

  But I’ll show them! I’ve got the notebook.

  Huddling under a tent of blankets, I shine my flashlight on the notebook. It’s one of those old speckled composition books. Taking a deep breath, I open it to page one, which is blank. So is page two. In fact, flipping through the notebook, I’m crushed to see that the whole thing is blank. I went through so much to snag this, and now it’s going to tell me absolutely nothing? So not fair! I run an index finger over a random page as if something were actually written there that I could read in Braille, not that I read Braille.

  Strange, I do feel little bumps in the paper, but not Braille dots, exactly. Page after page has the same slightly bumpy feel, as though something were once written there but erased.

  Or written in invisible ink!

  How do you read invisible ink? Clutching the notebook, I quietly creep downstairs to the dining room to wake up Mom’s laptop. All I have to do is key in read invisible ink, and it’s simple: Heat will show the words. I could hold a page over a stove burner, but what if it caught fire? Ugh. I hate fire. I glance up at the smoke alarm over the stove. That would wake the whole house, even the dolls. Then I get a totally brilliant idea. There’s a fold-down ironing board in the laundry-room wall. I turn on the iron, making sure there’s no water, because steam would ruin the paper and I’d never see what’s written on it. It’ll work, I’m sure. I’ll just put page one facedown on the board and run a warm iron over the back of the page and — huh! It’s coming clear, scratched out in a child’s uphill-slanted handwriting:

  The Incredible True Adventures of Me by Sadie Isabella Thornewood Read it, and you will have bad luck just like me forever and ever!

  That warning won’t stop me. I’m way too curious, so I’ll risk it. Wait, that little hat Aunt Amelia gave me. She said it was for a doll named Isabella, and when I found her and tried the hat on her, it fit perfectly. It’s no coincidence, I’m sure, that the doll and Sadie Thornewood share a name. I guess this is one of the loose ends Aunt Amelia warned me about.

  This is going to be a slow, boring process, ironing each page, and I lose words that are too close to the binding, so I have to guess at what’s missing at the beginning or end of the lines. My heart sinking, I realize it’s not as easy as I thought it would be to piece it all together:

  … almost finished digging the graveyard when

  … Baby Daisy can’t see anything now ’cause I colored over her eyes with India ink and scratched out her

  … wiped it off cuz she was so mad at me and made me eat dirt which

  I flip to a random page in the middle of the notebook, and the word that seems to pop out at me is Lady. Does it mean anything that Sadie and Lady rhyme? A little more heat, and I read, I hate, hate, hate her!!! That seems really important, but as hard as I slam the iron back and forth over the page, nothing else shows up. The page is truly blank. Was Sadie just too spooked to write anything more about Lady? Is Lady really Isabella, the one from the hatbox? Sure, she creeped me out last night, but is that enough to hate her with such venom that Sadie repeated the word three times? I mean, she’s just a doll. Isn’t she?

  There’s got to be a better, quicker way to read this stuff. Back to the laptop. The famous lightbulb goes off over my head, because that’s the solution. If I hold a page under a lightbulb, the words will magically appear. Mom’s got one of those high-intensity lamps on her desk, and as the paper warms in my hands, I make out five words that chill me to the bone:

  … I’m so, so, so scared!!!

  And then the page goes blank again, and besides, I’ve held the paper so close to the lamp that it’s burned a little hole in it.

  So I scroll through a bunch of website info about invisible ink until I find the best solution: ultraviolet light. That’s like the goggles you see in movies that crooks use to see in pitch-dark. But I’m sure there’s nothing like that in Mom’s kitchen tool drawer. And now it’s after midnight, and I need to get to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll figure out how to get an ultraviolet penlight. I’ll think of something. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll dream a way to do it.

  AT BREAKFAST, MOM SAYS, “WELL, SHELBY, I SEE you’ve been ironing! Or was it you, Brian?”

  “Hunh-uh.”

  Mom turns back to me. “Excellent. I’ll turn all the family ironing over to you from now on.”

  I nearly spit out a mouthful of oatmeal. Why didn’t I fold up the ironing board? She’d never have known. Family ironing drudgery is not what I had in mind. But then the imaginary lightbulb flashes over my head again with my second and most brilliant idea. If Mom wants me to iron, and I want an ultraviolet penlight, maybe we can work out a business arrangement. I’ll iron a few blouses, and she’ll buy me the ten-dollar UV pen I saw online. Good deal!

  I float the idea. “You know, what I really need is an ultraviolet penlight.”

  “What on earth would you need such a thing for?” Mom asks.

  Think fast! “Brian and I are doing this secret-code experiment.”

  “We are?”

  Well, it’s almost true, but now I’m going to have to let Brian in on it, or I’ll never get the pen.

  Mom’s face lights up. “So glad you’re playing with your brother. That makes me think our little family’s returning to some sort of normal again.”

  Normal isn’t your father living with some other family. Normal isn’t dolls that refuse to stay buried, or who turn up in odd places, or who change before your eyes, or whose eyes stare you down. Normal isn’t someone pushing you into a hole in the floor. If she only knew. “Yes, things are much better,” I say, though I feel a little guilty keeping all this from Mom.

  “All right, sweetie, show me the website, and I’ll order the light.” A few clicks and it’s mine! But, how disappointing. It’ll take five business days to get here. Phew. That means I’ll already be in school, and I suppose I have to start acting like I’m playing with Brian, who’s right now looking at me with a happy puppy-dog expression that says, Whaddya want to do? Pitch me softballs? Play chess? Trade Star Wars cards?

  None of the above. “Hey, Brian, let’s go see if there’s any fish in that pond out back.”

  “All right!”

  I don’t mention that we have no fishing rods and that I’m not at all interested in the pond. But I do want to go explore that doll graveyard again, especially the grave marked Lady. I just don’t want Mom to know about it yet.

  She’s beyond thrilled. “Oh, you two are so adorable together. Leave the ironing until later, Shelby. Go on out to the pond. It might be the last nice day of summer before school starts next Tuesday. Go play. Go be kids. Happy kids.”

  We bolt out the door so fast that the windows in the kitchen shudder.

  “Forget the stinky old pond, Brian. Let’s go to the doll graveyard.”

  He looks a little panicky and says, “Okay, I guess.”

  Someone’s already beat us to the clearing where the graves are. The old man, Mr. Caliberti, is sitting on one of those little stools that double as a cane. He doesn’t hear us coming, because he’s talking to himself. It must be to himself, since there’s no one else around. Unless he’s having a chat with the dead dolls.

  “Shh, let’s not scare him,�
�� I whisper to Brian.

  Mr. Caliberti’s back snaps up. He must have seen our shadows. “Well, don’t just stand there in the wings. Come around stage left,” he says in a snippy voice.

  “It’s just us, Brian and Shelby.”

  “Yes, and you’ve found me. I’ve come to visit old friends.”

  Mr. Caliberti’s cat, Terpsichore — isn’t that a dumb name for a cat? — darts out of some nearby bushes and arches her back at the sight of us. She leaps onto Mr. C’s lap, her yellow eyes glaring at me as if she thinks I’m trying to take her master away from her. I mean, really, she can have the cranky old man.

  Brian plops down on the ground, and Mr. Caliberti snarls, “Not there, young Mr. Brian. That spot’s reserved for Dotty, can’t you see?”

  One of the grave markers that we buried so deep is jutting out of the ground again.

  Scurrying to his feet, Brian mumbles, “Sor-ree.”

  “She was a delightful character, Dorothy Grabowski was, cute as a button, but couldn’t hold a candle to my sweetheart, my leading lady.”

  Now I’m totally confused. Are we talking about a doll, or a person?

  “Came out west here from Iowa, I believe, to be young Sadie’s governess.”

  He knew Sadie!

  “Who’s Sadie?” asks Brian.

  “Why, she was the older of the two sisters, one sweet as summer corn, that would be Baby Daisy. The other was sharp as horseradish.”

  Brian looks over at the grave marked Baby Daisy. Like me, he must be thinking about how we buried and reburied her, and still she somehow got up to the attic and found her way to the dollhouse.

  “Yes, Dorothy was a joy, full of laughter. But Sadie despised her, along with just about everybody else on God’s magnificent stage. Well, I must admit, Dorothy did have some rather unconventional notions.”

  “Like what, Mr. Caliberti?” asks Brian.

  “Ever pick dandelions?”

  “He loves me, he loves me not,” I murmur, plucking and tossing imaginary leaves. Even though there’s no wildflower in my hand, I can smell the slightly salty-bitter scent of a dandelion.

  “Ever eat them?”

  “Eww, no way,” Brian cries.

  “Well, now, Dorothy sprinkled crumbled dandelions over everything those three girls put to their mouths, including the baby. Dorothy believed that dandelions were rich in vitamins and wholesome minerals, and that’s why she had such a peachy complexion. She did, too. Pure Iowa farm-girl skin.

  “Now, Sadie, she thought Dorothy Grabowski was a lunatic, especially when the young woman howled during the full-moon nights. So, Sadie nicknamed her Dotty Woman. You young people still use the word dotty? It means ‘not right in the head.’ ”

  Like Emily. “I want to hear more about Sadie,” I tell him quietly.

  “You do, do you? You wouldn’t if you knew her the way I knew her. She was one mean-tempered, foot-stamping, jealous vixen, as spoiled as Tuesday’s fish.”

  “Wow!” Brian says. “She sounds like a real winner.”

  Mr. Caliberti is lost in his own memories now. “Jealous of everyone and everything, but mostly of my sweetheart, who was the daughter of the Thornewoods’ housekeeper, Celeste. They lived in. We were but children ourselves, then, I twelve, she nine. My father was the groundskeeper.” He glances around. “Those days, it was quite a luscious spread, not gone to seed the way it is now.” He closes one eye and inspects Brian. “About your size, my sweetheart was when I met her. I was besotted by her from the first day. I’ve loved her all my life long. Unfortunately, I was in Xanadu at the time of her recent passing and wasn’t able to attend the service.”

  Xanadu? I was sure he’d said Kathmandu the day we met him. Oh, well, it’s all very swoony romantic, but what I really want to hear about is Sadie. “Mr. Caliberti, did Sadie have a lot of dolls?”

  “Why do you ask?” he says sharply. “Sadie Thornewood had a lot of everything, except good manners. Mr. Thornewood indulged her, brought her the finest costumes from Paris, soft leather boots from Italy, and an entire collection of antique porcelain dolls, life-size German-made ones and small ones no bigger than Tom Thumb.”

  “She must have loved those dolls,” I murmur, fishing for more information.

  Mr. Caliberti wrinkles up his brow and pushes off from the seat by leaning on the cane handle. Terpsichore goes flying. “Loved them? Nonsense. She yelled at those innocent playthings and tossed them about and called them vile names. Once I had to stay her hand to keep her from smashing one with my father’s garden shears.”

  He’s a little wobbly on his feet. He tests the ground with his folded-up cane seat and whistles for Terpsichore, who leads him out of the little clearing. Before he’s gone too far, he calls to us over his shoulder — from offstage, as Mr. Caliberti might say.

  “Young Mr. Brian, young Miss Shelby, you missed your cue. You did not ask the name of my sweetheart. Amelia, she was. Dear departed Amelia.” And he walks away, his shoulders rounded forlornly.

  “MOM, DID YOU KNOW THAT AUNT AMELIA AND Mr. Caliberti had a thing going?”

  “What sort of thing, Shelby?” Mom asks, ladling minestrone soup into our bowls. I’m hungry for something besides soup, soup, soup, like a nice juicy hamburger and McDonald’s fries.

  “She was his girlfriend,” Brian says. “That old lady and old man? Gross.”

  Mom pauses, ladle in midair dripping pinkish juices. “She never talked about a gentleman in her life, and she never married.”

  I break a saltine in the soup and watch the crumbs bloat in the liquid. Maybe I should tell Mom about the dolls.

  Slurping fills the silence. “Stop sucking the soup off your spoon, Brian. Manners.”

  And that reminds me of Mr. Caliberti saying that Sadie had everything except good manners. If there’s anyone like Sadie Thornewood at my new school, I’ll make sure I sit clear across the room. No, I’m not ready to tell Mom about the dolls yet. I need to do a little more investigating.

  “Of course, Aunt Amelia did leave the cottage to Mr. Caliberti. I wondered about that,” Mom says. “Ice-cream sandwiches for dessert when you finish your soup.”

  I keep swallowing spoonfuls, and the level never goes down in my bowl. Why couldn’t SerenaStockPot.com have been SerenasPizza.com or SerenasOodles-of-Noodles.com?

  Brian tells us, “Mr. Caliberti uses funny words, like from a different planet.”

  Mom smiles and lays her spoon in the saucer under the bowl. “Are you as sick of soup as I am?”

  We both drop our spoons; Brian’s lands on the floor, so Chester gets a good lick of it.

  “Let’s order a pizza,” Mom suggests.

  Yes!

  Just before dinner Brian and I had climbed up to the attic with two flashlights to bring everything in the dollhouse to light. All the people were gone again, so I guess they stayed buried this time. Sadie’s little house looked so deserted. Lucky girl; her father loved her so much that he had that house built for her. So how did it end up abandoned in the attic?

  On Saint Patrick’s Day when I was nine, Dad made me a hinged box with ten little compartments for all my barrettes and earrings. It was such a cool box with a cute little winking leprechaun on the lid, sitting in a field of four-leaf clover. There was a card with it, signed, You’re my good-luck charm, Shelby. Love always, Daddy.

  I left it in the old house.

  Just thinking about it now makes me mad. I can feel the heat of my anger creeping up my spine.

  “Half pepperoni, half black olive,” Mom’s saying into the phone. “Yes, it’s that little clump of houses called Cinder Creek.” Pause. “It’s not the end of the earth. Look it up on your GPS, for heaven’s sake.”

  She’s mad like I am, though only about some stupid pizza-delivery guy who doesn’t feel like driving all the way out here. Dad left her, too. He left all of us. But I’m the only one who still seems to care. Mom slams down the phone with a huff, and then I hear a voice that isn’t hers or Brian’s:
>
  “Angry, angry girl.” Now it’s a chorus of voices, all out of sync, like when you sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” in three parts. Mom checks her wallet; she hasn’t heard the voices, and Brian’s clueless, just finger-painting the table with minestrone.

  “MOM!” I shout.

  Startled, she spins around.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  And so I pour it all out, but it’s a seesaw — me up high with relief, and Mom sinking low with worry. She gets that very calm drawl that she uses when she’s in the middle of some kind of disaster. It’s the voice she used the night she and Dad told us they were splitting up.

  “All right, these dolls … I know you found that one in the hatbox that was left in your closet by a previous tenant.”

  “Deliberately hidden in a secret compartment in my closet and not supposed to be found.” Except that Aunt Amelia wanted me to find Isabella. Did she remember the hiding place from eighty years back?

  “I can’t imagine why she’d be hidden. She’s lovely.”

  “Her eyes follow me,” I tell Mom flatly, and she replies, “Uh-huh,” which means “I don’t believe you.”

  “Shelby, honey, let me see if I have this straight: These assorted dolls are in and around our house.”

  “There’s a graveyard of ’em,” Brian adds. “Only they don’t stay dead.”

  Mom’s head whips around to Brian. “You’ve seen these dolls coming and going, too?”

  The voices are still there. It’s hard to concentrate with them streaming through my head, but I try to explain: “We don’t actually see them coming and going. We just see them when they end up where we didn’t put them.”

  All of a sudden Brian bursts into a zillion words. “I told you the other day, Mom. You didn’t believe me. We buried them, and they got unburied and went upstairs to the dollhouse, and they tried to drown the baby in the bathtub and Shelby and me buried ’em again and put rocks over their graves, and one of ’em’s named Miss Amelia.” Brian sinks back in his chair, proud to prove his point.