The Dollhouse

by Charis Cotter

  Once the bed was made, I dragged my suitcase over to the built-in closet and opened the doors. Then I opened my suitcase. I would unpack, like Mom said, proving once again how mature I was and how I did what I was told.

  The closet was huge, with a rail to hang things on across the middle and a set of built-in mahogany drawers on the right. I quickly filled up two of the drawers with my shorts and tops, underwear and socks, and then hung my three sundresses on the railing. A couple of big clothing bags hung over to the left, but it seemed like the closet went back beyond that, so I slid the bags out of the way to see what was there.

  I felt around on the inside wall, and sure enough, there was a light switch. I flipped it on. The closet flooded with light.

  To my surprise, there was another door at the far end of the closet. I tried the handle, and it opened to reveal a set of steep, winding stairs.

  Wow. A secret passage! All the stories I had ever read about secret passages in spooky old houses crowded into my head. Sometimes they led to a tower where a beautiful woman was held prisoner by a cruel husband. Sometimes they led to a secret room full of treasure. Sometimes they led to a hidden door so you could get out of the house unseen.

  I went back into my room, opened the door, poked my head out and listened. The house was quiet. Hopefully Mom would be busy with the old lady for a while. I pulled my head back into the room and shut the door. Then I went back into the closet, and with a sense of setting out on an adventure, I started up the stairs.

  Each stair was nearly twice as high as a regular stair, and I had to lift my knees way up to get from one step to the next. My feet left clear footprints in the thin layer of dust that covered the stairs, and there was a staleness to the air, as if no one had been in there for a long time.

  When I got to the top, there was another closed door. I tried the handle. It opened with a squeak.

  I stepped into a large room with sloping ceilings on either side and very wide, unfinished wooden planks on the floor. At the far end was a large half-circle window about as tall as I was. Light filtered in from outside, illuminating the dusty floorboards.

  The attic was completely empty. I took a few careful steps, wondering if the floor was safe, but it seemed sturdy enough. The planks must have come from very big trees, because they were more than two feet wide. Mom had told me the house was built in the 1830s, so I guess there were forests with huge trees here then.

  I crossed to the window and looked out. It was very high up, and I could see through a canopy of treetops to the countryside beyond the house. The lake was off to the left, powdery blue, and the train tracks curved into the distance.

  I turned back into the attic. Now I could see that there was a solid wall built across the far end of the space, with the door I had come through in the center. Another door stood off to the left, just under the eaves. I crossed the open space again, taking care not to make too much noise. I was walking above where I thought the old lady’s bedroom was, and I didn’t want her to hear me.

  I tried the handle, fully expecting it to open for me the way the other doors had. But this door was locked. It was made of the same heavy, dark wood that ran through the house, and it wouldn’t budge. The wall it was set into was a dingy, faded color that might have been white when it was first painted, years ago.

  Years ago. How long had this door been locked? And who had locked it?

  I thought back to what I knew about the house. The taxi driver had told us that it had a tragic history, plagued by sudden deaths and accidents.

  I shivered. This whole house could be full of ghosts from all the bad things that had happened here. I looked nervously back over my shoulder, but the attic was still empty. There were shadows under the eaves, but it didn’t feel as scary as the downstairs hall or the dining room. It felt more like my bedroom: peaceful, with gentle light sifting through the dirty window and the smell of dusty old wood tickling my nose.

  This attic had stood empty for a long, long time.

  I turned back to the door and tried the handle again. Why lock a door in a place that no one ever goes anyway? And what could possibly be in there that had to be locked away? It couldn’t be a person…could it?

  No. A person had to be fed, and no one had walked up those dusty stairs for a week or two.

  A precious treasure? But the house was filled with valuable objects; why lock anything away?

  A book full of magic spells that was too dangerous for anyone to read?

  I had to laugh at that one. Magic spells. Not likely.

  But how likely was it that I’d seen a ghost last night? And that Mom and I were here in the first place, instead of sitting on a dock at a cottage in the north woods, Mom sipping a gin and tonic and me dangling my feet in the cool lake water? That was supposed to be what was happening this summer, not a headlong flight from the city to a haunted house in the middle of nowhere with an old dragon lady who had a buzzer beside her bed.

  I tried the handle again. Okay, so if the door was locked, there must be a key somewhere.

  I had to find it.

  Chapter Ten

  THE OLD LADY

  I hurried down the stairs, intent on beginning a search for the key. I was moving too fast for those steep, winding stairs, and suddenly I lost my balance. I had that sickening feeling when you know you’re falling but you haven’t hit the ground yet. Luckily, as I lurched forward, I fell sideways into the wall and crumpled to a stop, one knee bent under me.

  My heart was pounding and adrenaline coursed through my body. My knee began to hurt, a lot, and I carefully untangled myself. Ouch. The arm I had fallen against was hurting too.

  I sat on the step for a moment, catching my breath. These stairs were dangerous. They were a lot higher than normal steps, so you really had to be careful. If I had kept tumbling, I would have hurt myself badly. And how long would it have taken for somebody to think of looking for me here, at the end of my closet, behind the secret door? I could be lying mangled at the foot of these steps for hours, or even days. I thought of the old lady, hurtling down the main staircase and breaking her leg, then lying helpless until Mary found her the next morning.

  I stood up and picked my way carefully down the remaining stairs, shaking off my brief vision of staircase disasters.

  Then I began to search. That key had to be somewhere.

  First, I felt along the top of the doorframe of the door to the attic, then I got down on my knees and looked in all the corners of the closet, then I went through each of the built-in drawers at the far end.

  I spent a few minutes looking in all the drawers in the bedside table and the shelves in the toy cupboard.

  Nothing.

  Where would someone keep a key? In a desk drawer? On a hook in the kitchen?

  There was a sharp tap on my door and then it opened. Mom stuck her head around the corner.

  “Have you finished unpacking?” she asked, looking around the room.

  “Yes,” I replied, zipping up the empty suitcase and standing it upright.

  Mom looked me up and down and frowned.

  “What have you been doing? You look a little…disheveled.”

  I turned to look in the full-length mirror inside the closet door. My hair was a dusty mess, my knees and elbows smudged with dirt from the stairs, and a trickle of blood ran down my leg.

  “Quick,” said Mom. “Go into the bathroom and get cleaned up. Mrs. Bishop wants to meet you. And brush your hair!”

  I obeyed, and after a few swipes with a washcloth and my hairbrush, I looked a little more presentable. Mom was waiting for me outside the bathroom, and she seemed a bit jumpy.

  “Try to make a good impression!” she whispered, then opened the door and gave me a little push.

  I still felt a little breathless from rushing. I’d only had a glimpse in here last night, and the room had been dark and f
ull of shadows. This morning it was filled with light streaming in the tall windows: so bright I had to squint. I was looking at a pretty blue and white room with a fireplace on the far wall and a majestic four poster with dark-blue velvet curtains on my right.

  But I took all this in at a glance, because the figure in the bed was beckoning me with a crooked finger to come closer. She was wearing pale-blue pajamas with a pattern of tiny white flowers. Her thick white hair was neatly brushed, falling in a straight chin-length cut, with bangs and a blue hairband. She didn’t look anything like my idea of a fussy old lady. Or a witch. Although she did have a long, sharp nose. And her chin was pointed.

  She took me in with a head-to-toe examination that made me acutely aware of my dusty clothes and scruffy flip-flops.

  “So you’re the screaming one,” she said in a dry tone, her eyes boring into mine. I couldn’t quite tell what color they were because they were half-hidden under her jutting eyebrows. She spoke with an English accent.

  “Uh, sorry about that,” I said, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Your mother said it was a nightmare,” she said. “Are you prone to nightmares? I need to know, because if you are, either I’m going to need earplugs, or you are going to have to move into the basement.”

  Was she making a joke? Hard to tell, because her eyes were still boring holes through to the back of my head.

  “I don’t usually have nightmares,” I said. “I’ll try to be quiet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Your mother tells me you’re going to help her with some of the housekeeping. You understand, this house is full of valuable antiques. I hope you can be trusted not to break anything. I would be extremely put out if any of my things were damaged because of your carelessness.”

  I blushed. I was feeling a little guilty about opening the drawer and looking at the photograph. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but somehow I felt it was.

  “Have you been through the house yet?” she asked. It was almost as if she could read my mind.

  “I took a look downstairs,” I said. “But I never touched any of the china or books or glass animals because Mom told me not to.” It all came out in a bit of a rush.

  “Well, she has vouched for you and tells me you’re trustworthy, so if you take your time and exercise caution, I will allow you to touch some of my things, under your mother’s supervision at first, of course, and then once you’ve proved you can be trusted, we’ll go from there. You’ve met Lily, I understand?”

  I nodded. “Yes, last night.”

  “Lily can be careless, but she has learned what she may and may not do in this house. However, I suggest that if you are spending time with Lily, you keep an eye on her. She’s impulsive, and that can lead to trouble, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. “Yes, definitely.” It came into my head that maybe this old lady with her sharp eyes and fierce stare knew something firsthand about how being impulsive could lead to trouble. The image of her tumbling down the stairs came unbidden into my mind again.

  “Well then,” she said. “Your mother tells me your name is Alice.”

  I nodded.

  “Alice. A good name. Although I suppose you can’t help being curious, with a name like that.”

  I stared at her. How did she know I was curious?

  “The Alice books were some of my favorites when I was a child,” she went on. “I believe there are illustrated copies in the library. You may look at them.” She had a rather grand air, as if she were a queen granting me a favor.

  “You may call me Mrs. Bishop. And now I want my lunch.” She dismissed me with an imperial wave of her hand. I noticed she was wearing several gold rings, including one with a large sparkling green gem. I wondered if it was an emerald.

  I kind of backed out of the room with an awkward little bow.

  Sheesh! She had me behaving as if she really were a member of a royal family.

  Mom came out after me and closed the door, grinning.

  “Not bad, kiddo,” she said. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  I had to agree. A very sharp old lady. Not much that went on in this house would get past her. I’d have to be careful.

  But one way or another, I was going to get into that locked room.

  Chapter Eleven

  SECRETS

  “So,” I said to Lily, who was balancing along the low stone wall of the terrace, “tell me about the ghost.”

  She and Mary had arrived at about two, as promised, and Mary had suggested that Lily show me around the garden while she went over some things with Mom. Lily and I had walked out to the middle of the lawn and stopped. Lily waved her arms in the air.

  “This is The Garden,” she said with a flourish, turning to me with one of her beatific smiles. “Lots of pretty flowers and grass. I think so.”

  I looked around. A long flower bed stretched the length of the terrace, nodding with pink, yellow and white flowers. The entrance with the two curved iron staircases I’d seen from the train led down to the terrace. A wooden slatted table stood just outside the kitchen, shaded by a huge dark green umbrella. Four wooden chairs were pulled up around it.

  The sun was very bright. I put my hand over my eyes to protect them and gazed out at the lawn. Other lush flower beds stood here and there between the house and the edge of the hill.

  Lily ran over to the two-foot-high terrace wall. She had a kind of galloping, lopsided run that reminded me of a new foal not quite steady on its feet. She climbed up and began walking along the top of the wall, her arms stretched out for balance and a frown of concentration puckering her forehead.

  “I can go the whole way,” she said. “I think so.”

  I stood and watched her. She was wearing yellow shorts and a short-sleeved green top, her hair in a ponytail with a yellow ribbon. She looked about six. Except she didn’t. She looked sixteen and six at the same time.

  After I asked her about the ghost, Lily looked at me, wobbled and then jumped down. She came right up close to me and put her finger to her lips.

  “It’s a secret,” she whispered. “Don’t tell!”

  “I won’t,” I said. “But I think I saw her last night.”

  Lily looked over my shoulder toward the open kitchen doors. Mary’s voice drifted out. Lily took my hand in hers and pulled me along the terrace, around the corner, and then began to run across the lawn. Her legs were longer than mine and I could barely keep up with her.

  She headed directly toward a little summerhouse that stood at the edge of the hill, looking out over the fields and woods to the lake. She clattered up the wooden stairs, pushed open the screen door and pulled me in behind her.

  It was round, with floor-to-ceiling screened-off windows, furnished with faded white rattan furniture. Lily flopped down in one of the chairs and grinned at me.

  “Nobody can hear us. This is a good place for secrets. I think so.”

  “So tell me what you saw,” I said.

  Her eyes grew big. “A ghost. In the bed,” she said in an exaggerated whisper, emphasizing each word. “In your room. Where you’re sleeping.”

  “When?” I whispered back. I couldn’t help myself: there was no need to whisper out here at the edge of the lawn, but her air of conspiracy was catching.

  “Last week. After the nurse left. The one who smiled all the time. Mama and me slept over. It was fun. Mama said I could sleep in the green room, your room. I was excited because I like that bed. I got in and closed the curtains and I fell asleep.” She stopped.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then I saw the ghost.”

  “Were you still asleep when you saw the ghost?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. I was awake. I woke up and there she was.”

  “She?”

  “Yup. A girl ghost, sleeping with her head on the pillow. She had red hair
and, you know, those little speckles on her face. I think so.”

  “Freckles?”

  “Yeah, freckles.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “Well, I was staring at her. Wondering who she was. And why she was in my bed. And then her eyes opened. And she smiled at me and said—” Lily stopped and glanced outside. The lawn was empty.

  “What did she say?”

  Lily leaned in close to me and dropped her voice to a whisper again.

  “She said, ‘Hello, Bubble! It’s not time yet.’ ” Lily sat back and waited for me to react.

  “Bubble?” I said. “What does that mean?”

  Lily shrugged. “I don’t know. But that’s what she said. I think so.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? Did you scream?”

  “No. I turned over and went back to sleep.”

  “Weren’t you scared?”

  “No. I didn’t think it was a ghost till the next day. Then I got scared. I’ve never been back in that room by myself.”

  “Did you tell your mom?”

  She shook her head. “No. She would just say I was making it up. I think so. She always says that when I see ghosts. Or fairies.”

  “Do you see a lot of ghosts and fairies?”

  Lily’s eyes lost their focus, and she looked past me up into the sky, the way little kids do when they’re making things up. “Sometimes. I think so.”

  She jumped up and bounded over to the door and opened it. She hesitated for a moment, a dark silhouette against the brightness of the garden beyond. Then she turned back to me and asked, “Do you want to see the swing now?”

  The swing was on the other side of the lawn, hanging from a huge oak tree. I pushed Lily for a while, then she gave me a turn. Then we lay down in the grass and watched some white fluffy clouds drift slowly across the deep blue sky. It was almost too bright out there with the sun beating down.