by Emily Asad
As I walk toward the curtained window, the ring stabs my skin again. I halt in front of a shimmering green dome that surrounds the thing under the sheet. No dust has collected inside the dome’s perimeter. A force field, maybe?
My ring glows even brighter now.
I refuse to give in to fear. I’ve already opened the secret door. I’ve already come into a room I have no right to be in. Seeing what’s under the sheet is the next logical step…
My breath gets locked behind my teeth as I step through the shimmering dome. There’s no substance to it, neither wet nor cold. It’s like passing through regular air. Relieved, I kneel at the base and check under the sheet.
It’s made of wood, not metal. Not a generator, then.
I really should get back to the Alexis suite now.
But peeping only whets my curiosity. I lift the sheet higher and higher, uncovering windows with tiny shutters and flower boxes. My heart skips a beat when I read the plaque at its bottom: “Designed by Richard Morris Hunt, 1891.”
Richard Morris Hunt? I just have to see what’s under here.
One hard tug, and the sheet flutters to the floor.
It’s a dollhouse. The kind that swings open in the middle, six feet high and just as wide.
A fuzzy yard fringes each side of the dollhouse, the green scent of chlorophyll hovering over the lawn as if the grass has just been mown. Trees seem to sprout from the soil. Their leaves aren’t waxy enough to be plastic. Preserved bonsai? Around the back of the house, stalks and vines sprout from garden plots, ready to provide vegetables for the dolls’ kitchen. Whatever fragrance they used to scent the garden has lingered through the century – the pumpkins smell like pumpkins, and the herbs make me sneeze.
Afraid to smudge such an antique, I keep my distance as I peer through the teensy windows. Everything inside seems real, as if the dollhouse was made for tiny humans instead of actual dolls. Miniature oil paintings hang in the entryway, replicas of pieces from museums. A fourteen-person table lies ready in the dining hall, decked in silver plates and matching cutlery. Itsy glass cups wait for itsy pitchers to fill them. I can’t imagine who could have stitched the tablecloth in such detail.
Inside the library, a tiny piano seems like it might be made of real ivory, just like the chessboard sitting on a coffee table. The curtains in the bay window match the ones in my room. I wonder if Alexis ever played with this dollhouse.
I also wonder if the chandelier works? Or the lamps? An electric cord at the back of the dollhouse is plugged into the wall, just waiting…
Peeping is not enough.
I need to see the inside.
The central doors won’t open. Rusted hinges, maybe? My ring grows warm as I gently jiggle and then yank the doors toward me. The whole dollhouse swings open like a double-door refrigerator, revealing three levels plus an attic. A wave of dizziness overcomes me so hard I stumble backward. Maybe it’s bad air, like when archaeologists open tombs that have been sealed for centuries. It subsides soon enough.
A nagging corner of my heart tells me to be careful.
Yet nothing about the dollhouse looks dangerous. In fact, the lights blink on without hesitation when I flip their little switches. Everything electrical works, even the teensy World War II radio. So does a gramophone that plays the national anthem when I crank its rice-sized handle. What about the plumbing? With my thumb and index finger, I pull the rope lever above an old-fashioned toilet. It flushes! I nearly scald my thumb when hot water pours out of the kitchen faucet. I bet the bars of rose-scented soap in the basket beside the bathtub would foam, too. How did they print the microscopic letters in the leatherbound collection of Shakespearean plays?
Each discovery fuels my desire to find another treasure. An edge of desperation drives the hunt, too. It’s as if I’m seeking something my soul knows about that’s hidden to my mind. Am I out of practice using my imagination? Or is it more sinister?
And… why are the dolls missing?
It makes no sense to build such luxury if nobody’s going to enjoy it, even for pretend. They must be hidden away. But where?
The thought of some poor homeless family somewhere – even if they’re just dolls – makes me miserable. If I had a home this nice to live in, I’d never leave it!
My dizziness is almost gone. Now an invisible force tugs on my mind, urging me to look closer, deeper. I can’t fight it. I want to stare at this dollhouse forever and ever, to live in a dream world where Dad never abandoned us and Mamá doesn’t have to work three jobs to cover all the debt he left.
By the time I remember I’m looking for dolls, the moonbeam has crossed the length of shelves. Amelia said she’d check on me in an hour.
I force myself to remember what I’m hunting for: dolls. Purpose helps clear away the cobwebs that suffocate my brain.
An enormous stepping stool unfolds, probably meant to help a little girl reach the attic. Pushing the stool down reveals a drawer full of dolls.
Four boys, one girl. Or is it four men and a woman? No, it’s a father, a mother, and their three sons. And someone is missing from the family. I’m certain of it.
They lay jumbled together in a careless heap, as if somebody tossed them in there to be forgotten forever. Although they resemble each other with their silky blond hair and fair skin, they’re unlike any dolls I’ve ever seen. For one thing, their joined wooden parts are so precise, their fingers bend at each tiny knuckle, not just at the wrist. And they’re gorgeous. The males have the powerful physiques of Viking warriors. The female is tall and slender, too, like a dancer.
For a moment, they seem more skin than wood.
What horrible little expressions! Surprise and agony flash in their eyes, yet their carved faces never twitch. My scalp crawls.
“Get a grip,” I mutter.
As I pull them out of the drawer, I can’t help but notice the fine quality of their tiny costumes. Each is from a different era. The mother wears an elegant blue calf-length gown with a fitted bodice and a little collar. It reminds me of a 1940’s movie I watch every Christmas. “I’ll call you Rosemary Ellen,” I tell her.
Next, I pull out a man whose moustache flows all the way back to some serious sideburns. He wears a gray suitcoat and slacks from the same era. “You two look like dance partners. I’ll call you Bob.”
Just as I know they’re married, I also know Bob wants to sit in his favorite lounge chair. Rosemary Ellen belongs in the bay window near her miniature sewing basket, not in the chair next to Bob.
Their little wooden arms and legs bend without hindrance. I’m glad to see they’re not mildewed or chewed up by bugs. They seem glad to be out of the drawer. At least, that’s what I imagine.
The oldest son is in Victorian garb, sporting a dapper gray top hat, gloves, a lilac vest and a walking stick. He reminds me of young Laurence from Little Women. “You’ll be Laurie. You’re certainly sophisticated enough.” I seat him in the chair next to his father, where he can gaze at the tiny fireplace.
The youngest son, the Musketeer, has short blond curls under his cavalier hat. At his side, a pointed rapier is dented and nicked like it’s seen actual battle. The silver thigh-length tabard with its blue fleur-de-lis completes the dashing costume.
“Well, handsome, I don’t remember the names of the Musketeers. Except Athos or something. I’ll just call you Alex, for the guy who wrote the book.”
In my mind, Alex is smug and satisfied with his new name. The air of confidence emanating from him startles me. In fact, it feels like he blows me a kiss! I almost drop him onto the piano’s bench.
I recoil when I pick up the last doll. He’s mauled. From what? I hold him close to the dining room chandelier for a better inspection. Its yellow light illuminates the scratches that crisscross the left side of his face and neck and disappear under his tunic. His hands are scratched, too. Chewed, maybe by a dog? The fabric in his leather pants clings to a hollow chunk in his right thigh. His costume, however, remains undamaged. Th
e hazel doublet reflects in his intelligent hazel eyes. A regal gold chain reaches from shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps before his injuries he was able to use the broadsword that dangles at his side from an etched leather belt, but I doubt he’ll ever see battle again.
“You poor thing.” His leg is so damaged, it won’t bend. “Which would you rather do, lie down or stand up?” I lay him on a sofa where he can see his family, and then tenderly tuck him a little afghan around his wooden body. “How about we call you Arthur, after the legendary king?”
Arthur peers at me with noble curiosity.
Then he shouts a piano tune full of desperation and sorrow that passes my ears and goes straight to my soul. It’s so loud, I bump my head on the parlor ceiling in my rush to back away from him. What’s wrong with my imagination tonight?
The tune comes to an abrupt halt, leaving me shaken. The less-threatening dolls look comfortable. And relieved. I’ll focus on them, instead.
“I don’t understand why anyone would hide you away in a drawer,” I tell them. “You’re all so beautiful. If you were mine, I would have played with you forever.”
Shame warms my cheeks. At seventeen, I’m really too old to be talking to dolls, much less playing with them! I reach out to close the dollhouse. Am I imagining expressions of disappointment?
“I’m too old,” I say, trying to convince myself instead of explaining to them. I try to close the doors once more.
Their faces remain blank, but I can feel them pleading with me. Pleading.
They need something.
Whispers sound in my head.
Images and sounds crowd my mind. Paintings of knights and princesses that should hang in the Louvre. Piano compositions adapted for guitar, clarinet, and other instruments I hear but can’t identify. Plans for grand mansions filled with intricate architectural details. Theater costumes so real they could be used as historical recreations. Empty black, dark empty, black black black…
One theme ties them all together: loneliness. Deep, unfathomable despair.
I know loneliness. It’s hard to have friends when I’ll just say goodbye a few months later. The depth of this isolation, however, makes my eyes sting with tears. If I were the kind of girl to cry easily, I would have burst into uncontrolled sobs. Instead, I clap my hands over my ears and shout, “Stop! Stop!”
Silence. Only the drumbeat of my racing heart remains. As I lower my hands, I notice the ring’s glow fades like a generator powering itself down. Once more, I try to yank it off my finger.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say out loud, and then repeat myself for good measure.
Dizziness still thumps in my head. What am I doing, imagining these crazy things? I slam the dollhouse shut. Sparkles flare everywhere – in the sphere, on my ring, even on the other door at the other side of the room. I have no intention of exploring anything else. Like a big, fat coward, I flee back to my room.
What am I so afraid of? It’s just a dollhouse. They’re just dolls.
But it’s so much more. Every little detail is designed to capture and hold a person’s attention. A beautifully-crafted trap?
Maybe magic exists, after all.
Maybe the dollhouse is… alive.
CHAPTER THREE:
NOT HAUNTED
When I’m back in my bedroom, safe, the little doorway closes behind me and fades away. The wall returns to normal – unsparkling normal, the kind that doesn’t yield when I push against it. Not that I want to get back in. I just want to make sure the wall is a wall. Solid. Thank goodness for the illusion of safety, at least.
At the edge of the mirror, the green patch still floats. As much as I want to stay away – far away – I’m drawn to it. There I am, all tan and frightened. But my reflection disappears, replaced by a little girl with blonde pigtails who’s lying on her bed reading a book of rhymes.
She drops the book when she sees me. “Who are you? How did you find me?”
I can only stare at her, my throat tightening in terror. My ring pulses against my skin.
She sits up. “I told them I’m sorry. I’m ready to be good now. I said sorry!”
I squeeze my eyes shut. And I keep them shut until I can’t hear her anymore. My fingers go numb from clutching the edge of the vanity so hard. When I finally dare to open my eyes, the mirror has gone dead. All the sparkles have retreated to the edge where they float, waiting.
Where’s my rosary? I stopped carrying it years ago, but a good prayer might be the protection I need against… against what? A cute little girl? An exquisite dollhouse?
Amelia said she’d be back in an hour. She strikes me as the sort of person who’s punctual right down to the millisecond. But she’s also got that no-nonsense attitude that suggests she won’t believe me if I told her what’s happening. Or that I’d be in big trouble if I admitted I was snooping in the room next door.
Better to look innocent and keep my job than to admit I’m in trouble.
It takes a lot of effort to ignore my new ring while I hustle to settle in to the new suite.
I’m an expert at making a new place feel like home. I’ve lived in some scummy places in my life – twenty-two of them, in fact. Before we moved up here to Otter Paw three months ago, my mom had a deal with a rental agency down in Minneapolis. We’d fix drywall, paint entire rooms, remove mold from nasty, rotting bathrooms, and take up urine-covered carpets to replace them with wood floors. Whatever it took in order to make an apartment livable again - all in exchange for free rent. That meant whenever the place was nice enough to start enjoying it, we’d get moved to the next crappy apartment to start all over again. We thought all our troubles were ending when Mamá landed this job. It pays her well and there’s a lot of prestige. Now, however, I’m glad we’re renting an apartment in town instead of taking the Ambassador’s offer to come live in the mansion with the rest of the serving staff. If Alexis wants to suck out my soul or take over my body, two weeks here – even one night, no matter how gorgeous this suite may be – could mean disaster.
Still, embarrassing Mamá is worse.
My fingers tremble as I personalize the nightstand. First step to making a new place feel like home is always the nightstand. I begin by unfolding my turquoise ñandutí mat made by the women of Itaguá in Paraguay, my mother’s home country. It’s like a lace doily, and its name means ‘spiderweb.’ I used to have four of them, but the others have been lost or left behind in moves.
The framed photo of Mamá goes at the far end of my mat. I love the way she beams with pride and delight, holding up a trophy that names me as the first-place winner of last year’s science fair. It’s our only current, printed photograph. I didn’t keep the trophy. It was bulky and heavy and wouldn’t have survived getting bumped and knocked around. But the grand prize was my laptop – my lifeblood for studying, and my link to Mamá when she’s overseas. I pull it from my backpack and plug it into the nearest outlet so it’ll be fully charged tomorrow for school.
Ever since I hit my teens, people ask if we’re sisters. We share the same slender figure, brown eyes, and high cheekbones. However, I tower over my mother. Her bloodline traces back to the tiny Guaraní Indians of her country, while I took after my father’s hearty German ancestry. Thanks to the mix, I got Mamá’s black hair, but it won’t lie smooth or straight because of the unruly waves my father donated. He cursed me with bad hair, just like he cursed me with his serious personality. Jerk. Haven’t seen him in years.
Black and white porcelain chickens are thought to be good luck among Mamá’s people, so I set them near my pyramid of nerd books. The largest puzzle books sit at the bottom followed by smaller books of riddles, and then my little graphing notebooks on top.
Sometimes I use the graphing squares the way they’re supposed to be used, for plotting functions and inflections points and such. But they also make good blueprint paper. Whenever I get bored in class (which happens a lot), I design house plans. Having lived in a thousand different homes, I know exac
tly what I want. Other kids get yelled at for doodling in the margins of their paper, but for some reason I’ve never been caught. Maybe house plans look like geometry, which looks like math assignments. Why don’t doodlers use graphing paper instead?
The best place to keep my contact case and saline solution would be in the nightstand drawer so they don’t get knocked over, but the brass knob sparkles pink. Should I open the drawer? What if something worse lurks inside?
Mamá gets so frustrated by how much of a coward I am. I can’t help it. I don’t like danger in any form. Sports? I just get whacked in the stomach with soccer balls or dodge balls. Procrastination? Might result in bad grade, so I stay prepared. Friends? I don’t even bother introducing myself anymore. No, like a big chicken – maybe a porcelain one – I play it safe. Guess I’ll put my stuff in the bathroom.
When I open the bathroom door, the pink scent of dried roses leaks into the room. Sparkles dance on the faucets and doorknob. Any chance of not showering for the next two weeks? I’ll just keep my contact supplies in my backpack for now.
At least the four-poster bed is a sparkle-free zone. Trembling, I shove all those useless pillows to one side, careful to avoid any more tassels. Then I jump under the covers and grab a riddle book and a pencil so I’ll look busy when Amelia returns.
Stupid. Forgot to change into pajamas.
I leave my jeans and tee-shirt beside the bed, too nervous to fold them properly. Skipping one night of brushing teeth won’t give me cavities.
Fine, already! Amelia’s bound to notice that I’ve left my clothes on the floor, and she’ll lecture me again about respecting the suite. I slide out of bed, fold them quickly, and stuff them into my suitcase. For the third time, I grab my riddle book again, pull the quilt up to my chin, and wait for Amelia.
It’s no use trying to read the riddles. I keep seeing the dollhouse instead of the words.