The Doll Garden

Twenty

I fully expected to walk in and see my father hanging from the ceiling. I was thankful that wasn't the case. However, it didn't ease my suspicions. I could've still walked into either of his rooms upstairs and seen him lying with a bullet in his skull. He owned a gun, so it was possible. An old, hand-sized, antique revolver he'd purchased when I was sixteen years old.

"Jen, why does it feel like we're the stars in a horror movie?" Mirabelle's voice was soft. As soft as it was when she was a little girl. Our fingers were laced together. Her grip on my hand was firm. I squeezed her hand as we tiptoed through the dark, empty upstairs hallway. Every time our feet pressed into the aching floors, a soft, yet obnoxious creek blew up in the silence.

"I know, right? But it'll be okay, Mira. I got you," I whispered.

"I know. I trust you," she said. For an instance, I wasn't seeing Mirabelle as a twenty-two-year-old woman. I was seeing her as a disturbed child. A disturbed child who was clinging onto my hand with her own. She was shivering down to the bone.

"Good. Because I promise. I won't leave you behind this time... You or Manuel." I twisted our pinkies together. I didn't know what it was about walking down the hallway with Mirabelle huddling into my side, but something kept trying to get my attention. Voices in my head. They were so distracting; I could hardly focus.

"Don't stay up too late, sweet pea." I could hear my father's voice. He spoke with such subtleness it caused my heart to ache. "You have school in the AM."

"I'm not. I just wanted a drink of water." That sounded like me.

"Okay. Goodnight, sweet pea." I heard his voice again.

"Goodnight, Daddy." Clearly, none of this was happening now. So, what was it? A memory?

"Someone was here." Mirabelle's nudge brought me back. She gestured to the floor with her chin. A candle, seemingly just blown out recently, rested in front of our father's porcelain room door. Residue of dripping wax dried onto the sides of the white candle. "Or is still here."

"I feel like these candles keep following me everywhere I go..." Before I fell. Mirabelle's note. During the storm—both past and present. These candles were a menace.

"Look, Jenna! One of the doors to Daddy's study is cracked open." Mirabelle pointed. I squinted at the light easing out of the study. I didn't see any shadows or anything that might've indicated someone was inside, for that matter. But that didn't mean it was clear.

"We should be careful. Someone might be lurking around in there," I whispered.

"Yeah, I agree," she whispered back. Slowly, we crept along the walls beside each other. We couldn't hear a peep from inside. Not even the sound of breathing. Our feet came to a halt at the doors. We leaned forward, peeking in through the crack.

"We should've called this quits a long time ago. It's gone too far and they're dangerously close to figuring it out. This environment is no longer safe for them. It's time to move. With or without you, I'm taking them and leaving." My father's voice again.

Son of a bitch. The voices were back full force. And they were making my head spin like crazy. Something I couldn't remember but I seemed to be trying to remember. Something about this entire predicament—the creepy atmosphere, the dark hallway, the time of day, our stealthy movements—was trying to make me remember. But I couldn't grasp it as a whole just yet.

"Are you threatening me? No, you wouldn't dare. You won't get off easy, Marcus. I won't let you!" A voice I couldn't quite pinpoint yet hissed. Whoever my father was talking to was definitely not in the mood to argue.