The Dollhouse

Chapter 8

"THERE'S no way you just got away with it," Betsy Dawson's mouth was hanging open.

Sunday morning was fresh with promise. We were attending the community bake sale, and despite an entire week nearly passing, no one seemed willing to let the story of Daisy's beating go. The tennis club doors were open, and families mingled while drinking juices on the veranda.

"So, how did your parents react?"

Daddy hadn't interfered much. He gave me some five-minute guff about grief counseling and we all deal with loss differently. It had been just over a month since my mother's death. To my father, he spoke as if it was an abstract concept, a hypothetical event in some story.

Arabella never said a word.

I did hear a hushed argument through the walls, though.

"Oh, you know. They were mad, but after a few awkward dinners it passed." That was honest.

"Sounded more like a reward, them letting you have a few days off," Betsy remarked. "Perhaps it was wise. Mrs. Brenning is on the school board."

"I did finish my novel," I admitted. "But I missed hanging out with you guys a bit. Even if we haven't known each other very long."

I had never been the friendly type. Back in my previous home, it was second nature to cosy myself away in a haven of blankets, knowing no one was bothered about my introverted nature. But the Dollhouse - it had the character of a guest bedroom.

No aspect was familiar, or homely. Somebody still watered the forget-me-nots during the day; it was obvious from the subtle shift of the pot. I no longer felt like I had my complete privacy. Nothing was mine. This family wasn't mine.

That morning, I had woken to the sound of a piano.

The racket was so unexpected, I tumbled out of bed from sheer surprise. It was as if the player was standing over my bed - but the vibrations traveling across the hall told me otherwise. Each note was hit with such precision. The piece wasn't familiar - perhaps it was from one of those classic composers you could play on any instrument.

I had no idea. I didn't know a thing about music.

My feet paced lightly down the hall. The tune was growing louder.

Once I had asked my flute-playing neighbor what sound a treble clef made. It wasn't one of my proudest moments.

The music seemed to be coming from a closed double-door. This was a shock - for every indicator told me it was a large airing cupboard. It wasn't varnished like the other doors, and from memory, the handle was often covered in a layer of dust.

With sudden courage, I inched the door open a few centimeters.

A large mahogany piano occupied most of the claustrophobic room. The aroma of old laundry and dust washed over me. But with that came a distinct chill. I had only caught a glimpse, but it was like someone had run a cold finger down my spine.

Rudy was sat there. He was playing with intense concentration, his hands flying over the keys.

If he sensed my presence, he didn't show it.

But that wasn't what creeped me out.

Rows of dolls. Hundreds of them. The small space was filled to the ceiling with lifeless ornaments. I saw their sinister porcelain grins, and their elaborate Victorian clothing. Each of was distinctly unique, but they all had the same fixed stare. The same grabbing hands. Just seeing the dreaded things made me numb to my surroundings. I didn't notice the door creak open, or the sound of the music dying.