LIFELIKE
Published by Revello Press LLC
www.revellopress.com
Copyright © 2020 by Sheila A. Nielson
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition
First Edition: October 2020
Print ISBN: 978-1-931858-18-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever, without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles. The opinions and views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Cover Design: Drop Dead Designs
Formatting: InkSplasher.com
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A haunted doll museum. An unsolved murder. A girl with nothing left to lose.
Six months ago, Aunt Victoria bought herself doll museum—a sprawling 25-room Victorian mansion filled with toys and playthings from every period of history. Now I'm going to live out the rest of my probably short life in a place listed as unlucky number thirteen in the official guide to the most haunted places in America.
I keep telling myself it’s all just a bunch of old stories. That I don’t believe in ghosts. That the noises I hear coming from the walls are just mice or rats. But I’m not so sure anymore. The dolls are everywhere. I can feel their glass eyes watching me from every corner.
They say a murder was once committed in this house.
I think the person who did it— their ghost—is still here.
When tragedy strikes sixteen-year-old Wren’s family, she can’t see the point in starting over again, especially when her future seems so uncertain and her heart so heavy.
After she is sent to stay with her favorite aunt, who lives in a doll museum, Wren quickly discovers two creepily lifelike dolls hidden inside the walls of the old house. Dolls that were created to look like two very real people--a dangerously handsome young man and his mysteriously beautiful fiancée—a young woman he supposedly murdered a few weeks before their wedding day.
As Wren attempts to solve what really happened all those years ago--she begins to realize that not only are the dolls haunted—but one of them is dead set on making sure the truth will never be revealed. No matter the cost…
Fall in love with a haunting story of a murder set in the past, a thirst for revenge that just won’t die, and a sweet first love that transcends time.
A young adult paranormal romance from Revello Press. www.revellopress.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Brynn,
Whose bravery and willingness to share with me the all the difficult truths about what it is like to learn to live with (and move on from) the pain, inspired the creation of this novel.
Chapter One
Six months ago, Aunt Victoria bought a haunted doll museum. I never gave this fact much thought before today. Now I will live out the rest of my life in a place listed as lucky number thirteen in The Official Guide to the Most Haunted Places in America.
Aunt Victoria said she’s never seen anything to suggest the place was actually haunted by spirits of the dead. I guess that made me the next best thing. Wren Farrow, phantom teenager. I was a ghost with a pulse. Touched by death, and yet, here I was still breathing, stuck fast somewhere in between—waiting.
Aunt Victoria’s van hit another muddy pothole in the road, jarring my mind from its oh so pleasant musings. All my hastily packed boxes rattled ominously in the back. That couldn’t be good for the violin. But after driving six dismal hours in a sudden summer storm, I didn’t have strength left to worry about one old, beat-up violin I never planned to play again.
Aunt Victoria slowed the van as we approached a large sign. Big raindrops spattered and spread over the surface of the glass making it hard to read the words through the misty windshield.
WELCOME TO KENSINGTON
“Where are they hiding it?” I craned my neck pretending to search for it down on the surface of the road somewhere—like roadkill. Aunt Victoria lips twitched at the corners. It was probably the closest thing to a smile I’d get out of her today. I’d take it.
As we entered Kensington’s small downtown area, I noted that the sidewalks were empty of life. The place looked like a sopping wet ghost town. That’s when I saw The Trees. They were clustered darkly along the horizon just beyond the edge of town—like a monster-sized wave about to swallow up Kensington in a mass of raging green. It was beyond bizarre. An entire freaking forest, stuck in the middle of nowhere that looked like it went on for miles. They built Kensington House there, among the trees, over a century and a half ago for privacy. To me the tangle of trees looked like something out of a doomsday movie—and we were headed straight for it.
Or more specifically, we were headed for The Margaret Kensington Doll Museum—my new home sweet home.
Or not.
The fence surrounding the estate had wicked-sharp spikes lining the top it, not exactly the kind of thing that encouraged warm fuzzies. Aunt Victoria pulled off the main road, taking a sharp turn through a pair of imposing wrought iron gates that loomed over our heads as we drove through.
Cue the creepy theme music and pass the popcorn, please.
Seriously? It reminded me of the horror movies I loved watching as a kid. My little brother, Benji, hid out behind the couch during the scary parts, then slept with me afterward when he inevitably peeked. He’d curl up in bed beside me like a sleepy kitten, his gentle breathing filling the empty room with a soft companionable sound that temporarily drove away the fear and loneliness—even if it was just for one night.
Benji.
Even thinking his name made my throat feel like I’d swallowed an oversized glass marble. Hard and unforgiving, it lodged halfway down, choking off my air. The combined pain of all my current injuries put together were nothing compared to the agony of that one word. Three dangerous words in all.
/> Mom.
Dad.
Benji.
“Does your arm itch?” Aunt Victoria’s gentle spoken question drew me out of the lethargic daze I’d fallen into.
My gaze slid away from the foreboding army of trees passing outside the window. I glanced down at the bandage wrapped around my lower left arm. How long had I been absently stroking its coarse surface? A tiny circle of numbness now tingled at the tip of each of my fingers.
“I guess it does itch a little,” I admitted.
“How’s your head?” Aunt Victoria’s concerned gaze flitted momentarily in my direction before she returned her full attention to driving.
“You heard the doctor. My concussion is almost completely gone and the sprain in my wrist is only a mild one. The bandages can come off any day now.” My voice grew feather soft as I tried to reassure her. “I’ve been through worse, Aunt Victoria. Lots worse. I’m fine, really.”
My aunt’s lips pressed themselves into a thin, tight line. She didn’t believe me, of course. Big surprise there. I never could fool Aunt Victoria. She knew me too well. It was one of the things I loved most about her.
I studied Aunt Victoria’s profile as she barely managed to dodge a couple more potholes. She had one of those pleasant faces, full of soft wrinkles that didn’t stop her from being pretty, even in her late forties. Her mass of dark hair, peppered with slivers of gray, was all tied up in a thick, practical braid that ran down the center of her back, almost to her waist. A few stray wisps had escaped their confines and now sat in frizzy ringlets against her forehead. Aunt Victoria looked like she hadn’t slept in a while. Maybe she hadn’t. It had been a long two weeks for both of us.
Aunt Victoria guided the van around an especially sharp twist in the forest road. An overgrown tree branch scraped at the sides of the van like gnarled fingers trying to pry their way inside. As she cranked the wheel to get around the tight turn, the diamond ring on her left hand flashed for a moment as the dreary overcast light still managed somehow to reflect off its surface. It was the only piece of jewelry she ever wore—a single engagement ring, no wedding band. There never was a wedding band. There never would be.
“Here we are,” Aunt Victoria said as she applied the brakes. Glad of the timely distraction, I rubbed at the now fogged-over window with the palm of my hand and saw my new home for the first time.
Aunt Victoria was what polite society called wealthy. For the not-so-polite, “filthy, stinkin’ rich” worked. She was one of the world’s shrewdest high-end antique dealers. Sotheby’s had her on speed dial. Even knowing all that, I hadn’t been prepared for the size and scope of her newest business venture.
Looking at the splendid Victorian mansion through a misty gray curtain of rain, it reminded me of a great, majestic creature curled up, fast asleep within a forest clearing. Even the rain fell more reverently here. Its gentle patter against the windshield made the museum seem to waver and wink at me from its many cheerful, gingerbread windows. All those inviting cozy nooks and romantic eaves and awnings—if ever a place was meant to be lived in, this house was it. Yet here it was, converted into an isolated doll museum, never to know the glory of former days again. We shared something in common, that house and I. A lost chance for life.
“What do you think?” Aunt Victoria’s voice was slightly hushed as she spoke.
“I like it,” I said, tilting my head thoughtfully to one side. “A lot.”
“I knew you would,” Aunt Victoria said with a satisfied nod. “I didn’t plan on buying a museum, you know. I only came here to inquire about a rare set of antique dolls I’d heard about.”
Aunt Victoria shook her head over the memory. “When I first laid eyes on this house it simply called out to me.”
“Me, too,” I admitted.
Aunt Victoria gave my leg a firm pat. “It knows you are a kindred spirit. Come on, I’ll introduce the two of you.”
Since the museum was already closed for the day, the parking lot was almost empty. There were only two cars left in the “Staff Only” section located at the back of the lot.
Before we even finished parking the car, the large front doors opened wide and out stepped a woman who looked like she was in her mid-twenties. I studied her as she popped open an umbrella, waved to us from underneath it, and started confidently down the shiny wet steps to greet us. If you were to make a checklist for the perfect businesswoman, this lady would be it. Tailored clothes, perfect posture, great figure, long black hair, deeply tanned skin. And devastatingly beautiful.
“That’s Gabrielle Sanchez, the museum’s curator, and a dear friend.” Aunt Victoria opened her door and got out. The rain pattered into her hair and quickly spotted her coat with dark, round drops which were absorbed into the bright, red fabric like some shadowy disease. I knew Aunt Victoria meant for me to follow her example, but I didn’t. Weary down to the bone, all I wanted was to sit in the car and stay out of the cold rain as long as possible. As I rolled down the passenger window a crack, the smell of clean, wet asphalt wafted into the car.
“We’ve been on the lookout for you all morning,” Gabrielle said, holding out her umbrella to cover Aunt Victoria as they met in front of the car. I noted that Gabrielle was now getting wet herself but continued to hold her umbrella over Aunt Victoria anyway. Because that was what a true friend did.
Not that I would know anything about that. Friends, I mean.
“How have things been?” Aunt Victoria asked. “Did Mr. Evans finally deliver the dolls while I was away?”
This last bit managed to snag a small corner of my interest. What dolls were they talking about? And who was Mr. Evans?
Gabrielle shifted the umbrella to her left hand so she could gesture helplessly with her right. “I’ve called Mr. Evans several times and left messages, but he hasn’t returned any of them.”
“Dragging a mule for a mile by the ears would be easier than getting that man to part with those dolls,” Aunt Victoria said. “He’s holding out as long as possible.”
Aunt Victoria finally noticed me still in the car. Squinting through the watery windshield, she patted the hood of the van briefly with her hand, making small splashes in the puddles collecting there.
“Gabrielle, let me introduce you to my niece, Wren.” Both women looked expectantly in my direction. With a resigned sigh, I unbuckled my seat belt and slowly gathered myself to get out of the car. My body felt strangely sluggish and clumsy as I placed my feet on the wet pavement. I took my first step and staggered. Not getting a decent night’s sleep for two weeks will do that to you—among other things.
Aunt Victoria instinctively put out a hand toward me but didn’t run forward to help. She patiently waited for me to steady myself. That was one great thing about my aunt. She never babied me.
I blinked rainwater out of my eyes and slowly moved to Aunt Victoria’s side. She pulled me gently in with her right arm, gathering me under the protection of Gabrielle’s umbrella. I didn’t usually allow anyone to hug me in public that way. I didn’t want people to get the impression I was weak. Aunt Victoria was the one exception to the rule. Especially now.
“So, you’re Wren,” Gabrielle said with a friendly smile. “Victoria brags about you and your brother all the time.”
An awkward silence followed as Gabrielle realized what she’d just said. Aunt Victoria must have felt me tense right up because she quickly changed the subject.
“Gabrielle picked out a beautiful room for you on the second floor,” she said.
“I never imagined I’d live in a museum.” I didn’t intend for those words to come out sounding grouchy, but they did. I could just imagine the mental assessment of me going on in Gabrielle’s head. A moody teenager with too-short, curly, strawberry blond hair, hazel eyes, and a black hoodie with baggy jeans. Angry at the world—a complete basket case. I wasn’t any of those things, of course. My problem was I didn’t know how to let people know it.
“No one plans to live in a museum,” Gabrielle sa
id in that horrible, sympathetic tone everyone used on me these days. “Once you start school and meet a lot of new friends it won’t be long before Kensington will begin to feel just it like it did back home.”
I stared at Gabrielle in heavy silence. Start school? Friends like back home? I began to wonder exactly how much of my situation Aunt Victoria chose to tell this woman. If Gabrielle didn’t already know, I wasn’t about to be the one to break it to her.
The longer my silence stretched out, the tighter Gabrielle’s smile got. If she didn’t let up soon, she’d be twitching in a moment. I didn’t know what to say to stop the inevitable. Every topic of conversation that came to mind was a minefield I didn’t want to set foot in.
“Wren, why don’t you take your things into the house and get out of the rain. I’ll be in to show you around in a moment.” It was Aunt Victoria to the rescue once again. I shot her what I hoped was a grateful look.
The two women watched me open the back of the van in awkward silence. I passed over the violin case. Flinging my duffel bag over one shoulder, I splashed up the impressive cobblestone path toward the museum’s main entrance. Gabrielle and Aunt Victoria stayed under the umbrella, watching me go. I know it must have made me look lazy, carrying only that one bag. But I wasn’t sure I had the strength to carry more.
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