Lifelike

by Sheila A. Nielson

  The more I thought about it, the more the fires of fury built inside me, charring my fear to ashes like paper kindling consumed among the flames. All those years of pain and rage that I’d been stuffing into the back closet of my subconscious like over-sized baggage, came tumbling back out with a vengeance.

  The noises in the wall had completely disappeared by this time, so I decided to lodge my complaint with the ghost of Mr. Xavier Kensington on his own turf. The haunted study. By the time I’d managed to drag my weary body up those stairs, I was good and angry, staggering over to the study door and throwing it open with a crash. I flipped on the light and glared around the seemingly empty room.

  “I’ve had enough of this childish Halloween house of horrors act!” I hissed through my clenched teeth. “Do you know how many years I’ve lived with gut-wrenching fear gnawing away at every nerve? I refuse to be frightened any longer, do you hear me? I’ve got plenty of problems already—I don’t need someone like you messing with me as well.”

  I glared defiantly up at the painting of Xavier. His knowing smile made me even more furious.

  “What was up with the fancy, little ice monster performance on the wall downstairs? Do you get some kind of sick, twisted pleasure by freaking people out and making them look stupid? We’ve all got unresolved issues, dude, but seriously, a hundred and thirty years is more than enough time for you to have gotten over yours by now.”

  Okay, so telling off the ghost of a murderer—probably not the smartest thing to do. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to slow my heart rate. I could feel the blood pounding out the drums of rage in my ears. I was so tired, and there was an uncomfortable pressure starting to build behind my eyes. I pressed a hand to my forehead, wearily massaging it between my fingers.

  I found myself thinking about how tall and handsome Xavier seemed standing beside me in my dream. I remembered how warm his hand felt clutched tight within my own. And his gentle, green eyes, overshadowed by fear.

  When I spoke my voice was calm, almost sad. “What are you doing in this place, Xavier? You should have moved on a lifetime ago, not stayed here trapped within the walls of this museum. Why are you still here?”

  I waited, but there was no answer. Had I really expected there to be?

  I examined the bookcase in front of me. Xavier’s bookcase. Carved wooden mermaids held up the ends of each shelf with their outstretched hands, like Atlas holding up the world. Though each figure stood in the exact same pose, every one of them had been carved in a different outfit.

  A quick scan of the books on the shelves told me that most of titles were too modern to have originally belonged to Xavier Kensington—not unless he was channeling Mary Higgins Clark decades before she was even born.

  There were some classics mixed in here and there as well. Jane Eyre, A Little Princess, Les Miserables. Each title brought a familiar story and its cast of characters crowding into my mind.

  Reading books was one of the few things that hadn’t made me feel worse when flat on my back with chemo treatments. In books, I slipped inside another person’s skin, taking on a new life filled with excitement and adventure—not sickness and hurting. My eyes caught sight of a familiar name on the spine of one of the books.

  Georgette Heyer!

  I’d read every book that woman ever wrote. At least, I thought I had. Shivers of gooseflesh broke out over my arms and neck as I realized the title of this particular novel was completely unknown to me.

  The Reluctant Widow.

  I eagerly slipped the book from its place on the shelf to examine the picture on the cover. A regency style woman sat in a luxurious red and gold chair, staring dreamily off to her right. Behind her, hidden amid the shadows of the painted background, stood the dark figure of a tall young man. Partly obscured by a window curtain, he secretly watched the woman with a frightening look of intensity etched into his handsome features.

  A strange but familiar feeling crept over me. Like taking a sip of steaming hot cocoa on a chilled winter’s day, its creamy warmth caused me to shiver. My breathing quickened as I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to find someone standing behind me, just like the man on the cover. The study was empty.

  Click.

  I dropped The Reluctant Widow on the floor with a crash, shattering the mood with a million razor-sharp shards of unease.

  Where had that sound come from?

  I glanced at the carved mermaid closest to me and saw her empty eyes now staring blankly in my direction. She’d moved. Chills shuddered up my spine in fits and starts, spreading quickly out into my tingling fingertips.

  Wood sculptures didn’t move their heads by themselves. They didn’t make clicking noises either.

  I hesitated a second before forcing myself to actually reach out and touch the face of the mermaid. I gingerly explored her hard but smooth features with the tips of my fingers. Unlike the other mermaids, this one wore a tiny tiara on her head. Like a queen. I traced the edge of the crown with my thumb. There was a sharp click as the mermaid’s head snapped suddenly forward of its own accord, shifting back into its original position. I jumped, emitting a noise that sounded suspiciously like, EEEP!

  I sat there waiting for my pulse to return to normal, trying to gather what remained of my tattered self-respect. I took a step closer to the carving, examining it closely. There was a hairline crack running across her neck just under her chin, almost as if she had once been beheaded. I reached up, gripped her face between my fingers, and twisted it all the way to the right. The mermaid’s head turned easily at first, but then hit some kind of resistance. A rusty grinding noise came from somewhere behind the bookcase, as I fought to make the mermaid’s head turn. Then suddenly it gave way.

  Clank.

  Part of the bookcase popped outward, knocking into me with a thunk. At least I didn’t squeal like a stuck pig this time. Rusty, unseen hinges groaned deeply in protest as the bookcase swung away from the wall like a door. Light from the study spilled into the dark opening, revealing the edge of a very dusty, wooden floor. Beyond the circle of light, there was nothing but blackness and the musty smell of a place closed up for centuries.

  It was no accident, my finding this door. Someone wanted me to go in there. I stepped cautiously forward and peered inside.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hidden space reminded me of those secret compartments people once used to harbor runaway slaves along the Underground Railroad. It was small, about the size of a walk-in storage closet. The shadowy shapes of barely visible shelves ran the length of the walls. They were filled with dark, square silhouettes, possibly boxes. But why were they hidden away like this?

  I put out a hand to touch one of the boxes. A cottony stickiness slid over my fingers and down the back of my hand. I jerked my hand away, flicking it about in a useless attempt to rid myself of century-old cobwebs.

  Hadn’t I seen an emergency flashlight charging the other night? I stepped back into the study, blinking blindly into the now over-bright lights. Grabbing the flashlight off its charger, I flipped it on, then hurried back into the secret closet. The light’s beam cut through the darkness, causing the shadows to creep back as it advanced along the floor. Unlike the others, there was one shelf along the back wall that seemed mostly empty. Lifting the beam to check it out, I discovered—a person.

  I gasped in horror and the flashlight beam momentarily spiked toward the water stained ceiling as my nerves jumped in alarm. I held my breath, waiting for my scattered thoughts to catch up with my racing heart.

  That could not be a real human being I just saw. Its proportions were all wrong.

  Hands now trembling, I forced myself to train the beam of light back onto the impossibly small figure sitting on the shelf. Knees drawn up, one leg slightly extended, it sat slumped over with its face buried in its hands, the face obscured. It was either the smallest human being on the face of the planet, or it was the most lifelike doll I’d ever seen. Favoring the doll theory, I decided i
t was safe to move closer and get a better look.

  I was pretty sure the doll was male since it wore an old-fashioned pale suit and had short dark curls on the top of its head. The way it sat there, all curled up, with its head resting in its hands, gave the doll a tragic air. As if I’d caught it in the greatest moment of its private grief. Of course, dolls didn’t really have feelings. This one had probably accidentally fallen over at some point and just happened to sprawl that way. No one would purposely put a doll in that position—would they? Intrigued more than ever, I reached out and lifted the doll into an upright position, illuminating its face with my flashlight. I stared in disbelief at the all too familiar, astoundingly handsome face that now lay revealed.

  Xavier Kensington—murderer extraordinaire.

  Unlike the painting, this version of Xavier was solemn and contemplative with his eyes looking slightly down and to the right, as if caught at the edge of some deeply profound thought. What was the doll doing in here?

  Aunt Victoria had once explained to me that houses built in Margaret Kensington’s time didn’t usually have closets. The ones in our bedrooms were added to the house much later on. This closet looked a lot older than the one in my room.

  Picking the doll up by his waist, I gingerly carried him out into the study. I laid him out on the nearest chair and glanced up at the portrait of Xavier Kensington, then looked back down at the doll. It was a perfect miniature copy of the boy in the painting. The green glass eyes set into the face looked so real I half expected the doll to blink at me.

  In the light, I could now see the doll’s clothes were actually an antique cream rather than white. The handsome Victorian suit with its fitted waistcoat and long tails, must have been all the rage at the turn of the century. Every microscopic detail had been lovingly recreated. Perfect little shoes, tiny gold buttons, even an itty-bitty silk flower on the doll’s lapel. Just like a groom.

  A quiver moved down my frame.

  He was a perfect match for the other dolls in The Wedding Party. His skin had that same waxy, realistic look. Only, unlike those dolls, this one was in pristine condition. Completely untouched. There didn’t seem to be a speck of dust or a single strand of cobweb anywhere on him—which was fascinating and incredibly disturbing all at the same time.

  I could feel the pounding of my heart all the way down into my fingertips. The longer I stared at the priceless treasure lying on the chair before me, the more certain I became that this was indeed the original groom doll Margaret Kensington supposedly destroyed. Aunt Victoria knew nothing about its existence, and I had to show it to her right away!

  Leaving the doll where he was for the moment, I carefully swung the secret door shut by pulling on the decorative mermaid queen who guarded the entrance. There was a hollow click as her head snapped back around, face forward like all the other carved mermaids.

  Thinking I should take the Xavier doll straight to Aunt Victoria, I reached out to pick it up, then jerked back as I realized I probably shouldn’t handle a historically significant antique with dirty hands that had been poking around in a dusty old closet.

  I looked about for something I could protect the doll with. My discarded ace bandage from the night before was still lying on the floor in front of the armchair. I snagged it up and carefully wrapped the doll like a little mummy before scooping it into my arms.

  I started down the hall then stopped in my tracks as I remembered that Aunt Victoria was in the middle of giving a motor coach tour. I headed back to my room instead. Switching on the bedside lamp, I placed the bandage with its precious contents on my vanity and carefully unwrapped the doll.

  Once again, I was struck by the exhaustive detail that Margaret Kensington put into creating the doll of her only son. Her motherly adoration of the subject was reflected in the craftsmanship down to even the smallest stitches.

  So, if this was the missing groom doll, then where was his bride? Had Margaret hidden it someplace as well? And the doll’s eyes—why were they looking sideways and down like that? What was he supposed to be looking at? That’s when I noticed a small object attached to the doll’s wrist by a thin, gold chain. It looked like a tiny mariner’s telescope, with real glass lenses embedded into the ends of it. Its proportions were much too small to be made for the doll. It was more the size of a necklace charm. Something added later, perhaps? Gingerly, I lifted the doll’s right hand to study the telescope better. My eyes widened as I recognized what it really was.

  A Stanhope lens!

  Before Aunt Victoria got into the doll business, she used to sell authentic Stanhopes to antique dealers. Inside each tiny charm was hidden a miniscule photograph that could be viewed through a magnified peephole. Unable to resist, I squinted one eye and peeked into the bitty telescope. Inside was a black and white photograph of a round-cheeked, young girl with beautiful, big eyes and lots of Shirley Temple curls.

  I’d seen that face before. On the flower girl doll from the wedding party. An apprehensive shiver moved through my frame. Only a wicked messed-up person would think of attaching a photograph of Emily Kensington to the arm of a doll that looked like the guy who’d killed her.

  Feeling uneasy all of a sudden, I adjusted the doll so that he reclined against the vanity mirror. The expression on his face was soft and wistful. He looked so sweet and helpless—and a little sad.

  “You don’t look like a murderer,” I said to him.

  Immediately, I felt stupid. Sixteen-year-olds did not to talk to dolls. This one just seemed so real. I could almost imagine him breathing as he sat there. His chest rising and falling in little, even breaths.

  Slam!

  A sharp sound from somewhere outside jarred me suddenly from my strange mood. Curious, I moved over to the bedroom window and drew back the curtain. Hidden behind the drapes was a large window seat. Leaning in, I placed one knee on the wooden seat and pressed my nose to the glass so I could see past my distorted reflection.

  In the light of a nearby lamp post, I could make out a ginormous RV sitting at the far end of the museum’s main parking lot. As I watched, the RV door flew open and a dark-haired girl about my age stepped out onto the blacktop. Tall. Possibly Asian American.

  Was that one of the motor coach tour guests?

  Letting the RV door slam behind her, the girl struggled to lift a very large, dark bag over one of her shoulders.

  What the heck did she have in that thing? I mean, seriously, what could you possibly need just to look at a bunch of old dolls?

  Swaying under the weight of the bag, the girl staggered back toward the museum. When she’d disappeared from sight, I moved away from the window. Seeing a large knee print in the thick dust on the window seat, I looked down to find a matching dark smudge on my jeans. I paused a moment, then put out my finger and drew a message in the dirt.

  Wren was here

  I stared at the words a long time.

  Was.

  Past tense.

  By the time anyone found that note, I’d be long gone. Just like Xavier Kensington. I glanced over at the doll propped against the mirror. Perhaps he was like the dusty words I’d just written. An elaborate message left for the next person to discover. But what was that message supposed to be? Who had left it?

  I thought of the grief-stricken way the doll was positioned when I first discovered it—head in its hands. A feeling of overwhelming loss trickled down through my middle, like the last of mountain runoff in a vanishing stream.

  If Xavier Kensington had killed his little cousin, he could not have been a very happy person in life. Especially if she was really as adorable and sweet as she looked in the Stanhope lens.

  Thinking of Emily’s photograph made me instinctively glance at the photograph of my own family picnicking together last summer. My chest tightened involuntarily, making it hard for me to breathe.

  “I can’t think about that,” I said in a ragged whisper. “Not tonight.”

  Suddenly feeling very tired and heavy, I changed into
my sweats and went over to my bed. Lying down, I curled up on my side, facing Xavier’s doll. Its mysterious green eyes continued to look down and to the right. I followed its gaze to a pack of gum I’d left sitting on the vanity while unpacking the day before. Somehow, I didn’t think that was what had him looking so thoughtful.

  “A ghost hunter told Matt you were sleeping,” I spoke softly to the doll in an attempt to drive away the freaky silence of the room and loosen the tightness around my heart. “You wouldn’t be willing to send a little of that sleep my way tonight, would you?”

  I smiled wearily to myself in the silence that followed. “I didn’t think so.”

  With a soft sigh, I reach over and switched off the lamp. The light of the streetlamps in the parking lot streamed through a crack between the curtains. I hadn’t quite gotten them closed properly.

  I glanced over at the doll across from my bed. Only the right side of its face was illuminated—the rest of its features cast in soft shadows. It looked even more lifelike in the darkness. Its expression seemed gentler and more serene.

  The night shadows made the doll’s glass pupils difficult to make out. It gave him the illusion of looking in my direction rather than at the ground. Watching over me like a benevolent little angel of protection. Warmth crept over me, starting in that weary place right between my shoulder blades and spreading outward like shifting sunshine. The cozy feeling made my eyelids heavy. I blinked. The doll seemed to blink back at me in return. A momentary flicker among the shadows of his face. There was something comforting in the idea of having the doll watch over me while I slept. It made me feel not quite so lonely.

  I closed my eyes and smiled sleepily to myself, letting the childish fancy lift my tired heart. Like a babe rocked in its mother’s arms, I drifted miraculously off to sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hushed voices hissed somewhere at the edge of my consciousness. The soft rise and fall of whispers exchanged in the darkness. My body twitched but could not quite wake itself from the sleep I needed so badly.