House of Fear

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “It’s got to go,” she says.

  “What’s got to go?”

  “That doll’s house.”

  “What? Really? Right now?”

  “No. It can wait until the morning, but I’m not spending another night under this roof knowing that it’s down there.”

  “Okay, if you insist,” he murmurs, turning over and pulling the duvet tight about him again. “’Night, ’night.” Thirty seconds later, he’s snoring again.

  She looks at the alarm clock on Chris’s side of the bed.

  03:33.

  She gets out of bed. She pads out of the room and onto the landing, and eases Emmie’s door open. The elephants, monkeys and other animals that spell out her daughter’s name welcome her with broad, painted smiles. The glow of the street-lamp around the edge of the blackout blind reveals her daughter’s china doll face. Emmie’s snoring, just like her father. Toby stirs when she pushes open the door to his room and she mentally chastises herself for still not having got around to oiling the hinges. Her son murmurs something in his sleep and then is quiet again.

  Turning from Toby’s door, Jen hesitates, one hand on the newel post at the top of the stairs. She was about to go downstairs, but what would be the point of that?

  She stands there, listening to the creaks and groans of the house and the humming of the fridge-freezer down in the kitchen.

  At long last, she returns to bed. Chris has stopped snoring, thankfully.

  She lays there, her mind full of practical concerns. She needs to buy more nappies and Toby has Nursery in the morning. And then she has to book Emmie in for her two-month jabs at the surgery and there’s still a mountain of washing and ironing to be done.

  She’s just dozing off again when Emmie starts grizzling.

  With bleary eyes Jen peers at the clock, the glowing green digits slowly coming into focus.

  04:26.

  Wearily Jen drags herself out of bed to deal with her hungry daughter.

  She doesn’t go back to sleep again after that.

  The first thing Toby does, when he comes downstairs the next morning, is go to the doll’s house. Usually he’ll curl up on the sofa with a bottle of milk in front of whatever’s on CBeebies, but today he goes straight to the Georgian-fronted doll’s house and starts enthusiastically rearranging the furniture.

  And Jen has to admit that it keeps him occupied and out of her way while she gets Emmie up and dressed, without the usual continuous demands for milk or attention. But she still promises herself the thing’s going away, at least until her mother drops by again, which hopefully won’t be any time soon.

  Before she knows it, it’s time to take Toby to Nursery. She’s halfway there before she realises she’s still wearing her pyjamas under her baggy cardigan.

  After dropping Toby at Nursery, she pops home to get dressed properly before heading down to the local supermarket. She decides to walk, transferring a gurgling Emmie into her pram, hoping that some fresh air and exercise might help her sleep better tonight.

  The two of them don’t get home again until almost eleven, by which time Emmie’s screaming to be fed. Jen slumps in front of the telly, flicking through the Freeview channels while her daughter gorges herself on her mother’s milk, moaning contentedly to herself between hungry gulps, eyes screwed tight shut, making Jen feel like a prize Friesian.

  Once Emmie’s had her fill and drifted off to sleep, Jen puts her in her cot so that she can finally get around to unpacking the shopping. And then, before she knows it, it’s time to get Emmie up again so that they can collect Toby from Nursery.

  As she puts her foot on the bottom stair she catches sight of the doll’s house, sitting regally on the toy table against the back wall of the kitchen-cum-diner-cum-family-room.

  It’s now or never. She can’t get rid of the thing while Toby’s in the house.

  The loud rap at the door makes her start and she gives a small cry of surprise.

  A dark shape awaits her on the other side of the frosted glass. The sheer size of the figure causes her to hesitate for a moment before she dismisses her doubts as nonsense and turns the latch.

  “Post,” the hulking figure says, thrusting a parcel into her hands. And then he’s gone again.

  As she places the cardboard package from Amazon on the key shelf beside the door – it’s addressed to Chris – she catches the time on her watch.

  12:17.

  If she doesn’t get Emmie up now, and into the car, she’s going to be late picking up Toby.

  The doll’s house forgotten about again, she heads upstairs.

  She wakes with a start, her sweat-soaked hair plastered to her brow. It was the same dream; the same nightmare. She looks at Chris’s clock.

  03:33.

  Shaking out her pillow she lies down again, preferring to study the cracks in the plasterwork surrounding the ceiling than close her eyes and see that lifeless wooden face again.

  She feels wrung out, but she can’t sleep. She listens to Chris’s heavy breathing, listening out for Emmie, fully expecting her to start crying for milk at any moment.

  But Emmie doesn’t start to cry until gone five, on this morning of all mornings, just as Jen is finally starting to drop off again.

  She hauls herself out of bed – the duvet feeling like it’s filled with clay, and not feathers, as she pushes it aside – going for a pee before seeing to her daughter.

  She spends the rest of the night in Emmie’s room, lounging in the IKEA-bought rocking chair, her sleeping daughter on her lap, thoughts of the hundred and one things she has to do that day filling her head.

  “I’m tidying the playroom,” Toby shouts from the far end of the family room, later that same morning, raising his voice in an effort to be heard over Emmie’s crying.

  “That’s nice,” Jen says, as she rocks the howling baby in her arms. “Emmie, sweetheart, Mummy would really like you to stop crying now.” But the red-faced screams continue.

  “Mrs Mulligan doesn’t like it when Emmie cries,” Toby says, but Jen only half hears him over the baby’s bawling.

  “I don’t like it either, darling. What’s wrong, sweetie?” she asks the wailing infant, but the only answer she gets is another purple-faced scream that cuts right through her.

  “I’ve changed you, I’ve tried putting you to bed but you didn’t want to know. You can’t be hungry again already. You’re not too hot. So what is it, darling, why won’t you stop crying?” Jen’s rocking of the baby in her arms becomes more vigorous without her really realising what she’s doing. Emmie’s howls intensify until she almost has no voice left and her face is the colour of beetroot.

  “Stop that screaming at once!”

  The vehemence of the shout makes Jen start and for a moment Emmie is silent, so startled is the baby by the sudden noise. And then the howling recommences with renewed force.

  Jen turns to see Toby standing on the rug in front of the doll’s house, a look of slack-jawed horror on her face.

  That voice, so strict and with such authority, so much deeper than a child’s should be, and that accent… It couldn’t have been Toby, could it?

  “Toby,” she says, unable to keep the quaver out of her voice, “was that you?”

  The toddler stares at her, an expression of guileless innocence on his cherubic face.

  “Was that you?”

  He doesn’t dare blink as he meets his mother’s furious gaze, even as the tears start to fall freely down his cheeks.

  “Mrs Mulligan doesn’t like it when Emmie cries all the time,” he sobs.

  She looks at the doll held tightly in his small hand; the rough cloth dress, the rattling wooden limbs, the same severe painted face from her dreams.

  That voice. That name…

  “That name! Who told you that name?” she demands. Laying the screaming Emmie on the rug beside her, she crouches down so that her face is level with her son’s, and grabs hold of him by the arms. “Did Nana tell you? Did she?”


  But Toby says nothing. He just stares at his mother in fear, those eyes, so big, so blue and so guileless.

  “Tell me, Toby! Who told you that name? You must tell Mummy!”

  “Mummy, you’re hurting me,” Toby whimpers.

  She blinks, suddenly snapping out of the furious trance she’s put herself into. It’s like waking from a dream; a nightmare.

  As she comes to, she looks down at his arms and sees the pinched purple half-moons her nails have made in his otherwise unblemished skin.

  And then, the tears pouring down her face, she grabs hold of him again, bundling him up in her arms, squeezing him tightly to her.

  “I’m so sorry, my darling,” she sobs as she clasps his head to her breast. “I’m so sorry.”

  “How did Toby get those marks on his arms?” Chris asks later, when the children are both in bed and he and Jen are sitting at the breakfast bar with an open bottle of wine and half a dozen tin foil trays spread out between them.

  “What marks?” Jen asks, feeling the skin on her neck and face flush.

  “I saw them when I was giving him his bath. Looked like he’d been pinched.”

  “That reminds me,” Jen says, changing the subject. “Do you know what he did today?”

  Chris helps himself to the last piece of chicken shashlick. “What? Was it something bad?”

  “He shouted at Emmie to stop crying. He said that Mrs Mulligan doesn’t like it when Emmie cries.”

  “What’s so strange about that?” her husband asks, through a mouthful of naan. “I mean I know it’s wrong of him to shout at you –”

  “But Mrs Mulligan?”

  “Sorry, you’ve lost me. Who’s Mrs Mulligan?”

  “The doll from that bloody doll’s house. The housekeeper.”

  “Okay,” Chris replies slowly, swallowing his mouthful. “You’re still going to have to explain to me why that’s significant.”

  “That’s what I used to call her. Only I didn’t name her. That’s what she was called.”

  “I thought you said you hated the doll’s house.”

  “I did, but this isn’t about me. How did Toby know the doll was called Mrs Mulligan?”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “No.”

  “Well your Mum must have said something.”

  “When?”

  “Well you must have mentioned it in passing then.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Chris favoured her with a condescending smile. “You remember everything you say throughout the day, do you?” He laughed. “’Cos I don’t.”

  “This isn’t funny. It freaked me out, alright?”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “And there was something else. When he shouted at Emmie to shut up, it…”

  She breaks off, suddenly realising how ridiculous what she’s about to say is going to sound.

  “Go on.”

  “It didn’t sound like Toby.”

  Chris coughs, putting a hand to his mouth to avoid spraying the counter with half-chewed food. Jen glares at him.

  “I’m sorry; it’s just that our son’s doing impressions now, is he?”

  “Piss off!”

  “Hey, hey. Calm down.”

  “Well!”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I just sounded like –”

  “I know what it sounded like,” Jen snaps. “It sounded like I’m going mad again.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” Chris puts down his knife, placing a gentle hand on her clenched fist. “That’s not what I meant at all. I mean you’re doing okay this time, aren’t you? I know you’ve not been sleeping well, but other than that everything’s alright, isn’t it?”

  “Well it wouldn’t hurt if you could do a bit more around the house.”

  “And you know I would, if I could,” Chris gets in quickly, “but I’m at work all day.”

  “I know, and I’m left here all by myself, to deal with everything else. What I wouldn’t give for a day back in the office. I should be so lucky.”

  “Jenny, I know you do a brilliant job. Nobody could be a better mum.” He squeezes her hand in his. “I do worry about you, you know? Here all by yourself, day after day.”

  “Is this meant to be making me feel better?”

  He gives her hand another squeeze. “Look, you haven’t been sleeping well, so why don’t we make it an early night? I’m sure we could both do with one, if you know what I mean.” He grins at her, arching an eyebrow in lewd intimation. “I certainly could. And it always helps me get to sleep.”

  “You don’t need any help getting to sleep. You nod off at the drop of a hat.”

  “So come on,” he presses, smiling like a fifteen year-old about to lose his virginity after downing the best part of a bottle of cider. “What do you say?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, resting her head on her hand.

  “Look, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about with Toby. Kids give voices and names and characters to their toys all the time. I mean look at Teddy – that’s a perfect example. And the name thing’s probably a coincidence. He must have heard the name on one of those kids’ shows he’s always watching.”

  “You make it sound like he does nothing but watch television all day,” Jen counters.

  “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it. Don’t go getting all over-sensitive on me now, okay? Come on, you go on up and run yourself a nice hot bath. I’ll clear up down here and then I’ll give you one of Chris’s special back-rubs. What do you say?”

  Jen pushes her half-eaten curry away. She’s barely touched her wine.

  “I’m sorry, Chris, but not tonight, eh? I’m not in the mood.”

  “You’re never in the mood,” her husband mutters under his breath before he has the good sense to stop himself.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, what do you think? How long’s it been now?”

  “Chris, I’ve just had a baby.”

  “Yeah, almost two months ago. And how long’s it been since we last had sex?”

  Jen looks at him, flabbergasted. “I don’t know.”

  “Have a guess.”

  “Um…”

  “Twelve months, almost to the day.”

  “What is this? Are you keeping score now?”

  “Used to be you could hardly keep your hands off me; even after Toby was born we were back at it within a couple of months at most. And that was at your instigation.”

  Jen stares at him, feeling her neck and face flush in embarrassment.

  “But ever since Emmie came along it’s like you don’t want anything to do with me.”

  “How can you say that?” she rails, finding her voice again. “You know that’s not true!”

  “Well that’s how it looks from where I’m standing!”

  “What do want me to say? I’m sorry? Is that it? Well, in that case, I’m sorry.” Setting her elbows on the counter, she rests her head in her hands. “This wasn’t how I wanted this evening to go.”

  “Me neither.”

  It’s then that Emmie starts to cry, the lights of the baby monitor arcing in sympathy.

  Neither of them moves for a minute, and then Chris meets her sulky stare. “Look, are you going, or shall I?”

  03:33. On the dot.

  She goes to the loo, then checks on both the children before getting back into bed, but, try as she might, she can’t get back to sleep.

  She eventually gives up on the charade and gets up. She checks on Emmie again, but the little one shows no sign of waking up any time soon, so she creeps downstairs.

  She easily finds her way in the muted gloom of the hallway, the suffused light from the streetlamp outside shining in through the frosted panes of the front door. She heads into the kitchen.

  It sits there, in the darkness, like a malignant shadow. Its windows gleam like obsidian mirrors. The flesh on her arms goose-pimples under her baggy T-shirt, and an icy shiver of unease crackles up her
spine. She can imagine the housekeeper at one of the windows, staring out at her from behind the darkened glass, and she can imagine the sort of thing she’d be saying: the cutting, hurtful comments; the chastising tone.

  Emmie’s hungry mewling stirs her from her reverie and she looks at the glowing red digits of the clock on the cooker.

  04:47.

  Barely two words pass between her and Chris the following morning when he leaves for work. He doesn’t even stop to make himself a coffee and the memory of the argument leaves her in a foul mood for the rest of the day.

  She’s still stewing over their argument, chopping onions for that night’s spaghetti bolognaise, when Emmie’s cries stir her from her melancholic reverie, the lights spiking red on the baby monitor. She only went down for her nap an hour ago. She should be good for another half hour at least.

  Putting down the vegetable knife and wiping her hands on the tea towel she casts a glance towards the doll’s house. Toby’s not there.

  The doll’s house is open, and the sight of it makes her stop and stare. Her three year-old son has arranged the furniture with such precision that everything is in its proper place and not a single piece is missing. Except for one. The housekeeper doll – Mrs Mulligan.

  “Toby?” she calls, but there’s no reply.

  She pokes her head around the sitting room door as she heads for the stairs, but the TV’s off and Toby’s not there.

  Emmie’s angry howls continue unabated. She always sounds so angry, as if she’s thinking: How dare Mummy leave me alone up here like this?

  “Toby? Are you alright?”

  Still no reply.

  Emmie’s angry protest is coming at her front two directions now – from the baby monitor in the kitchen as well as down the stairs.

  As she makes her way up, she catches a glimpse of the yawning doors of the doll’s house again.

  She finds Toby in Emmie’s room. He’s peering through the bars of the cot at the screaming baby, chatting away quite happily.

  At first she thinks he’s talking to the baby, or even talking to himself. Then she sees the housekeeper doll clenched tightly in his right hand and feels her throat constrict and her stomach knot in fear. The doll is watching Emmie with its black painted eyes, the never-changing expression of disapproval on its face.