by Anya Allyn
The others that were with them—another couple—began relaying a story about how their air-conditioner had carked it last summer and how they almost died.
The tourists stayed put, fanning themselves and complaining about the heat.
The talk show host on the screen above introduced some news footage. I was barely paying attention over the noise of the tourists. Until I caught sight of Aisha standing rigidly—her gaze fixed to the screen.
Blood slowed in my veins as I read the headline—Seven missing children found in macabre subterranean dollhouse.
The din of the tourists hushed as the newscast showed photos of each of the children. The report then swapped to film of the carousel and the dark corridors, travelling through to the ruined library. The camera lingered on the drawings that were still pinned to the wall and scattered on the floor. A hand scooped up a torn, faded picture of a serpent. Aisha gasped out loud.
One of the cameramen cursed as he tripped over the oversized figure of Clown.
Scattered voices echoed through The Atrium as people watched a skeleton of old bones being wrapped and taken from a dark tunnel. Jessamine’s bones.
Cold cement poured down my spine. I hadn't seen any of this. Dr. Alexia had told mom that I shouldn’t watch or read reports of the underground. I wanted to run, but my legs were wooden. I glanced at Aisha. Her hands trembled on the pool cue. We needed to leave without Zach and Emerson realizing why. But the entire atrium had grown deathly quiet.
Holidaymakers moved out of vacation mode and drew closer to the screen. They had surely seen footage of the underground before. A full month had passed since the rescue. A rolling banner on the bottom of the screen caught my eye—it promised unreleased footage. Were the people were waiting to see that? Was the dollhouse some kind of morbid entertainment to them?
The show’s presenter interviewed some expert who speculated that Henry Fiveash had imprisoned all the teenagers and dressed them as dolls due to an unspecified mental illness—as well as other wild theories. The camera moved through The Dark Way to the diamonds and gold nuggets, stopping on the rotted and blackened body of the Raggedy Andy doll.
The camera traveled back along the dark corridors to the kitchen, showing the bare shelves inside the cupboards.
The show’s presenter announced that the shocking new footage was coming up next.
The film cut to an outdoor scene, in the forest. A tiny girl in pink track pants and a green jumper waved, turning to point over a high rock ledge. The view moved forward, freezing as the image of a thin, bedraggled teenage girl came into view. The girl stood in the river below, silently pleading for help. Blood seeped from the girl’s torn slip, bruises and cuts darkening her body, doll's makeup smeared on her face. The expression in her huge eyes was the expression of one who’d stared into hell itself.
I barely recognized that girl.
Barely recognized myself.
Aisha eyed me in horror. I hadn't told her any of the details of my escape. I hadn’t wanted to relive it.
How was there film of that moment…?
The woman… the woman had been filming her daughter and must have caught me on film as well.
My name appeared onscreen.
Cassandra Claiborne, aged 15.
I wanted to go home, home, away from here. My fists clenched, nails digging into the skin.
The tourist in the striped shirt stood, pointing. "Hey, those two girls over there. I'd swear blind they're the girls they just showed on the TV. I never get a face wrong."
His wife squinted at Aisha and me. “Jeez, you’re right! That’s them. Poor loves!”
Everyone stared, but there was nowhere to turn my face where someone couldn’t see me.
The man raised a camera to his face and began snapping photos.
Zach moved his arm protectively around me. "These are not the same girls. Wrong ages, wrong names. So back off!"
“Hey mate, don’t give me flack,” the man asserted. “Look at them. If it wasn’t them two on the screen, why are they shakin’ like that?”
Zach and Emerson held Aisha and me close to them and guided us out through the peering crowds of people.
Mom and the Dumaj's were strolling on the path towards us. Raif walked alongside them. One look at our faces and they rushed to us. I tried to speak but no coherent words came.
"I'm sorry,” said Zach, “there was some kind of news program on that had the tourists mistaking the girls for your daughters. We brought them out of there as quickly as possible."
Mom stared at Aisha and me with wide eyes, then clasped Zach’s arm. "Thank you," she said fervently.
We hastened towards a secluded spot behind clumps of swaying palm trees.
I hugged my arms tightly around myself. The sight of the girl in the river was too much to bear. I was not whole or real or sane. I was the girl from the footage—that freaky, ghostly girl—the one who had come within a hair’s breadth of dying in the jaws of a serpent, the girl who had seen death and otherworldly beings.
"Mom, I want to get off this island. Now,” I said.
Aisha nodded, her face tight. “Yeah, we can’t stay now.”
Raif pressed his fist in the palm of his hand. “You girls should have stayed with me. I would have hit anyone who tried to say crap about you.”
His sister clenched her forehead with one hand. “That would have made it even worse….”
Mrs. Dumaj dropped her phone back into her pocket, shaking her head at Aisha and me. “Not good news girls. The people at reception say there’s no transport off the island until tomorrow. They also apologized profusely about the news footage. They don’t normally show news programs. Seems someone accidentally changed their usual station, although they’re not sure how that happened.”
Emerson shifted on his lanky legs, looking uncomfortable to have been caught up in this family drama. “Look, I don’t want to intrude in any way—it’s obviously been a rough experience for the girls—but I have an idea." He shrugged his shoulders. "We were heading back to Whitsunday Island this afternoon. It's the biggest island in the Whitsundays, where you might not run into anyone all day. Our parents are there—staying in their own yacht. I don’t know what you think, but it’s a way of getting off here straight away.”
Mom gazed at me and then over at the Dumajs’. She nodded tensely at Emerson. “We would really appreciate that.”
19. WHITEHAVEN
"That's a yacht?" said Raif incredulously. "The thing has its own pool and landing pad…."
The gleaming white craft before us seemed to me a small ship rather than a private yacht.
Zach laughed. "Yeah. S'called a mega-yacht. My oldies like to travel in style."
The trip across to Whitsunday Island had taken longer than I realized it would, but I hadn’t cared. I just wanted as much space between me and those tourists as possible. Warm breezes blew across the clear, shallow ocean. Before us, Whitehaven beach was a long strip of pure white sand.
A girl appeared on the deck of the mega-yacht. Her hair was dyed-red, cut in a swinging bob. Her long tanned legs were offset by a pair of tiny orange shorts.
Raif straightened, puffing his chest out. "Who is that?"
“That's Viola. Our sister,” said Emerson. “Good luck in getting her to notice you. She’s a bit of a snob.”
A side-boarding platform pulled out. Zach and Emerson steered the dinghy alongside the platform and we boarded the yacht. The yacht’s crew of four nodded a greeting to us as the boys led the way to the top deck.
A portly couple in their late fifties stepped out onto the deck. Emerson introduced them as his parents—Mr. and Mrs. Batiste. They were dressed in casual clothing, but it was designer-casual—the kind of outfits that cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Mr. Batiste stepped forward to shake our hands with a firm grip.
"Oh gracious,” exclaimed Mrs. Batiste, “It’s just awful what happened. I couldn’t believe it when Emerson rang to tell me how those
people behaved in front of these poor young girls. People go on vacation to relax, not to be accosted by strangers.”
“We really appreciate being able to get away so quickly,” said mom. “You have a couple of fine young men there.”
“Yes they are.” Mr. Batiste nodded. “Drive us crazy like all youth do nowadays—but they do have their finer points.”
“If you call annoying a finer point.” Viola walked up to her parents, a mocking smile on her face.
By the look on Raif’s face, Viola’s smile was as bewitching as it was mocking. Up close, she was extremely pretty. Her eyes were a deeper blue than those of Zach and Emerson’s and her skin flawlessly smooth.
“You’ll have to excuse my daughter.” Mrs. Batiste eyed Viola with a fond but slightly exasperated expression. “She’s been a bit bored on this vacation. The boys tend to go off and do their own thing, and she gets left on her own. She doesn’t find the ocean terribly exciting I’m afraid. She prefers shopping, or reading by the pool deck.”
Viola huffed out a short sigh. “Well I grew out of making sandcastles ten years ago. And what else is there to do on a beach?”
“Well you’re an excellent swimmer. There’s always swimming,” said Mrs. Batiste.
Mr. Batiste knitted his eyebrows—his eyebrows startlingly dark beneath his thick silver hair. “Actually no, dear,” he said to his wife. “There’s no swimming here at this time of year. There’s stingers in the water—apparently some deadly ones too called the Box Jellyfish.”
“See mom?” Vindicated, Viola rolled her eyes. ‘I could die out there.”
“But that doesn’t stop you from enjoying this beautiful place,” Mr. Batiste chastened his daughter. “You’re only young once. Why not head out for a walk with the younger people, and we parents can enjoy a nice relaxing drink on the deck.”
Viola shrugged. “Yeah, why not. I feel like stretching my legs.”
“I’d really like a walk, too” I said. The dimness and stale mossy odor of the dollhouse was all around me, infecting my mind, and I wanted to step out in the sunshine and wide spaces.
“I’ll go. Is that okay, dad?” said Aisha, looking over at her father.
Mr. Dumaj took an audible breath, glancing about at the empty beach. He nodded.
“Put your hats on, girls! And don’t put so much as a toe in the water!” Mrs. Dumaj gazed out at the ocean.
Mrs. Batiste clapped her hands. “Wonderful! It’s settled then. Come on, let us adults go unwind. We can watch the kids from the deck.”
Mom and Aisha’s parents followed the Batistes to their onboard wet bar. The rest of us took the dinghy down to the gently lapping shore.
In either direction, dazzling white sand stretched.
“So, you girls haven’t been here before?” Zach asked Aisha and me.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to,” said Aisha. “Whitehaven Beach is a photographer’s paradise. Just stunning.”
“Anna is really talented with photography,” I said. I had almost slipped and called her Aisha.
“Well there’s a spot up further that’s incredible. It’ll knock your socks off.” Zach grinned. “Get your camera ready.”
Viola squinted towards the sun. “Photographers are so pretentious. They see the world through a tiny frame while the world is all around them, and then think they’ve captured something incredible.”
“Shut it, Vee.” There was a warning tone in Emerson’s voice.
Viola shot a sorry face at Aisha. “Oh, I didn’t mean you. I just meant in general.”
Aisha shrugged. Emerson slipped his arm around Aisha—the move seeming so natural, it was like they were girlfriend and boyfriend. Aisha didn’t move away from him.
Viola pulled off her singlet-top and then stepped out of her shorts. She wore a pale-blue one piece swimsuit that fit her slim body perfectly. Raif watched intently as she ran into the water.
“Vee!” shouted Emerson. “Remember what dad said? About the deadly stingers? Get out of there!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” called Viola from the water. “Well maybe I like living dangerously. Who’s got the guts to join me?”
Raif didn’t hesitate—he tore off his own tee-shirt and followed her.
“Raif, no!” Aisha touched her fingers to her temples.
I turned my head back to the yacht—we were so far from the parents now that they probably wouldn’t even see two of us in the water.
Raif dived under the water and came up shaking the water from his head. Viola laughed and did the same. She swam in an even stroke across the ocean, stopping to float on her back with her arms stretched out wide.
Emerson splashed into the water, swimming with a strong stroke out to Viola. He dragged her into shore.
Viola sat on the wet sand eyeing her brother with venom. “Killjoy. You always wreck my fun.”
“That’s not fun—that’s crazy.” Emerson caught his breath.
“Why do we even need to worry? Nothing can hurt us anyway.”
Emerson stood over her. “If I have to tell you again to shut it, I’ll throw you back out in the ocean myself.”
Raif trudged into shore, looking a little sheepish.
“You’ve got no brains, brother,” said Aisha.
“C’mon, let’s keep going.” Zach’s hand brushed mine.
“Why is Viola so sure nothing can hurt her?” I said in a low voice to Zach.
He shrugged. “I hate to say it, but my sister is a spoiled little rich girl. She always talks like that.”
We walked on and up the sand dunes, to a high vantage point. Ahead was some kind of lookout. Emerson and Zach put their hands over our faces, guiding us blind to the top of the lookout, Zach’s body warm and protective behind mine.
Aisha and I gasped as they removed their hands. The scene far below was a swirling pattern of white sand reefs—like a giant eye— with a hundred shades of shallow, azure ocean..
“Hill Inlet,” said Zach. “This is the best time to see it, when the tide is low.”
“Incredible,” Aisha breathed. She raised her camera to her eye and took shot after shot.
I tensed as Zach pressed his hand into mine. He silently led me away to a private spot where we could still see the inlet. I took my hand from his and sat.
"It’s perfect," I said. "I can't believe the color of the sand here. It's so...."
“….white," he finished. “It’s almost pure silica.”
A sea-scented breeze lifted Zach's hair across his forehead. He looked so solid and real. Not like the children of the dollhouse. He was someone who'd lived outside under the blue sky and sun all his life and breathed warmed air.
His shoulder bumped mine as he sat beside me, sending a buzz down my arm. He seemed to sense that I was happy to sit without talking. I took a handful of sand and let it run through my fingers, feeling my body begin to relax. He grinned, catching the sand. The moment was so simple, but so personal—as though he was sending a silent message, I’ll catch you if you fall. He’d stood up to that tourist who had accused Aish and I of being the girls from the news—without a moment’s hesitation, and he’d brought me out of The Atrium without a question. He still hadn’t questioned me about it and I was grateful for that.
Being with Zach was such a different feeling to than how I’d felt around Ethan. Ethan had been such a stormy mix of fire and hatred—so driven and unknowable—and in the end, cruel. Zach made me feel safe and centered.
Raif and Viola walked up to the lookout together—Viola looking like a vogue swimsuit model.
“Chop, chop, people. We need to get back. I need to go buy my dress for tonight,” said Viola.
“You have plenty of frocks,” said Emerson.
“Well I need another one.” She made a face at her brother.
We all made our way back to the yacht together. Mom, Mrs. Batiste and Aisha’s parents were laughing and talking on the deck. Mr. Batiste and two of the yacht’s crew were in the dinghy, an open toolbox beside
them.
“What’s up, dad?” called Emerson.
“Don’t know,” called back Mr. Batiste. “The crew noticed it was sounding a bit wrong when you brought it back here, so they wanted to check it out. The motor seems to be flooded or something. Too much fuel in the cylinders.”
Our parents stepped over to peer down at Mr. Batiste.
One of the crew attempted to crank the engine, but he ended up shrugging at Mr. Batiste. “She’s dead.”
The crew took a blow-up dingy from the boat and returned with Mr. Batiste to the yacht.
“Oh now I feel really bad,” said Mrs. Dumaj. “Your boys took the time to bring us all over here, and now the boat’s not going.”
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Batiste shook her head emphatically. “The boys were due to return here in any case. We’ll see what we can do to get you back to your island in the afternoon.”
“We’ll figure it out,” mom assured her. “You’ve helped us enough.”
“We can even stay tonight on the island, maybe?” said Mrs. Dumaj.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said Mrs Batiste. “There’s no accommodation to be had here. There’s a bit of camping available I think, but that’s all.”
Mom turned and looked out at the wide beach, empty as far as the eye could see.
Mr. Batiste walked out on deck, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “I have a thought. We’re having a little occasion here on the beach late this afternoon. We’d be honored if you’d join us. And we’d also like to have you all stay here on the yacht overnight. There’s plenty of rooms—a ridiculous amount of cabins actually.”
“We’d like for you all to stay,” Emerson put in quickly.
“That’s a very generous offer,” said mom, “but we can’t impose. And by the sounds of it, we’re in the way right now. What’s the occasion you’re having?”
Mr. Batiste put his arm around his wife. “We’re reaffirming our wedding vows.”
Mom looked surprised for a moment, then shot them a warm smile. “Congratulations. That’s lovely.”
