Dollhouse

by Anya Allyn

  * * * *

  Philomena zoomed at breakneck speed down the passage on a tricycle. Jessamine hadn’t been kidding about Philly’s speed on that thing. She crashed straight into the clown. She backed the bike up slowly, reverently, gazing up at the clown’s garish smile.

  I applied the face paint in the bathroom, and fixed my hair. My stomach hurt—it had never been so empty. I knew now that hunger was a world away from the feeling you got after skipping lunch. This was a gnawing ache.

  I had to eat. The others were surviving on the food they were given—I had to believe it wouldn’t poison me either.

  Breakfast was lumpy porridge again. Missouri had baked some bread in the fireplace—the smell made my mouth water. She set the bread down in the center of the table, and seated herself.

  I ate at the table with the others. Ethan ate breakfast too—he and I were slowly becoming part of the madness. I could feel it, day by day.

  No, Lacey will come back today—and we will out get out of here.

  I had to stay believing.

  Jessamine pushed her plate away. “I have some difficult news. The party is postponed. Our guest of honor had a terrible fall today—a flight of stairs I believe, and she had to be taken off to hospital.”

  Ethan and I met eyes.

  He sent his plate flying across the table. “What?”

  “It’s natural for you to be concerned. She’s suffered a confusion. I do hope she’ll come ‘round.”

  “You’re playing with us!” Ethan roared. “She’s been dead for days, hasn’t she? Well, hasn’t she?”

  “I told you all I know. Don’t take your ire out on me.”

  Ethan jumped to his feet, grabbing a large knife from the beside the bread loaf. “You made up the fall on the stairs. Confusion isn’t even the right word. You’re just a little girl playing make-believe, aren’t you?”

  Ethan charged at her with the knife. He held the weapon at her shoulder. “You tell your Henry to get himself down here—now!”

  Jessamine’s expression darkened. “You—are a vile, horrible boy. I knew I shouldn’t have allowed a boy in here.”

  Aisha raced over, placing her hands over Ethan’s, forcing the knife higher—to Jessamine’s throat. “It’s you that imprisons us! You let us out!”

  Missouri took Philomena by the hand and rushed her from the room. Sophronia sat stunned.

  The doll and bear—that had sat placidly still for days—moved from their seats. Behind me, I heard scraping, and I knew the clown was on its way.

  The doll pushed Aisha, making her fall onto Ethan.

  I tried to drag the doll away. It was strong—much stronger than something made of ceramic and soft material should be. Sickeningly strong. The doll turned its attention to me—shoving me. I sprawled to the floor.

  The doll laid itself down on me. It wasn’t heavy —just a dull weight. Then it pushed down—and down—and down—with a terrifying pressure.

  My bones will crack—or I’ll suffocate... .

  16. EMPTINESS IS A PLACE

  Ethan and Aisha were rounded up and herded by the other toys—the clown, the bear and the Raggedy Ann doll. They were taken from the room—Ethan screaming with rage.

  Minutes later, the doll lifted itself from me. It climbed back on its chair—as though nothing had happened. I drew deep breaths into my lungs.

  Nothing—no circus tricks or magic—could have toys doing those things. They were alive—yet not alive. They were inanimate—until they had a job to do.

  Sophronia stared at me, her dark eyes wide but expressionless.

  I stepped out of the kitchen and into the passage. Jessamine stood there—waiting for me.

  “This is what happens to rude, bad people.” She pointed towards the two enclosures with the metal barred doors.

  I took wooden steps down the passage. Ethan and Aisha were locked in the enclosures, hands on the bars.

  “They are to stay here, without dinners or breakfasts until they learn better manners. And you would do well to remember their fate.” Jessamine turned on her heel and left in the direction of the ballroom.

  I tried to offer words of solidarity to Aisha and Ethan, but no words came. Ethan shook the bars, but they barely rattled.

  There was nothing to do but to walk after Jessamine. If I got locked away too—I was no help to anyone—especially not to Ethan and Aisha.

  Missouri rocked Philomena in the big rocking chair, singing her the “Hush, Little Baby’ song. Her words faltered as she saw us.

  “You are to read in silence,” Jessamine instructed. “I am very tired.”

  I took out a book from the library—any book. My mind was burned—there was no way I could concentrate on anything.

  Sophronia read a book of Shakespeare plays. She stole glances at me every now and again over the top of her book.

  After an hour, Jessamine announced that she was retiring to the bed chamber. We were to stay in the ballroom—and to engage in quiet activities only.

  The clown stationed itself at the entry to the ballroom.

  Hours wound on.

  We read, we drew, we sat and stared into nothingness. Whenever I approached Missouri to try to talk to her—the clown moved towards us.

  I woke from a short nap—hunger gnawing at my stomach. The clock said the time was a quarter past seven. That was crazy. Breakfast had only been a few hours ago. But if the clock said seven, everyone would soon be put to bed again.

  The clown was gone.

  I stepped over to Missouri. Philomena was asleep on her shoulder.

  “It’s seven o’clock,” I whispered to Missouri. “We haven’t had dinner.”

  Missouri’s eyes were heavy. “There won’t be dinner tonight.”

  “Because of us—what we did?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You all must be more careful. Her punishments can get worse than what she’s doing to the boy and Angeline.”

  I wanted to ask what those punishments were—but something told me I was better off not knowing.

  I dropped on a chair beside her. “Can I ask you something?”

  She eyed me with a blank expression, and I knew that she might choose to reject my question.

  “How did you get here? Who brought you here?”

  The muscles around her brow constricted. “I brought me here—most of the way.”

  “I know that—you ran away from home.” I smiled grimly. “What made you run away?”

  She shrugged her free shoulder, running her hand along a length of Philomena’s hair. “I was a foster child—I’d just turned thirteen—and my foster family put on a party for me. But I was just so unhappy.”

  She eyed the ceiling, as though trying to remember a former existence. “It wasn’t their fault—I just hadn’t had a very good life. I escaped through a window... the night of my birthday. I slept in a supermarket car park—and the next day I caught a bus. I decided I was going to catch buses to wherever they took me... I didn’t care where. I’d just walk up to a bus and ask the driver where it was headed—and whatever he said—I said, ‘Yep, that’s where I’m going’.”

  I tried to picture her as a wild-eyed thirteen year old—running away for a life of adventure.

  She breathed deeply. “The last bus—was full of retirees headed out for day at somewhere called Devils Hole. I headed off into the forest. I had a backpack full of food... there were fresh water rivers... and it was summer. I thought I could hide out for a while... be alone and just think.”

  Raising her eyes, she stared straight through me. “All I know is... I went to sleep in the forest... and woke up here.”

  * * * *

  Days passed—I didn't know how many. My mind could barely grasp their passing. It was like I was two places at once—here, and still standing above the underground in Henry's shed. It wasn't conceivable to me that a simple choice could have ended in this. Surely I could still turn around and walk away at will?
>
  Freezing water pummeled my body. I rubbed myself up and down with the soap with frenzied motion. But I couldn’t bear to stay underneath the water long enough to wash the soap off. I wrenched the tap off with two hands—and reached for the damp towel. Breathing hard, I attempted to dry myself. The cold made my body react as though it had just run a marathon. Giving up on getting dry, I pulled the slip and dress over my head.

  I stepped into the bloomers—then struggled with the stockings and boots. Jessamine insisted I dress this way now.

  Bending over the sink, I scooped water into my mouth. My stomach griped and twisted. I felt the water run all the way through my stomach and into my intestines.

  My stomach and intestine were completely empty.

  Emptiness is a place—an abandoned town—a bottomless hole.

  And this was only a few days without food.

  A terrible thought entered my head.

  We were at the mercy at whatever Henry chose to put in the dumb waiter. What if he got sick—or died? No one else knew we were down here. There was no one else to feed us.

  Or what if he decided there were too many of us down here now—and he decided not to send down any more food?

  In my heart I knew something bad had happened to Lacey. But I couldn’t let myself think about that anymore—else I’d curl up and want to die.

  I had to find out who The First One was. There had to be traces of her somewhere. Missouri hadn't wanted to say more about her. Perhaps The First One had left a note in one of the books. I had to try. I realized I still hadn’t given up on the idea of a secret map of the underground being hidden away inside a book.

  Hanging the towel to dry over a rack, I studied myself in the mirror. My body stood there, but my mind was locked within a box. Only a small part of me still functioned—I had to grasp tightly onto that or I'd slip completely away. My expression was one of frozen fear. I guessed I looked like that all the time now.

  * * * *

  I knelt in front of the fire, letting its warmth seep into my flesh—but it didn’t penetrate all the way through. My hair dried a little after a few minutes. The only time Jessamine seemed to allow anyone to sit in front of the fire was to dry their hair. She seemed to hate the look of any of the girls with wet hair—she called them drowned rats.

  Missouri and Philomena came to join me. The warmth made our hunger a little easier to bear. For me, it was different though. I had reserves the other girls didn’t. They’d been malnourished a long time.

  I understood now how Missouri had lost track of time over the years. Already, I didn’t know if four or six or eight days had passed—it was impossible to tell. I stared into the fire, disconnected from everything, even myself.

  Stepping over to the library, I pulled out a murderously thick book. I’d heard of the title—War and Peace, but didn’t know anyone who’d read it. No wonder—the thing weighed a ton. Handmade paper bookmarks fluttered from the back jacket of the book. Missouri and Sophronia’s bookmarks.

  I replaced the book, and continued my search for any clue of The First One—flipping through book after book and then replacing it.

  “My my, you are having trouble finding a decent read,” said Jessamine. “Just choose one and have done.”

  “I have stomach pains,” I told her. “May I be excused?”

  She waved me away.

  I crept down the corridor, but not to the bathroom. I'd had a thought the belongings of The First One might still be in the store room. I turned left into the store room and started looking through the drawers. I didn't know how I'd even recognize the clothing or anything of the girl I sought.

  Frowning, I tugged open one of the large drawers at the bottom of the cupboard—it hadn’t been this heavy last time I checked it. Large reams of a sturdy green material had been folded and squashed in here. Straining, I pulled at the thing—falling backwards with it as it wrenched loose.

  The taste of bile hit the back of my throat.

  The material was our tents.

  Someone gasped behind me. I turned. Missouri stood with her hand over her mouth.

  I stuffed the tents back into the drawer, and ran back to the ballroom. I curled up into a chair with trembling legs. Missouri followed, sinking stiffly to a chair beside me.

  Philomena was sprawled in the middle of the floor by herself—a doll in each hand—humming.

  “Philly—do stop that rowdiness,” called Jessamine.

  She began bawling, clutching her stomach. “My belly hurts. It hurts!”

  Missouri knelt beside the little girl, raising her eyes to Jessamine. “She’s hungry—she needs food.” Her voice was low, faltering.

  Jessamine rose to her feet. “You know exactly why there’s no food. You can only blame yourselves.”

  “Philly’s too young to know the rules. She doesn’t deserve to be punished.”

  “Nevertheless she has to learn,” said Jessamine. “Anyway—surely it’s not that bothersome to do without for a few days.”

  Sophronia rose from a dark corner—I hadn’t even noticed her sitting there in the shadows. She hurried out of the room, and returned with a trolley of cups and steaming tea.

  “I can always rely on you, dear Sophronia.” Jessamine bowed her head. “Making tea is precisely what is called for.”

  I knew even before I was given the cup of tea that I was going to drink it. It wasn’t food, exactly—but it was something. And it was going to put me to sleep—take me away to a place where I wouldn’t feel this clamoring hunger. Where I wouldn't know that searchers or bushwalkers wouldn't ever find our tents.

  * * * *

  I woke into dim, spidery light. Air so cold my breath whitened the air. The smell of wet moss clung everywhere. My arms pained stiffly as I tried to stretch them—they'd been crossed over my chest. My heart clutched as I realized I was in the bed chamber. I sat bolt upright, musty sheets slipping away from my body. I didn’t remember even coming in here.

  I’d slept in the bed with the dark stain.

  Missouri and Philomena began to stretch and wake.

  Philomena tried to get up, but dropped herself back down flat on her back.

  Jessamine stood at the door. She wore a deep purple dress—the fabric grayed and stiff. “Come on lazy bones. All of you. No dilly dallying— I have the most delirious news to tell you all.”

  Missouri's eyes were ringed with dark shadows. “Philly needs food. You’re starving us.”

  Jessamine glared. “You and your impertinent accusations. Get up.”

  Philomena dragged herself obediently out of bed, wobbling on unsteady legs. She collapsed on the floor.

  Missouri rushed to pick her up and place her back in the bed, brushing hair from her forehead. She bowed her head into the bed, sobbing.

  It was the first time I’d seen her cry—or any of them cry.

  Sophronia roused. She gazed at me with dull eyes.

  “Now that you're all awake, I'll tell you my news. Jessamine paused and clasped her hands. “We have chocolate cake! Today is my birthday!”

  Missouri stared at her with a wet face. “How old are you, Jessamine?”

  Jessamine scowled in Missouri’s direction. “Why is everyone still in bed? This is a day of celebration—get up and follow me! Come Sophronia!”

  We were herded out to the kitchen where a large, elaborate iced cake sat in pride of place on the table. Fifteen pink candles circled the edge.

  The sight of food made my mouth water. Raggedy Ann and Clown moved into the kitchen, standing at the door. Sophronia stepped on tippy toes to fetch a box of matches from the cupboard. She lit the candles one by one while Missouri placed plates on the table.

  Jessamine looked expectantly around at everyone.

  Missouri began the Happy Birthday song—her voice thin. Philomena and I joined her—the song a mournful dirge.

  Sophronia cut the cake—giving Jessamine the first slice.

  Jessamine glowed with excitement. “I wish that all m
y friends have a delightfully delicious day and that for celebrating this day with me they all have their hearts’ desire granted.”

  Sophronia pushed pieces of cake in front of each of us. My heart dropped to see pieces given to the doll and bear—pieces that would only end up in the trash. She took the rest of the cake to the bench, and placed it into a canister.

  The cake tasted rich and wonderful. Sugar hit my brain like a speeding train. Philomena smiled broadly—icing all around her face. She wiped every bit of icing off with her fingers and ate it.

  Jessamine declared that games were to commence in the ballroom now. I wanted to stay here and eat more cake—at least just one more piece. But she had already left the table—and I knew I was expected to follow.

  Ethan and Aisha stood with their hands on the bars as we filed past. Jessamine didn’t acknowledge them. Looking back, I exchanged long glances with them—trying to tell them to hang on. It seemed a hollow gesture.

  Sophronia bobbed down next to Aisha’s cell—pushing an object inside—the canister from the kitchen—then walked away quickly. I tried to catch Sophronia’s eye—to thank her. But she kept her face away from me.

  Birthday celebrations went on for hours, including games of hide and seek and pass the parcel. The prize in the pass the parcel was always just some toy from the toy shelves. But Philomena’s eyes still lit up each time someone began to unwrap their prize. I discovered playing charades with Jessamine was next to impossible—she referenced people and things of history I had sketchy knowledge of—and she couldn’t guess my charade subjects. After the games came the dancing displays that claimed far more energy that anyone had to give—but Jessamine was insistent. She clapped her hands as the last of us danced an old dance named the Charleston.

  “This has turned out to be the best birthday ever.”

  She flopped into a chair, her face drawn and tired. Her eyelids closed. Behind her, the clock hands whirred around and around. It was suddenly eight at night again.

  “Time for sleep!” Jessamine crooned.

  Missouri stared at me with anxious eyes.