The doll's house
Sep. 25th, 2017 11:02 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuShort Affair Challenge, 25 September (hysteria, pink)
The doll’s house
A mid-autumn night’s dream?
When the child, Maeve, was sent to bed, the two agents were able to talk a little more freely to her mother. They planned to walk up the glen in the morning – appearing to do a circuit of the mountain, but actually to stalk some members of the Thrush family.
In autumn, it wasn’t wise to leave it too late to get back, and get caught in the total darkness of a Scottish mountainside, Kate warned them. She talked about sandwiches and flasks, socks and boots, waterproofs, and the best route to take for a wonderful view, “as long as the mist doesn’t come down,” which was all too probable at this time of year.
They were politely agreeing to all this, when there was a strange noise from upstairs. A door slamming? Something falling?
Kate went up to see, and few moments later they heard her cry out.
“What’s happened to her?” cried her mother.
“I don’t know,” said Napoleon, bending over her and waving a hand in front of her eyes.
“It could be sleep paralysis,” suggested Illya. “It happens when someone wakes, but their brain doesn’t catch up and the body remains paralysed. Quite frightening,” he added. “Did you find out what the noise was?”
Kate looked blankly at him. “What noise?”
Something caught his eye as she spoke. He looked up at the doll’s house that stood on a table in the child’s direct line of sight. Nothing…
“The noise you came up to investigate,” he said. “Do you get mice or rats?”
“Certainly not,” said Kate indignantly, “why?”
“I just thought I saw something move in the doll’s house. Maybe that was the noise.”
“There’s a doll in there, looking out,” said Napoleon, “that’s all.”
Kate was tucking the bedclothes round her daughter, and tried to bend her arm in order to cover it. They heard her sharp intake of breath and looked round.
The arm was stiff and cool, like a plaster arm painted to look like flesh. As they watched, the stiffness seemed to spread. Her skin became hard and shiny as if lacquered; her face, chalky white, with patches of pink that coloured her cheeks and lips; her hair had become frizzy and lighter in colour. It was as if she were becoming a doll – and yet she was still warm, still human.
“It’s some kind of hysteria,” said Illya, “it must be.”
“You know what today is, don’t you?” said Napoleon.
“Friday.”
“No, it’s Halloween.”
Illya snorted. Kate was aghast. “So it is,” she said. “That’ll be it – the fairies have got her. They won’t let go till tonight.” She clasped her hands together in anguish, “She could die, they’ll take her dancing in the hills.”
Illya stared at her, “That’s nonsense,” he said. “There are no such things as fairies.”
“Certainly there are,” she said, calmly.
They jumped as the doll’s house rattled behind them.
“The doll has moved,” said Napoleon, looking in again.
“Oh, come on!” said Illya, joining him at the little window. “Where is it?”
“She’s come to the door. Look.”
The noise came again. “I think she’s trying to come out.” Napoleon peered in again. “No, she’s moved again. Someone must be doing this – I wonder how.”
“It’s the fairies,” said her mother.
Illya cast up his eyes, but it was certain that the doll had moved. He squatted to look under the table the house stood on. It was just an ordinary table. He felt under it; there was nothing there. He stood up again, and the house seemed to quiver. “Where is the doll now?”
“Can’t see,” said Napoleon. “Let’s open it up – does it have a latch or something?”
“No, don’t touch it!” said Kate. “They’ll come for her.”
Illya looked at the child again. She looked so strange. “May I touch her?” he asked.
“What for?”
“I want to see what’s happened,” and he lifted her out from under the covers. She hung stiffly in his hands, painted blue eyes wide open, painted shoes that dangled and knocked against each other like little clogs. Horrified, he laid her back down again and pulled the covers over her.
“I don’t believe this,” he growled. “We’re being manipulated, hallucinating. Let’s get out of here.”
Napoleon and Kate, transfixed, watched him go out. Illya ran down the stairs and out into the garden to look up at the window. The cold air seemed to wake him from a dream but, in the window, shapes were moving against the curtains. He bent, looking for a stone to break the window and let air in, and passed out.
The clock in the hall downstairs struck eleven times, a melodious sound in the silent house.
**************Maeve ran from room to room. It was all familiar but wrong. This wasn’t her home, though she knew everything in it. But when she tried them, the windows wouldn’t open, the front door was locked, the back door also. She was crying, now, for her mother. She flung herself at the doors and windows, making the whole house shake. Frightening images lurked outside; great eyes, one greeny-brown, one bright blue; sounds of deep voices came and went.
Everything in the house was rough, and coarse, not like the things in her home. It was as if they had been made of huge materials that wouldn’t fold, or take a polish. The plates in the kitchen were thick and white and arranged, just four of them, on a strange wooden dresser. There were blue-patterned cups and saucers on the table – but she couldn’t work out what the pattern was meant to be. The pans were painted, not metal. The chairs weren’t right. She sat on the floor and wept, but nobody came.
She was a big girl now, Mammy said; she had to work out what to do by herself. She climbed the stairs and searched the upstairs rooms. It wasn’t hard, the rooms had very little in them, and it all seemed to be too big – not like proper furniture, and the taps wouldn’t turn in the bathroom. The windows up here wouldn’t open either.
She looked up at the hatch in the ceiling above the stairs. If she could get up there, maybe she could find a way out onto the roof. She knew there was a window up there. She didn’t know how she knew, just that she did. Dragging a chair from a bedroom, she could reach the hatch but not open it. Nearly crying again, she went to look for something bigger. There was a dressing table. Nothing was very heavy, it wasn’t like her own furniture. This was better. She pushed the hatch open and putting her elbows over the edge and kicking hard, she scrambled up into the roof.
**************Napoleon sat on a chair, Kate on the bed, holding her daughter’s plaster hand. They were weary and stupefied, and seemed to have been there for hours, unmoving. Napoleon looked at his own hands and started. He tried but couldn’t bend his fingers, straighten his legs, turn his head.
Illya came sighing back to consciousness, feeling very cold. The garden path was chill and damp under him. He pushed himself up and looked around. Where was he? Where was Napoleon? What was this house?
He had a hazy memory of holding a doll in his arms at some point in the recent past; a strange close atmosphere in a bedroom. He got to his feet and staggered to the open back door. His training kicked in and he paused to draw his weapon from its holster before crossing the threshold. There was no-one there, but he kept it in his hand as he searched the house.
The bedroom doors were all closed. Illya opened each of them carefully, and at last found his partner and Kate. They were as if turned to stone, the child too.
Dashing to the window, he flung it open to let in the cold night air.
***********************The little window was in the end wall. She pushed it open and tried to climb out. The air was stiff; it stretched like thin rubber, and wouldn’t let her through. She took a run and threw herself at it. And fell.
***********************The clock struck midnight. Kate and Napoleon blinked and moved. There was a clatter beside him and Illya turned to find a small object lying beside the doll’s house. He picked it up. A frizzy-haired, blue-eyed, pink-cheeked doll.
A little cry came from the bed. Maeve sat up. “What are you doing with my wee dolly?” she said.
The doll’s house
A mid-autumn night’s dream?
When the child, Maeve, was sent to bed, the two agents were able to talk a little more freely to her mother. They planned to walk up the glen in the morning – appearing to do a circuit of the mountain, but actually to stalk some members of the Thrush family.
In autumn, it wasn’t wise to leave it too late to get back, and get caught in the total darkness of a Scottish mountainside, Kate warned them. She talked about sandwiches and flasks, socks and boots, waterproofs, and the best route to take for a wonderful view, “as long as the mist doesn’t come down,” which was all too probable at this time of year.
They were politely agreeing to all this, when there was a strange noise from upstairs. A door slamming? Something falling?
Kate went up to see, and few moments later they heard her cry out.
*******************
They ran up the stairs, and found her in the child’s bedroom staring down at her daughter who was lying utterly still with her eyes open. Her face lacked all expression; she seemed awake but unable to move or speak. “What’s happened to her?” cried her mother.
“I don’t know,” said Napoleon, bending over her and waving a hand in front of her eyes.
“It could be sleep paralysis,” suggested Illya. “It happens when someone wakes, but their brain doesn’t catch up and the body remains paralysed. Quite frightening,” he added. “Did you find out what the noise was?”
Kate looked blankly at him. “What noise?”
Something caught his eye as she spoke. He looked up at the doll’s house that stood on a table in the child’s direct line of sight. Nothing…
“The noise you came up to investigate,” he said. “Do you get mice or rats?”
“Certainly not,” said Kate indignantly, “why?”
“I just thought I saw something move in the doll’s house. Maybe that was the noise.”
“There’s a doll in there, looking out,” said Napoleon, “that’s all.”
Kate was tucking the bedclothes round her daughter, and tried to bend her arm in order to cover it. They heard her sharp intake of breath and looked round.
The arm was stiff and cool, like a plaster arm painted to look like flesh. As they watched, the stiffness seemed to spread. Her skin became hard and shiny as if lacquered; her face, chalky white, with patches of pink that coloured her cheeks and lips; her hair had become frizzy and lighter in colour. It was as if she were becoming a doll – and yet she was still warm, still human.
“It’s some kind of hysteria,” said Illya, “it must be.”
“You know what today is, don’t you?” said Napoleon.
“Friday.”
“No, it’s Halloween.”
Illya snorted. Kate was aghast. “So it is,” she said. “That’ll be it – the fairies have got her. They won’t let go till tonight.” She clasped her hands together in anguish, “She could die, they’ll take her dancing in the hills.”
Illya stared at her, “That’s nonsense,” he said. “There are no such things as fairies.”
“Certainly there are,” she said, calmly.
They jumped as the doll’s house rattled behind them.
“The doll has moved,” said Napoleon, looking in again.
“Oh, come on!” said Illya, joining him at the little window. “Where is it?”
“She’s come to the door. Look.”
The noise came again. “I think she’s trying to come out.” Napoleon peered in again. “No, she’s moved again. Someone must be doing this – I wonder how.”
“It’s the fairies,” said her mother.
Illya cast up his eyes, but it was certain that the doll had moved. He squatted to look under the table the house stood on. It was just an ordinary table. He felt under it; there was nothing there. He stood up again, and the house seemed to quiver. “Where is the doll now?”
“Can’t see,” said Napoleon. “Let’s open it up – does it have a latch or something?”
“No, don’t touch it!” said Kate. “They’ll come for her.”
Illya looked at the child again. She looked so strange. “May I touch her?” he asked.
“What for?”
“I want to see what’s happened,” and he lifted her out from under the covers. She hung stiffly in his hands, painted blue eyes wide open, painted shoes that dangled and knocked against each other like little clogs. Horrified, he laid her back down again and pulled the covers over her.
“I don’t believe this,” he growled. “We’re being manipulated, hallucinating. Let’s get out of here.”
Napoleon and Kate, transfixed, watched him go out. Illya ran down the stairs and out into the garden to look up at the window. The cold air seemed to wake him from a dream but, in the window, shapes were moving against the curtains. He bent, looking for a stone to break the window and let air in, and passed out.
The clock in the hall downstairs struck eleven times, a melodious sound in the silent house.
**************
Everything in the house was rough, and coarse, not like the things in her home. It was as if they had been made of huge materials that wouldn’t fold, or take a polish. The plates in the kitchen were thick and white and arranged, just four of them, on a strange wooden dresser. There were blue-patterned cups and saucers on the table – but she couldn’t work out what the pattern was meant to be. The pans were painted, not metal. The chairs weren’t right. She sat on the floor and wept, but nobody came.
She was a big girl now, Mammy said; she had to work out what to do by herself. She climbed the stairs and searched the upstairs rooms. It wasn’t hard, the rooms had very little in them, and it all seemed to be too big – not like proper furniture, and the taps wouldn’t turn in the bathroom. The windows up here wouldn’t open either.
She looked up at the hatch in the ceiling above the stairs. If she could get up there, maybe she could find a way out onto the roof. She knew there was a window up there. She didn’t know how she knew, just that she did. Dragging a chair from a bedroom, she could reach the hatch but not open it. Nearly crying again, she went to look for something bigger. There was a dressing table. Nothing was very heavy, it wasn’t like her own furniture. This was better. She pushed the hatch open and putting her elbows over the edge and kicking hard, she scrambled up into the roof.
**************
Illya came sighing back to consciousness, feeling very cold. The garden path was chill and damp under him. He pushed himself up and looked around. Where was he? Where was Napoleon? What was this house?
He had a hazy memory of holding a doll in his arms at some point in the recent past; a strange close atmosphere in a bedroom. He got to his feet and staggered to the open back door. His training kicked in and he paused to draw his weapon from its holster before crossing the threshold. There was no-one there, but he kept it in his hand as he searched the house.
The bedroom doors were all closed. Illya opened each of them carefully, and at last found his partner and Kate. They were as if turned to stone, the child too.
Dashing to the window, he flung it open to let in the cold night air.
***********************
***********************
A little cry came from the bed. Maeve sat up. “What are you doing with my wee dolly?” she said.
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no subject
Date: 2017-09-25 10:57 am (UTC)Weird, very weird. Written in a way that suspends disbelief while reading it, but leaves the reader with questions afterwards. Was this a THRUSH demonstration of a new device and how could it work? Was this really fairies? What was the author smoking anyway?
no subject
Date: 2017-09-25 11:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-25 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-25 02:59 pm (UTC)There's always something very strange about dolls' houses. I got the idea from the memory of something equally weird on French television about 20 years ago. We were supposed to have set off to meet the ferry back to England - from the other side of the country - but couldn't tear ourselves away.
(We made it to the ferry).
no subject
Date: 2017-09-25 02:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-25 03:01 pm (UTC)