The Doll House

Her husband was dead long before I ever set eyes upon her but that didn’t stop Mary parading her wedding ring any time a workman came to do something with the house.

“Is that Miss Forrester?” They’d ask when she opened the front door.

“Mrs,” she’d say, pushing the ring so close to their faces that it must have appeared as a golden blur. “…and don’t you forget it.”

Most took it in good humour but a few were clearly disturbed at the idea that she would assume a ninety something year old woman (such as she was perceived) could still be a good match. They’d push through and finish their designated jobs in super fast speed – probably for fear that she’d change into her stockings and try to whisk them away for an early bird lunch at the local community centre.

She objected to anyone – even me – addressing her as Mary. “Far too familiar.” She’d say. “People should know their place.”

She liked tea – lots of tea. In fact I’d say a good third of my time was spent in the kitchen with the kettle on. Afterwards, she’d keep the leaves and spread them out on the carpet, completely covering the perimeter of the room - pretty much after every cup. As a stain remover it actually worked remarkably well, though I’m sure that’s not why she did it. I’d usually offer to clear them up but this was more of a courtesy, she never accepted - preferring instead to do it herself when I left. I think it was the only household task she ever did, but to be fair she did make the mess.

Nearing the end of my daily shift around eight pm, Mary would sit and stare at the tealeaves till her eyes appeared glazed, or should I say more glazed than usual? First time that happened I actually felt my heart thud through my chest. She just sat there motionless, staring into space. Had my first client died on my first shift? I crouched down till we were practically face to face and shouted:

“Miss Forrester, can you hear me?”

Her unflinching stare was eerie; it was like she could see right through me.

She grabbed both of my hands and began some sort of guttural chant. Quite what she was saying I couldn’t make out but it definitely wasn’t English. I tried to back away but could not. For such an old lady her frail withered hands still packed a surprisingly tight grip. After a moment her eyes returned to normal and I was able to free myself.

I didn’t report it that time, or the ten or fifteen times after. I had a job to do and wasn’t about to give up on her. Besides, the shock factor only works once. She was just an old lady after all.

Dolls

Mary had a collection of vintage porcelain dolls, so well preserved you’d assume they had been vacuum wrapped the moment they’d come off the production line. Aside from their immaculate and elegant turn of the century clothes, each of the dolls was identical – black moulded hair and painted bright blue eyes. Their faces were so well shined you could see your own reflection if you held them close enough (which I only ever did once).

House visitors found them them a little creepy. A little? They always gave the dolls a wide berth. A few of the older Timorian residents completely refused to work in the house, claiming to feel an unnatural energy emanating from ‘those glass eyes.’

Ridiculous, of course.

Though I can imagine it to be unnerving having forty-nine pairs of eyes follow you around whenever you enter the room.

Mary loved the dolls. She spoke about them – and to them - almost as though they were living family members. She had no television set and her only chair faced a partitioned bookshelf that covered the entire wall. Each cubbyhole, save one empty shelf in the centre, was a makeshift home for her resident houseguests.

Three Weeks Ago

“You remind me of someone.” Mary said.

I was in the kitchen making her special formula tea, the kettle was whistling on the stove and she was sitting in the living room - yet her delicate voice was so clear. Almost as though she had been whispering directly in my ear. Must sound strange to you, but after eleven months of ‘strange,’ well, you get used to it.

“Oh, who?” I shouted back through the door whilst grinding the extra tea ingredients in my pestle and mortar.

From time to time I’d smile to myself: the ladies that my colleagues cared for had to make do with a simple tea bag and splash of milk. I like to do the job properly.

“Just a daughter of a man I knew many years ago.”

“Was she pretty?” I asked, inching into the living room with two china cups, two saucers and a steaming teapot on an old wooden tray. I placed it on the small table to the side of her chair.

Mary shrugged. “Phppt, we never got on. Little madam.”

“Thanks very much.” I said under my breath whilst pouring.

Mary smiled and winked at me. I’m sure her hearing was better than she often let on.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

Mary sighed, “She started to meddle with forces that she couldn’t possibly comprehend. The townsfolk made short work of her though. Drowned I believe.”

I sat cross-legged at her feet, facing the family of dolls, whilst Mary supped her tea. I must confess, at that moment it did feel like they were all looking at me – into me – sifting though my memories. I shuddered.

“Are you cold, my dear?” Mary asked, placing her cup back down on the saucer. I looked back and smiled.

“No, I’m good. How’s your tea?”

“Delightful dear,” she answered. “Though clearly you don’t like it. You haven’t touched a drop. You do recall that it’s rude to expect a lady to drink alone?”

I nodded, picked mine up, careful not to spill any on the carpet and began to drink.

“That’s better,” Mary said, staring at the only empty cubbyhole on her bookshelf.

“Is that saved for something special?” I asked pointing at the empty space.

“Very special,” she nodded, placing her hand on my head. Her bony fingers weaved their way through my hair and finally rested on my scalp. I motioned to turn and face her.

“Don’t move dear.” She said, and I felt compelled to obey. A few moments later Mary let out a gratifying sigh and removed her hand. “Now, hand me my hussif and basket.”

The hussif, I learned was an early form of the word ‘housewife.’ It wasn’t a person, rather a folded strip of material used to keep needles pins and other sewing equipment in. The costumes her dolls adorned were all hand made. For all her eccentricities Mary was a truly skilled seamstress. She reached into her basket and pulled out a silver pin, easily as long and thick as a knitting needle. It had an unusual decoration on the top. I moved in to take a closer look. It was a Timorian Bristleback spider; the eight silver legs attached the bejewelled abdomen to the ornate frame. Mary held the pointed end of the pin to the light then looked at me.

“Give me your hand dear.” I took a step back, suddenly very uncomfortable.

“Why?”

“It’s very sharp,” she answered, looking once more at the needle.

“I can see that.” I said.

“Well, I don’t want to cut myself. Hands aren’t what they used to be.”

I paused, daring myself to move forward.

“Come along dear. I don’t have all day.”

“You don’t have a voodoo doll inside there too do you?” I asked as I held out my hand in front of her.

Mary looked me in the eyes.

“I beg your pardon dear?” she said.

“Nothing. Just a joke.”

“Ah, good,” she answered, whilst gently placing the needle down on the palm of my hand. “Please sit down.” “That is a hat pin my dear. And that particular one is over one hundred years old.”

“Looks as good as new” I said.

“Well, old things can last forever if you preserve them right. Do you believe that?”

I stared at the shining pin.

“Now I do. Learn how to do that with people and you’d make a fortune.”

“Money,” she answered, shaking her head, “Is worthless. Silly scraps of paper or numbers on a computer. People only see it as valuable because they assign a value to it. No, at my age there is very little to value and preserve – except for life.”

I considered asking her exactly how old she was but thought better of it.

“So, how did you come by this?” I asked, placing the needle down on my lap.

“Belonged to a friend of mine, a long time ago.” She glanced over at one of her dolls – the first one - and sighed. “I made that for her.” The dolls outfit was beautiful: An elegant silk white dress and matching hat, lavishly embroidered with silver thread. Knee length black boots completed the ensemble. I could almost imagine wearing a full size version at an 18th century tea dance or outside ball.

“She must have loved it,” I said.

Mary shook her head. “She didn’t want it at first, but felt obliged after I helped her out of a predicament.”

I waited expectantly for her to continue. “Oh my, we are curious tonight aren’t we?” she said. I laughed. “On the way home one evening, with no male escort by her side, she was set upon by a gentleman - and I use the term loosely – who sought to take her innocence, oh and her purse.”

“Didn’t she call the police?”

“There was no need. An officer was nearby who saw the whole thing.”

“Okay?” I said.

“He watched as she struck the man, who was easily three times her size, and then pull the pin from her hat – the very one you are holding – to fend him off. During the frenzy she cut his cheek. Only then did the policeman intervene.”

“Sounds like she had a lucky escape.” “You’d think wouldn’t you? She was sent to prison. The judge said that blows and hatpins are not womanly weapons no matter how aggressive the man may be. He further said that she should shield herself behind a ladylike manner, therefore she was a much to blame as the man.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“Oh, he died.” she said. “Anyway, that’s all in the past. Would you like me to make you a doll?”

“What?” I said.

“I thought I was the one going deaf dear,” she replied. “I want to make you a doll. Would you like that?”

“Me? No. I mean you don’t have to.”

“I want to” Mary replied. You’ve looked after me I’d like to do something in return.”

“There’s really no need,” I said. “It’s my job and I’m happy to - ”

“Indulge an old lady, my dear.”

I shrugged and smiled. “Well, okay, if you really want to.”

“No, no.” she said, looking rather cross. “I can only do it if you really want me to. Now, tell me!”

“Oh, alright.” I said, more to calm her down. “I’d love for you to make me a doll.”

Two weeks ago.

“Tea dear. Make yourself some too.”

I had only been in the house a matter of moments – barely had time to remove my coat and hang it up. Mary was standing at her bookshelf (or should I say doll shelf) with her back to me.

“Very good ma’am.” I joked and walked into the kitchen, retrieving the pestle and mortar from my bag and placing it on the bench.

I took the tealeaves from the cupboard and set to work. She was clenching one of her dolls in both hands when I re entered the room, staring quizzically into its glass eyes. The doll, of course, had no choice but to stare right back.

“Everything okay?” I asked, gently placing the teapot and cups down on the table.

She didn’t answer at first, but was able to crack a wide seditious smile, which clearly exposed her few remaining teeth. She held my gaze for a few moments and then turned her attention back to the doll, placing it carefully back on the shelf. I had to tell myself – and not for the first time – that she was only a frail old lady, with heaven knows what mental ailments that choose to accompany the elderly and infirmed throughout their declining years.

She slowly made her way back to her seat and gently lowered herself down till she was sitting. She expelled a slight groan as she did so.

“I have a…” she shrugged and gestured with her hands as she tried to find the right words. “…Connection with those.” She pointed at her dolls.

“Yes.” I replied. ‘No shit’ I thought, and then smiled. I wasn’t a big swearer.

I needed that smile. Mary had more to say and it wasn’t going to be easy to hear.

“They talk to me,” she said.

I stayed silent.

“Do you believe that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“At least you’re honest.” She said.

I certainly didn’t feel honest. As a carer I had a certain relationship with Mary. I even felt a certain fondness towards her. But after my shift I was always free to go home. It may sound strange but recently I’d started to imagine what it must be like to be one of those dolls, how trapped they must feel – their only sense of normality coming from the least ‘normal’ person you could ever meet. If, in their situation, I were to strike up a conversation with her it would surely be a cry for help, to be set free, to escape.

“They talk about you.” She said.

“Okay?” I replied.

“And one of them talks to you.”

“He does?” I said.

Up to that point, Mary had been speaking to me but looking at her porcelain pets. She faced me and raised an eyebrow.

“How did you know it was a ‘he’?” she asked.

There was no levity in her voice. In fact the question felt more like the start of a calculated interrogation.

“I don’t,” I said. “Just the doll you were holding earlier was dressed in men’s farm clothes. I just assumed.”

“John Farrier.” She said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what he’s called.”

“Oh?”

“You still remind me of his daughter.”

“He’s a doll.” I replied and Mary ignored it.

“Seems I’m not the only one.” Mary said. “What do you mean?” “He thinks you ARE his daughter.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I said. “And I certainly don’t speak with him, I mean it!”

“Oh that much is true,” Mary replied. “He claims you pretend not to hear him but still glance over once in a while if he screams loud enough.”

I supped my tea. “He’s been screaming a lot lately.”

Last week

“How old do you think I am dear?” Mary asked, placing her empty teacup back on the saucer.

I shrugged. “It’s rude to ask.”

“You are not asking. Your etiquette remains intact.”

“Sixty four?” I offered.

“You flatter an old lady.” She replied. “Do you really think so?”

I most certainly did not. “Yes,” I replied.

“Well, I’ve undoubtedly lived a lifetime,” she said. “A few lifetimes some might say.”

“You must have seen a lot.” I said.

“You know I have dear. Now is not the time for small talk.”

That was me well and truly put in my place. Mary continued:

“Aside from my…” she gestured toward her dolls. “I have no family to speak of – not living anyway.”

She sighed and cupped my hands in hers, which made me feel a little uncomfortable.

“I’ll make a pot of tea.” I said.

“That can wait,” she said. “An old lady knows when it is her time, and mine is fast approaching.”

“Your time?” I asked, mildly surprised that she’d refused tea.

“Oh, really. Must I spell it out? I’m dying.”

Back in the office there were pools going as to how long Mary Forrester could possibly go on living. The old ladies that the others looked after had childhood memories in which they would throw eggs at the old witch that lived in the corner house on Malikim Street. They also claimed that their parents did the same in their formative years. They called this place the ‘Doll House’ and could only be talking about the home of Mary Forrester.

“Have you seen a doctor?” I asked.

Mary smiled and shook her head. “A lady knows when it is her time dear, believe me.”

I did.

“To business,” she said. “I don’t have much in the world and what I do have I’d like to give to you.”

I was taken aback. “Sorry I can’t. It’s very kind of you but…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Now, I’ve already spoken to a solicitor about placing you in my will, and granting you power of attorney but they seem to be of the misguided opinion that I am not of sound mind.”

“I have to say I agree with them.” I said rather bluntly.

Mary laughed. “You have a refreshing honesty dear. Time, alas, is not on my side. The only way I can leave my house and possessions to you when I die, is to sign them over to you whilst I am still alive… then trust you won’t cast me out to spend my remaining days at the mercy of the urban wilderness that lies beyond these doors.”

I was dumbfounded. “Why me?” I asked.

“I have no one else.”

Her reply was simple, straightforward and I suppose - if I was being honest - true. I’d looked after her for the better part of a year. She never spoke of her family. Anytime I broached the subject she’d change it. The most I had ever gleaned is that she was considered an outcast and that they were all dead. As for the rest of Timorian society, they either ignored or were too scared to spend any time in her presence. The girls in the office wanted nothing to do with her either and were eternally surprised that I’d ever volunteer for such a post.

“I don’t know what to say.” I said meekly.

Mary smiled, satisfied that she had convinced me (once again) to do her bidding.

“There is nothing to say,” she said. “Though, there are a few documents that you need to sign.”

Yesterday

“Stand in front of me dear. Let me see you.”

I complied, and even posed a little, doing a slight curtsy slightly raising the hem of my blue uniform dress to my knees.

“Hmm, free maids uniforms are a recent indulgence, handed down to the lower orders by those of means. Did you know that dear?” She said.

I stood upright. “So, I’m a maid now am I? I asked.

Mary smiled. “Before the nineteenth century even ladies’ maids were expected to provide their own respectable clothing in which to work, they had to be purchased with their own wages. Their reward was their position. And rightly so.”

“Well, this stuff is compulsory,” I said. “It’s not exactly comfortable.”

“Comfort!” Mary retorted. “Young girls these days don’t realise how fortunate they are.”

Mary rose from her chair and walked to her bedroom.

“Tea dear,” she called back. “I have a surprise for you when I return.”

I watched her leave the room and turned to enter the kitchen. As I raised my hand to open the kitchen door my fingers tingled and my head started to spin. All of a sudden, I heard a voice that wasn’t Mary; A male voice had forced itself inside my head and was now competing for centre stage amongst all my other thoughts.

“Get out!” He yelled.

I spun around to see the porcelain face of John Farrier staring right back at me. His command repeated over and over, growing in intensity each time. Within moments his booming voice was drowned out by other voices, too many to count. They were all desperate - crying and screaming for help. Some seemed to be begging for the sweet release of death while others pleaded to be set free. I pressed my hands against my ears, knowing all too well that my self-protective impulse would do little, if anything, to relieve the constant torment. I fell to my knees, feeling faint, and started to sob.

“So much pain.” I whispered. “So much…”

I don’t know how long I was out for but when I opened my eyes Mary was sitting with her sewing, humming some sickly old fashioned melody. She stopped singing when I eventually propped myself up to stand. I was still a little light headed so steadied myself on the wall.

“Manners dear. My children don’t like to be ignored.” Mary said without looking around. “They’ll just keep calling till you talk to them.”

“What?” I asked, still trying to steady myself.

“The voices dear. You heard them.”

It didn’t sound like a question, so I gave no answer. Instead, I walked into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Through the kitchen door I heard Mary resume her song.

“Our last cup of tea dear.” Mary said as I poured. “I have enjoyed our time together.”

“What do you mean?” I asked and raised my cup to my lips.

Mary shook her head. “Do that in a moment dear. First I must honour my promise to you.”

“Promise?” I asked, returning the cup to the saucer.

“Your doll,” she said. “Her garments are ready.” Lying on Mary’s lap was a neatly folded white maids outfit, with a silk hat resting on top.

Unmistakably apparent was the enormous size of the outfit.

“How big is the doll?” I asked. “I could fit into that.”

Mary nodded. “That’s the idea dear. You can change in my bedroom if you wish.”

“But I thought…”

“Indulge an old lady dear,” she said. “Now, run along.”

She handed me the clothes and I made my way to her bedroom, closing the door behind me. When I re emerged, I looked like a genuine working maid from the 18th century - black petticoat, covered by a white cotton gown and a white linen apron. The black lace up shoes were my exact size and the white silk hat fitted perfectly too.

“What do you think?” I asked, standing in front of her, obscuring her view of the dolls, which she had been intently staring at when I made my entrance.

“Move aside and drink your tea dear.” She said.

Feeling a little deflated at the lack of adoration that my new outfit was receiving I walked over to my cup, picked it up and started to drink.

“How does it feel dear?” Mary asked.

“A little tight,” I replied, through a mouthful of tea.

“Corset too?” She asked.

I nodded. Without the corset, this outfit would surely have been bursting at the seams.

“You’ve pinned your gown correctly too dear. I must say I’m impressed.”

I looked down and jokingly offered a curtsy “Thank you ma’am.”

“It has been a while dear.” Mary said reflectively. “You’ll do quite nicely.”

“For what?” I asked.

“To join my family of course.”

Mary reached into the space between her seat cushion and the arm of her chair and produced the bejewelled hatpin that she’d shown me weeks earlier. It gleamed in the room light.

“You see dear, I have lived a long time. Forty-nine lifetimes you might say.”

The panicked voices started to fill my head once more. Though Mary’s voice was as clear is if it had been the only one in the room.

“And my weakened body,” Mary continued. “Emaciated with age, must now be laid to rest.”

My hands started to shake, and my vision was blurred as though I’d been drinking well over my capacity. I stumbled forward.

“Try to relax dear,” Mary said. “This won’t take long.”

My body started to seize; burning ice ran through my veins.

“What’s happening to me?” I wheezed. Mary rose from her seat, pushed the hatpin through my silk hat then took my hands in hers. I was powerless to move away.

“Signing my house over to you was necessary dear. You see, when I take over your body, the authorities won’t question my staying here. As a young girl, such as I will be, I can go out once more – experience life a new.”

I was frozen solid. The voices disappeared and were replaced by a racing heartbeat.

“Who knows,” laughed Mary. “I may even entertain a gentleman friend or two.”

Mary sat back down and closed her eyes. I heard her voice ring out inside my head.

“You won’t be in here for long,” she said inside my mind. “Soon be time to take your place amongst your brothers and sisters.”

Then something unexpected happened. Unexpected for Mary but not for me.

I moved.

First was the blink of an eye, then an inner calm precipitated total body movement and then a vengeful smile. The jewels on the ornate hatpin shone like a beacon. Mary’s final words were more like a faded whisper:

“No! It can’t be. What is happening?”

Back in the chair Mary screamed and her eyes shot open. I walked over to her, crouched down and brushed her fringe to one side.

“Oh, Mary” I said calmly. “John Farrier WAS my father.”

Mary could not speak.

“When you trapped him all those years ago, I swore that I’d make you pay, no matter that it might take an eternity. You are quite right though. Back then I was little more than a novice in the application of the dark arts.”

I took the shining hatpin and placed it on her lap.

“Experience counts dear.” I laughed.

Mary’s eyelids started to close.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I snapped, picking up the hatpin and pushing it through her hand.

Mary’s face was the perfect picture of shock, surprise and terror.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I have no intention of letting you fade gracefully away into the netherworld. You love the dolls so much I think you should join them.”

A trickle of blood made its way from the open wound on her hand, it ran down her index finger then froze like ice.

“It’s starting to happen,” I said, excited. “I expect you’re wondering how I beat you?”

Mary could not say anything. Her skin began to adopt a porcelain sheen.

“It was all in the tea you see. You thought you were preparing my body for the transfer but I added my own ingredients to the mix – enough to make me immune and, at the same time, render you quite susceptible to my will. "

A few moments later Mary’s body was gone, and in its place sat a porcelain doll, wearing a maids uniform – The same one (though much smaller) that she had intended for me, and coincidentally the same one she had been wearing the night she took the life of my father.

I placed Mary in the empty cubbyhole then sat down in my chair to pour myself another cup of tea.