The Doll House

The prompt: write a ghost story in 1000 words or less that investigates the mysteries of being human, the sorrow, and the joy of connecting to the diverse population around us.

THE DOLL HOUSE

Cindy was the last girl to arrive at the house. As with all the other girls, there was no car that dropped her off, no sound of the front door opening, no footsteps on the stairs. One day, they just looked up and there she was, standing nervous in the doorway.

“Where am I?” she asked, looking around the room. It was barren except for four dolls sitting on a worn bed, and four girls sitting on the floor.

“You’re safe now,” Sophie said, standing up and taking her hand.

By age, Sophie was the youngest – an eternal six years old – but she’d been born the earliest and had been at the house the longest, ever since 1979. She’d been quite a bit lonely until Martha arrived in 1984. She and Sophie were born in the same year, but Martha was eleven.

“What’s it like being eleven years old?” Sophie asked her once.

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” she’d said, “I guess a little harder than being six.”

Two girls arrived in 1992: eight-year-old Amanda and fifteen-year-old Diane.

Amanda became fast friends with Sophie and Martha, but Diane was older, and she was prone to moods. She would often sulk in corners and refuse to join in on the other girls’ games.

They learned to leave her alone whenever she got this way. They knew that she missed home the most and was horribly upset she couldn’t go back. After all, she was the only one who’d had a boyfriend and she didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

Now it was 1998, and with Cindy in the house that was five in all.

On her first day there, Sophie went over the rules.

“We can’t go downstairs, and we can’t go out the window. We can touch things, but we can’t move them. We never get hungry, and we never need to go to the bathroom, and nobody can hear us no matter how hard you try.”

“Sometimes the Bad Man comes upstairs and it’s like he can see us, but most of the time he can’t,” Amanda chimed in, “Sometimes he sits in here and cries.”

“What do you do all day?” Cindy asked.

“Time isn’t the same here,” Martha answered, “After a while you get used to it.”

Diane kept silent, standing by the window and staring out into the street. She wished, as she always did, that she could trade places with anyone walking by.

On Cindy’s second day there, they heard the Bad Man come home. They heard something heavy thudding down the basement stairs.

“He’s brought you home,” Sophie said, “I think he keeps us underneath the house.”

Hours passed, or maybe days, and the Bad Man came upstairs and put another doll on the bed. Then he sat in the middle of the room and cried while three of the girls pretended to busy themselves by fussing over the new doll. Diane stayed by the window and Cindy sat in front of the man and she cried too.

After a while, the Bad Man left, but Cindy kept crying and the other girls flocked over to her, even Diane. Amanda and Sophie hugged her, and Martha rubbed her back while she just cried and cried and cried.

“It’s okay to be mad,” Diane said standing over them, “But you’ll see. It’s really not so bad after a while. Sometimes you forget things and it can even be nice. Kind of even peaceful.”

Cindy’s sobs turned to hiccups and she slowly became still. She took some comfort in the older girl’s words, and though she was afraid, at least she wasn’t alone. And hadn’t she always wondered what it would be like to have sisters?

If she had to be stuck in a forever, maybe this one wouldn’t be so bad.