The Dollhouse at Number 12

Eloise was eight when her family moved into the old house on Bramble Lane. It was a tall, narrow Victorian with a cracked flagstone path and a garden that had gone feral. Her parents were excited; they’d finally found a place with enough room for the whole family, a phrase that made Eloise’s stomach twist. She’d shared a cramped bedroom with her two younger brothers, Freddie and little Tom, for as long as she could remember. Now, she had a room of her own for the first time. It was at the top of the stairs, a small, crooked room with a window that looked out onto the tangled branches of an ancient yew tree. She tried to feel happy about it, but the house seemed to hold its breath, and the silence in her new room was cavernous.

That first night, she lay in the narrow bed, listening to the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the old house. Freddie and Tom were asleep in their own room across the hall, and her mother was downstairs reading. The loneliness pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. She tossed and turned, wishing for the familiar sound of Tom’s breathing, even his occasional crying. The wind rattled the windowpanes, and she pulled the covers up to her chin. Just as her eyes began to grow heavy, she heard a soft, dry scraping sound from the corner of the room. She froze, every muscle tense. She strained her eyes into the darkness, but she could only make out the vague shapes of her dresser and a chair piled with clothes. The scraping came again, like something dragging across the floorboards. Then, a small, clicking sound, followed by a faint rustle. Eloise held her breath, her heart hammering. She was too scared to call out, too scared to move. The sounds continued for a while, then stopped. She didn’t sleep that night, but when the first gray light of dawn crept in, she saw nothing out of place.

The next morning, she told her mother, who dismissed it as a mouse or the house settling. But Eloise couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different about her room. She examined every nook and cranny, and that’s when she found it, tucked behind a loose skirting board: a small, forgotten dollhouse. It was exquisitely made, with tiny windows and a little front door that actually opened. Inside, the rooms were fully furnished with miniature furniture, and tiny dolls made of porcelain with painted faces. Eloise was entranced. It felt like a treasure meant just for her. She took it to her desk and spent the afternoon exploring it. The dollhouse was a perfect replica of a grand old house, with a ballroom, a nursery, and a tiny attic. There were even tiny books on the shelves and a miniature fireplace with a painted fire. She loved it.

That night, she placed the dollhouse on her nightstand next to her bed. As she drifted off, she thought she heard a faint, tinkling sound, like a music box playing a lullaby. But she was too tired to investigate and soon fell asleep. In the middle of the night, she woke to the sound of a child crying. It was a thin, muffled wail, coming from the direction of the nightstand. She reached out and touched the dollhouse. The crying stopped. She lay still, waiting, and then it started again, this time accompanied by a scratching sound from inside the dollhouse. She switched on the lamp. The dollhouse was still, but she noticed that the tiny front door was now ajar. It had been closed when she went to bed. She got up and peered inside. The little porcelain family, which had been arranged in the living room, was now scattered in different rooms. The mother doll was in the attic, facing the wall. The father was in the kitchen, lying on the floor. And the two children, a boy and a girl, were pressed against the tiny windows, their painted faces seeming to stare at her. A chill ran down her spine. She slammed the dollhouse shut and shoved it under her bed, then spent the rest of the night with the lights on.

The next morning, she told her mother about the dollhouse and the strange things that had happened. Her mother smiled condescendingly and said, ‘It’s just your imagination, sweetie. You’re not used to being alone.’ But her mother agreed to take it away, and she put it in the attic. That night, alone in her room, Eloise felt a sense of relief, but it didn’t last. She woke again in the small hours to the sound of the scraping and clicking, now coming from under her bed. She shouted for her mother, and her mother came running up the stairs, her face pale. ‘What is it, darling?’ she asked. Eloise pointed to under the bed. Her mother knelt down and peered into the darkness. Then she reached in and pulled out the dollhouse. ‘How did this get here?’ she asked, her voice strained. Eloise shook her head. She had put it away in the attic herself. Her mother took the dollhouse and left the room, locking the door to the attic when she returned. ‘I’m going to burn it in the morning,’ she said firmly. But when morning came, the dollhouse was back on Eloise’s nightstand, pristine and undamaged.

Her mother was terrified. She called a friend who practiced the old ways. The friend said it was a ‘house spirit’ that had attached itself to the dollhouse, and it wanted a child’s company. She gave them a blessed charm to hang above Eloise’s bed and told them to put the dollhouse in a box, seal it with wax, and bury it in the garden. They did as she said. That night, Eloise slept soundly for the first time in days, though she dreamed of a small girl with dark eyes, no, she dreamed of a porcelain doll with a cracked face, beckoning to her from inside a window. She woke with a start, but the room was quiet.

The box stayed buried for a week. Then, one night, Eloise heard the scraping again. It was coming from the garden. She crept to the window and looked down. The moonlight illuminated the spot where they had buried the box, but now there was a mound of fresh earth, and sitting on top of it, covered in dirt, was the dollhouse. Its tiny windows were lit with a faint, blue light, and inside, the doll family had been rearranged. The mother doll was on the ground floor, her arm raised as if waving. Eloise felt a pull, an inexplicable desire to go outside and touch it. She fought it, but her feet carried her down the stairs. She opened the back door and stepped into the cold, damp garden. She walked to the dollhouse and knelt before it. The tiny front door opened, and a small, porcelain hand reached out, beckoning her. Eloise leaned in, and the hand touched her face. It was cold, and as it touched her, she felt a dreamy warmth spread through her. She heard a tiny voice say, ‘You’ll be my new friend. You’ll stay with me forever inside the walls.’

Her parents found her the next morning, sitting in the garden, hugging the dollhouse, with a serene smile on her face. She didn’t speak for weeks. When she finally did, she only said one thing: ‘I have to make sure the doors are locked from the inside.’ Her parents, in their grief, decided to sell the house, moving them all into a small apartment in the city. They left the dollhouse behind, locked in the abandoned house. But as they drove away, Eloise, staring out the back window, saw a small, pale face looking out from an upstairs window, and it was her own. She never told her parents, but sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she can still hear the faint tinkling of a music box, and she knows that part of her is still there, in that little room, waiting for the next child to come and play.