Hadley sprang from her bed and flung open the door. An enormous full moon hung suspended in the sky. It bathed the landing in a silvery glow. The scrap of darkness was gone.
“A rat,” she hissed. What else could it be?
Hadley wasn’t afraid of rats. She’d made peace with city creatures that skulked out of the sewers after dark. But sewer-dwellers were one thing—houseguests were a different story. If the house was infested with diseased vermin, she might be able to convince Mom to leave and return to their old apartment. And their old life.
She searched the length of the baseboards looking for an opening, and her eyes settled on the slit beneath the narrow door. The attic. She was suddenly certain that was where the rat had gone. She would search the attic, find the nest, and be packing her bags by morning.
As she crept down the hall, her body cast a long, lean shadow on the opposite wall. It was distorted, alien-like.
She arrived at the narrow door and paused before swinging it open. She was worried the old hinges would sound the alarm and wake the entire house. Luckily, Ed’s snoring could drown a jet engine. She gripped the knob and pulled quickly between Ed’s ahhh and guurrl.
The air was cool and damp. Faint shuffling sounds drifted down from the floor above. The rat must be foraging through the boxes of junk. Carefully, she climbed the steps.
Reaching the attic, Hadley was suddenly angry for not having thought to bring a device to record the evidence. Who would believe her without proof?
Pale moonlight filtered through the octagonal windows, illuminating the cramped space. Careful not to startle the creature, Hadley peered in and around the boxes.
When she found no sign of rodent activity, she pushed the boxes this way and that, desperate to locate the intruder. She practically tore the place apart, no longer caring who she woke, but could find not a single tuft of furry evidence.
Frustrated, she was about to leave when her gaze settled on an object glowing in the moonlight. Lying on the floor, in plain view, was the eye.
Hadley picked it up. It glistened like an icy pearl. On the floor in front of her sat the dollhouse. It seemed to her the eye and the house belonged together. Hadley knelt and peered inside.
In the room above the garage, she saw furniture—a floral sofa, a miniature coffee table, and a bed at the opposite end near the kitchenette. And lying on the bed was a doll—a wooden doll, like a marionette but without strings.
The doll had snow-white hair knotted into a bun. It wore a white blouse with ruffled sleeves and a pale lavender skirt. The eyes were large and glassy—too large for its delicate face.
Hadley held the eye beside the doll. It was the right size, only this doll wasn’t missing an eye.
Inside the main building there were three other dolls—a man, a woman, and a little girl. She hadn’t noticed any of them earlier that day, but then she hadn’t had time to investigate the inside of the house.
The mother doll sat opposite the father doll on the sofa in the living room. The little girl lay on her bed in the room that was now Hadley’s. The old woman looked like she could be the girl’s grandmother. Not one of the dolls was missing an eye.
The father doll wore brown pants and a plaid shirt. Hadley smoothed his hair and adjusted his glasses.
Hadley had never met her real father. She didn’t know the first thing about him. Ed seemed like a good enough guy. He was great with Isaac. And he was trying hard to be friendly to Hadley. But, somehow, it just wasn’t the same.
Hadley lifted the little girl doll and puffed up her pink frilly dress. This girl was lucky, thought Hadley. She had the perfect family. Hadley wished her family were like these dolls. The room went cold and a shiver snaked up her spine.
Someone’s walked across your grave, her mother would have said. It was a silly saying. An old wives’ tale. Hadley placed the doll back on its bed. The house was drafty. And she was exhausted. That was all.
Hadley heaved the house into her arms. No matter whom it had belonged to before, it was hers now. Swaying under its weight, she maneuvered her way down the narrow flight of steps and into her room.
She placed the dollhouse gently on the floor between her bed and the window. Then she took the eye from her pocket, placed it on her nightstand, and crawled back into bed.
The numbness had traveled from her pinky finger into her palm. But when she reached over to massage away the pins and needles, she sliced through thin air. Her hand had disappeared.