The doorway was very low, and it did creak, but that didn’t matter now. She was through it in a moment and on the steps. They were even steeper than the others, and very narrow. In the darkness she could barely see, and kept bumping against the wall as she stumbled up.
Something thick and sticky brushed against her face at the top. A spiderweb. She saw now that the attic was full of them. They were not doll size, of course, but real; and they were draped, in the gray dimness, across whole walls, hanging loosely from the pitched roof to the floor, all stirring slightly. Vicky did not allow herself the time to wonder very long about their inhabitants, but she was shivering as she peered around the room.
The attic was the one place in the house that was completely enclosed, and Vicky would not have
been able to see at all if it had not been for the small round window in front. The first pale beginnings of daylight were beginning to filter through it, falling coldly on the few dusty pieces of junk: a bit of black ribbon in the corner; a hatpin, like a sword, leaning against the wall; a dried-up wad of chewing gum, the size of her head. But her eyes stopped at once on one very strange and beautiful thing. Transfixed, she moved slowly toward it.
The house was large, and sat proudly on an old spool in the center of the room. Every detail was absolutely perfect; but for the one missing wall, it resembled her house in every way. She was fascinated by the little light bulbs, the miniature faucet, and the tiny droplets, like silvery motes of dust, dripping into the sink; the perfect little piano, on which her thumb alone would play an octave; the magazines and books, the newspapers covered with a gray blur; the intricacy of the stairways; the rugs and the furniture.
But most perfect of all were the dolls. Her father was curled up uncomfortably on the couch in his study, his face a delicate pink, his little fingers almost too small to see, each thin strand of his hair fashioned separately. Her mother lay on her stomach in the bedroom, the tiny bones in her shoulders
as fragile as match sticks, her waist the size of Vicky’s finger. They looked so real, but were they? Vicky wondered. Were they breathing, or were they just perfect little dolls?
It was very strange to be looking down at this tiny replica of her house and family; and all the more disconcerting because until a moment ago she had felt very tiny, but now she felt like a giant. Which was she? She could not decide.
But she had no time to wonder now. Downstairs she could hear distant footsteps and squeals. Had they caught on yet? She had to find that doll! For an instant, the thought of the fragile little thing lost in this unruly household made her heart stand still. What if it should get broken, what would happen to her? Stop it! she ordered herself. Stop thinking and look!
On her knees, she ran her hands rapidly over the floor around and underneath the house, toward the stairs; perhaps Ganglia had dropped it as she ran. There was nothing but dust. She moved toward the ribbon, pawing at the floor, ignoring the spiderwebs clinging to her face and her hair. There was nothing but dust. Behind the hatpin she searched, behind the wad of gum, each place more and more unlikely. Into the dark corners where the ceiling met the
floor, into the thickest webs, her face grimy, her skirt torn. And there was nothing, nothing but dust.
And now she heard the dolls on the stairs, their voices growing closer. If only she hadn’t spent so much time staring at the house! She jumped to her feet, coughing and gasping, and began running her hands frantically over the lowest beams and rafters. Her fingers closed around something soft—and then she dropped, with a shudder of disgust, the remains of a fly as large as her forearm. It was no good. The little doll was nowhere.
The dolls were on the attic stairs. Not knowing what else to do, she backed toward the house, spreading her arms protectively behind her.
Ganglia burst into the room, stopping suddenly at the top of the stairs. The aunt rose up stiffly behind her, and the father; and then the mother elbowed her way through them, pushing Dandaroo ahead of her, her arm wrapped tightly around his neck. Now there was no doubt at all that his face could have expressions, for in his eyes there was agony and despair.
“So,” said the mother quite softly, her head wobbling, while the others waited, suddenly silent. Though her voice trembled with fury, her face, as always, was bland and cherubic. “So, you’ve disobeyed us again, and you’ve found our toy, with the help of this sniveling little monster.” She squeezed
Dandaroo’s neck, and he squirmed. “But little good it’s going to do you; very little good. You’ll never get away now, you’ve missed your chance. Ganglia, get the hatpin!” she said sharply, then turned back to Vicky. “And now,” she went on, even more softly, after a pause. “And now, before we do anything to you, you will have the pleasure of watching us ‘play’ with the two dolls that are left.”
Vicky took a step backward, blocking the house with her body. Though filled with terror, her mind was very clear. “Where did you lose it, Ganglia?” she said, her voice shaking. “Where is it? Just tell me where you lost the doll. I can do anything you want, you know I can!”
“But I tell you, I didn’t lose it!” Ganglia cried, stamping her foot and almost dropping the hatpin. “Everybody thinks I lost it, but I didn’t.” She turned to the mother. “It just disappeared. As soon as I took it out of the house, it vanished into thin air, right in my hand. Why doesn’t anybody believe me?”
Vanished into thin air. Vicky’s mind was racing now, as the mother and the other dolls began moving purposefully toward her, Ganglia awkwardly brandishing the hatpin, which looked very sharp. Into thin air. Those little dolls were so realistic … . For an instant she looked down at herself. And then the thought came to her: Perhaps she was the doll.
Perhaps, when Ganglia had taken it out of the dolls’ dollhouse, her little doll self and her real self outside had somehow come together into one being, had merged in the in-between world of her dollhouse. The doll had vanished, there had to be a reason for it; she had vanished from her bedroom, and here she was. It must be the answer. She and the doll were the same thing.
The dolls were close now, surrounding her and the house in a half circle; silent, but for Dandaroo’s gasps, their expressionless faces were looming over her. She stepped backward again, until her dress was actually touching the house.
And if it were true, that she and the doll of herself were now the same thing, then the way to get back would be to go into the dollhouse herself. She spun around. But how, how? The dollhouse was so small, she could never fit inside.
And then the aunt’s arm was on her neck, and she felt the point of the hatpin pierce her dress and press coldly into her back. There was nothing to do but try. It was her last hope. Just as the aunt began to pull her away, she stuck her hand into the little bedroom.
It was like the force she had felt before, but in reverse. She was being pulled into the house, too
strongly to resist. The aunt’s hand slipped away behind; she felt rushing movement all around her and the odd sensation of shrinking and growing at the same time, of being sucked into a kind of whirlwind. And, fading away into the distance, Dandaroo’s wailing cry, “Remember meeeeee!”
And then she was lying on her own bedroom floor, in the pale dawn light from her own windows. She rose to her feet, a bit bewildered, but filled nevertheless with soaring joy and relief. “I’m home,” she said softly, “I’m home again,” and then she shouted from sheer happiness and leaped into the air.
In the next moment, her cry caught in her throat and she turned to the dollhouse. They were all still in there, up in the attic, and at any instant they could simply take her out of their dollhouse again, and there she would be, just as trapped as before. She had to get that dollhouse out of there, before they had a chance to take her out of it and bring her back to them.