NANNY NEEDED FOR EIGHT-YEAR-OLD. NO COOKING, NO CLEANING. DISCRETION A MUST. $25 PER HOUR, CASH.
Succinct. Good pay. Alexandra liked that. What Alexandra chose to ignore was what was written between the lines. She’d never met Ms. Winters, but the word around town was that she was a bit of a hermit. Some described her as odd, others called her a witch, yet no one, strangely enough, knew she had a child. None of the rumors mattered to Alexandra—only the money did. As the new girl in a small town, she’d take what she could get.
Alexandra rode her bicycle to the Winters house, down the end of Walnut Street, where the road had wasted away to harsh gravel. Before turning down the street, she paused, uncertain. Why is this road unpaved? Am I even in the right place? She pulled her cell out of her pocket and glanced at Google Maps. It’s down there. Why does it look darker down that street? She glanced hesitantly down the bumpy road before deciding to continue. Alexandra’s vision bounced around with the jostling of her tires on the uneven road. She brought the bike to a stop and gazed upon the house, an overwhelming feeling tickling her skin. It was not an awestruck moment because of the beauty of the house or grounds surrounding it, but the disrepair and contrast of the house to the only other house on the street. Across from it sat a modest ranch-style house. There was a long, paved driveway and a sizeable yard. The lawn was tidily manicured, the grass appearing freshly mowed. Bushes surrounding the front and sides had a proper, even trim. Even the sun was shining over that house, whereas it wasn’t above the old Victorian.
Alexandra set the bike aside and paused before stepping onto the walkway, taking in the state of the exterior. Bits of yellow paint hung off the house, chipped off over time, now giving the house more of an aged, gray tone. What once must have been a glorious Victorian was now a pale memory of its former glory, just like the lawn around it. The windows sagged as if they were weary, tired of holding their place in this dilapidated house. Worn and rotted shingles sparsely covered the roof. A thought trickled through Alexandra’s mind, like the scurry of spiders across her skin, and she shivered, thinking, Are the rumors really worth the money? She pulled out her cellphone and snapped a few pictures of the house. She debated sending them to her roommate but remembered the confidentiality she’d promised Ms. Winters.
Community college wasn’t the most expensive thing in the world, but coming from a relatively poor family hadn’t afforded Alexandra any luxuries. She had to pay for school all by herself, along with the apartment she shared with her roommate. Her savings were tapped out, and there wasn’t enough money for a car. There was no one in town she could ask for a ride either, since the only person she knew at all was her roommate, and they’d just met a week previous.
The Winters’s lawn was dry and dead, brown and bristly. A gangly and sickly tree with no leaves grew by the path leading to the front door, as if it were late fall rather than spring. Everything was either dead or dying on this property.
It gave Alexandra another chill, and she rubbed at her arms and shook off the shiver. As she glanced down the path, she noted there were quite a few earthworms dead and dried out from the day’s sun. Absent were the birds. No chitter or chirp could be heard among the property. Not a single bird picked through the lawn or nested in the trees. Yet across the street, several sat in the lush green oak near the sidewalk. What have I gotten myself into?
A sigh of wind kicked up and whooshed her bangs over her eyes despite her glasses. She swept her hair back and off her face and startled.
In the doorway stood a woman dressed in black.
They stared at each other for a moment, neither blinking nor flinching. Finally, the older woman’s harsh features softened, and she spoke. “Hello. I’m Ms. Winters. Eleanor Winters.” Her voice was low and resonant. “You are the nanny.”
Alexandra wondered if that had been a question. “I am. Alex. Alexandra,” she stuttered as she replied to the intimidating presence before her. “Nice house.” Alexandra could feel herself blushing at her foolish words. It was not a nice house. Probably hadn’t been in a very long time.
The woman was much older than Alexandra had originally expected. When they had spoken on the phone, she’d guessed the woman to be no older than forty, maybe forty-five. Now, doubt rolled through her mind as she stared at the lines on the woman’s face: her lips tight and puckered with wrinkles, crow’s feet in the harsh corners of her eyes, and deep creases above her brow. Her skin sagged in a way that only old age would suggest. Ms. Winters squinted her eyes even tighter as she ran them up and down the length of Alexandra, soaking her in. The weight of her stare caused Alexandra to flinch and look away.
“Come in,” Ms. Winters said as she beckoned her closer with a bony finger before turning and entering the house.
“Yes, ma’am.” Alexandra noted the woman’s gait. She leaned slightly to the left, possibly an arthritic hobble, one hip raised higher than the other. Her back also held a heavy set of age to it, rounded at the shoulders and neck.
Ms. Winters paused but did not turn as she said, “It's impolite to gawk, young lady. Follow me.” And with her next words, she did turn around enough to make eye contact and spoke softly. “I was in a house fire when I was younger and fell down the stairs making my exit, fractured my hip. Doesn’t hurt, but it looks like it does.” She put her hand on the affected hip, turned back around, and led Alexandra onward into her home.
The house opened into a grand rounded room. To the left, a long sweeping stairway bent around toward the bottom and greeted the room. To the right was a vast hallway.
Ms. Winters shouted down the long and tenebrous hallway, “Ophelia! Would you like to meet your nanny?”
No response.
“Ophelia?” she called much softer. She turned to Alexandra and whispered, “Maybe she’s sleeping. She’s also quite shy, you’ll come to see. A little frail as well. She doesn’t have friends or play outside. Ever.” This last word she said sharply. “Ever,” she repeated in a whisper. “She’s a good girl. You won’t have to do much. Basically, just be here with her. She’s too young to be left alone. But you won’t have to clean up after her or make her any meals. Very easy job here. You can do your own thing most of the time.” Ms. Winters nodded and added, “As I mentioned, discretion is a must. She’s a delicate one.”
Alexandra followed her. “Is she sick? I mean, like, is there something that keeps her from going out?” The floorboards creaked as she stepped.
Ms. Winters ignored her and stopped in the doorway of the sitting room. “My dear?”
Alexandra persisted. “Does she have any allergies? Can she play, or is any exertion out of the question? What is her bedtime?”
Ms. Winters finally responded, “She loves to play! Hide-and-seek is her favorite! She’s very sneaky.”
I wonder why she keeps avoiding my questions. Alexandra contemplated as she peered out the bay window that looked out onto a sizable backyard. The grass was withered, dry, parched. Dead. One tree remained in the middle of the yard, still clinging to life. On one side, the tree was drying and dying, but the other still held some green and browning leaves—odd. She didn’t realize she’d spoken her thoughts out loud until she heard her own voice, “What on earth could cause a tree to do such a thing?”
Ms. Winters ignored her question. “Ah, she’s right here. In her favorite chair, looking out over the yard. She’ll do this for hours and hours and always be content.” The woman moved around the chair and motioned for Alexandra to follow.
“Such a good girl. So quiet. Never know she’s here,” Ms. Winters gushed.
But once Alexandra saw who—or rather what—sat in the chair, she gasped. There was not a little girl but a doll propped up in the chair. One of those celluloid dolls that hadn’t been made in decades. The ones with the eyes that opened and closed when you moved them. The doll couldn’t have been more than two feet tall, and she wore a beautiful Victorian-style dress. The sleeves were puffy, a faded pink that tapered at the wrist and exposed her tiny, unmovable hands. The neckline was high, coming up to her chin, fitted tightly with a puff of lace crowning her face. The dress was cinched tight at the waist with a shiny white ribbon, then billowed out as it came down her legs. The dress was trimmed in faded white lace, the bulk of it spilling down her chest and finishing the hem of the dress. Her stockings were the same pink of the dress. Upon her feet were white shoes that looked like a strange cross between clogs and Mary Janes.
Alexandra stepped back and bumped into a bookcase, dislodging one of the books from the shelf. It hit her on the head.
“Sorry.” Alexandra bent to pick it up but couldn’t take her eyes off the doll. It had wavy blond shoulder-length hair and gray eyes the color of a New England winter sky, one of which was a bit more open than the other. Its button nose and parted lips exemplified the delicately etched features. The lips parted as if she were about to speak. The doll’s head sat a bit askew, and those empty, unblinking gray eyes stared at nothing.
“Are you for real?” A sick fascination gripped Alexandra, and she almost reached out to touch the doll’s face, to be sure it was indeed plastic composite and not real flesh. Ms. Winters’s heavy eyes fell upon her and snapped her out of her gawking.
Ms. Winters scoffed at her. “What are you doing?” Her face furrowed in concern, and again, her advanced age showed. The lines crept around her eyes and moved up her forehead. Her lips tightened and disappeared into her face. In that moment, Alexandra was certain the woman was at least seventy-five years old.
Maybe the rumors were true. Witch. Alexandra’s roommate had warned her, but she’d written it off as silly tales a small town tells out of boredom. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
Alexandra didn’t know what to say. She recovered. “She’s just . . . what a . . . lovely child.”
A vision of the doll creeping around the house playing hide-and-seek sneaked into Alexandra’s mind, and she couldn’t shake it. Get out of your head. Don’t make this weirder than it is. It’s just a doll. An inanimate object. You’re being paid to sit for a doll! Alexandra smiled, and she knew it was too forced, too big. “I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”
A smile spread across Ms. Winters’s face, and it broke the spell. She appeared a forty-year-old woman once more. “Yes! Yes, I’m sure you will.” She bent and kissed her daughter on the top of her head. Her daughter did not flinch, did not move. Why would she? “I must be going. I have some medications to pick up and lots of odds and ends. You two will be fine?”
“I’m certain of it.” It was the oddest job she’d ever taken but promised to be the easiest—nannying for an inanimate object.
“Wonderful. Let me show you where I keep the emergency details.”
Alexandra struggled to keep up with the older woman, whose gait seemed to vanish, her pace up that hallway much quicker than she’d moved so far.
“Here.” Ms. Winters pointed to the refrigerator. Most people’s refrigerators were covered with magnets and kids’ drawings and pictures, but Ms. Winters’s held nothing except for the list of phone numbers.
“And again, don’t ever let her go outside. And don’t let anyone in.” Her face was very stern.
“Seems it will be a calm and easy evening. If you like, I could water the lawn for you as well.”
The older woman batted the idea away with the back of her hand. “No need. But I almost forgot, help yourself to some tea. It’s imported and quite good. You’re a tea drinker, no?”
“I enjoy a cup of tea from time to time, yes.”
“None for the little one though.” She winked, and Alexandra was confused as to which part of that might have been the joke: caffeine for a child or a beverage for a doll. Before she could comment, Ms. Winters grabbed her coat and ducked out the door.
Alexandra put an ancient-looking copper tea kettle on the stove and waited for the usual scream of the pot. It had the slightest dent in one side, and the spout curled in and then up. It reminded Alexandra of a snake about to strike.
When the whistle sounded, she tossed loose tea into the cup and poured the steaming water over it. The aroma was one she couldn’t place: herbal, spicy, almost a hint of woodiness. She put a dollop of honey in it and sat down at the dining table, then cracked open her psychology textbook and notebook. Except she could not focus. Everything about her current situation felt so wrong. She got up and glanced into the fridge. There was no evidence of a kid living here. No milk. No Capri-Suns. No cheese. No bread. She went to the pantry and opened it up. No canned or boxed foods. No chips or cookies or candies. Does this woman really believe the child is real or not?
She sat down at the table and wrapped her hands around the hot cup and let the heat soak into her. She dipped her face over the steam and breathed in the calm, soothing scent. The first sip tasted as it smelled, and it eased her as it went down her throat. She tipped her head back and leaned against the chair. Her eyes felt swimmy, and her mind clouded. She hadn’t yet begun her study session, so she couldn’t figure out why she was so tired. She glanced at her watch—6:43 p.m. She’d only arrived at 5 p.m. Where has the time gone? Confusion draped over her like a warm blanket, threatening to rock her off to sleep. A noise pulled her back.
“Hello?” The voice was soft, frail, and childlike. “Hello?” It sounded as if the word came out of a misshapen mouth. Lips that fought but failed to move correctly, unable to shape words through hard lips, tongue, and mouth.
Ophelia. Alexandra’s pulse quickened. She giggled aloud and pushed the silly thought away as she slapped her hand over her mouth. How could a doll be calling to her like that?
“Hello? Mama?” The voice faltered and cracked, and the shape of the word “mama” didn’t seem to come out right. It sounded more like mmmemmmme, as if the words dragged through immovable lips.
Alexandra jumped to her feet and stepped into the hallway. Nothing. No one. She swallowed down her creeping fears and moved to the sitting room where she last saw the doll and peeked her head inside. “Ophelia?” she called out softly. She sighed when there was no response, certain she could go no farther. “Ophelia?”
Movement in the chair by the window caught her eye. The chair slid back a couple of inches, screeching across the hardwood floor. A flash of golden hair stuck out from behind the chair as the figure moved. Alexandra’s pulse jumped into her throat and threatened to choke her. A barely audible whisper made it past her lips. “Ophelia?” She hoped there’d be no answer.
“Mama . . . that you?” The squeaky voice ran fine needles across Alexandra’s flesh. “Mama, can’t see you.”
Footsteps clicked and clattered away. The celluloid doll stepping upon wood preceded the sight of her. Ophelia came around the chair and faced Alexandra. Her head still held the crooked, unnatural tilt. Her eyes still darted up and to the side at nothing. She held her arms straight out, unbent, at her sides, and her legs did not bend either. Ophelia shuffled but a few inches at a time. Her right foot led while the left dragged a bit behind. With each step, her head bobbled, her hair swished in front of her face. Never once did her eyes move. “Hello?” Alexandra watched the doll try to speak, mouth opening and closing unnaturally.
Alexandra screamed. Her mind reeled. Tired. Frightened. Her vision clouded.
Frozen, Alexandra struggled to comprehend the unbelievable sight in front of her. She reached out for the wall. Her hand missed. She slipped, falling to the floor. One of the doll-child’s eyes locked on Alexandra, and she shimmied closer.
Ophelia again cried out, “Mama.”
The doll’s mishappen mouth moved. Its jaw dropped and lifted, but its lips remained stagnated. It seemed wrong that a plastic mouth should or could move that way, and yet it had.
Alexandra’s vision blurred, and when it cleared, the doll stood over her. As she glanced up, she grew more confused. What on earth? A human child looked down at her. This can’t be. No plastic, no wandering fake eyes, no arms that wouldn’t bend. Emotive, grayish eyes stared at Alexandra, blinking furiously.
Ophelia’s brow furrowed. Her mouth pursed and unpursed, as if she wanted to say something.
Ophelia reached out. In her soft, human hand was a lock of hair the same color as Alexandra’s. Alexandra extended her hand, yet the girl pulled away and hid the hair in her pocket. Alexandra gawked at Ophelia. So human. This was no lifeless doll. Alexandra felt dizzy, nauseated. The room went black.
* * *
Someone shook her awake. Alexandra groggily opened her eyes and saw Ms. Winters standing over her. But over her where? She seemed to be in the living room, sprawled out on a couch, tucked under a blanket.
“Falling asleep on the job, eh?” Ms. Winters said through a crooked smile, her low voice chilling Alexandra. Ms. Winters reached for the blanket and pulled it higher up over Alexandra.
She sat up quickly, embarrassed at being scolded. The blanket fell to the floor. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Hush, child. It’s late. I don’t mind at all. Glad you were comfortable enough here to nap. Take a minute to wake yourself up and get yourself home safe.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I take it Ophelia was no trouble?”
“She was a doll.” The words came out before she could stop them. She cringed. “I did have an odd dream. Oh, never mind. I better be heading home. See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, dear.” She handed Alexandra an envelope with money inside.
Alexandra trudged to her bike, kicked the stand up, and attempted to ride. At first, she struggled and almost tipped over. Perhaps she was more exhausted than she first thought. She couldn’t keep the front wheel straight. Slower, she rode away, feeling a bit groggy and confused by what had transpired at the house. Ophelia coming to life had to have been a dream.
In bed, she pulled the covers up high and tried to fight off the chill that had seeped into her bones. Shivering, she wrapped her blankets tighter and closed her eyes. Visions of the doll stood before her. One moment, it was a doll—unbending, unflinching. Then it was a doll trying to maneuver arms and legs and mouth to work. And before she faded into sleep, it was a girl. A real live girl.
* * *
Diffuse light trickled in through the crack in the blinds, and Alexandra peeled her eyes open to the disturbing sound of her alarm on her phone going off. Her joints ached, and her feet didn’t want to carry her. In the shower, she sleepily stood like a zombie as the water rained over her. She wondered why she was so tired until she recalled the fevered dreams of the doll standing over her. The little girl holding a lock of . . .
She combed out her long brown hair and suspiciously eyed the amount of hair left on the comb. Twice as much as normal. Ophelia had been holding a lock of her hair! She climbed out of the shower and weakly dried herself off. Her limbs were so heavy; the shower had done nothing to revive her, and the loss of her hair only made things worse.
After her regular breakfast of oatmeal, her stomach rumbled and did a flip, gurgling at her, threatening to return her breakfast. She gulped.
“You look like crap,” said her roommate, Cassidy. “Dark circles. You sleep funny? Go out to a party without me?” Cassidy waggled her brows and gave Alexandra a wicked grin. “Drink too much?”
“No. No party. Slept fine. Lots of weird dreams. About that house. Nannying for—” She remembered the discretion part of the agreement.
“What? Oh, the nanny job for the old witch? You took it?” Her roommate shook her head and made the sign of the cross. “Maybe it’s my fault, maybe I should have told you more.” She hesitated, then continued, “There’s a story that the same woman has lived in that house for two hundred years. Two hundred years!” She shook her finger as she repeated the last words. “Some say it’s not possible, but who knows? She looks exactly like her mother, and her mother’s mother . . .”
“You’re not helping. She’s not a witch. Odd. But nice enough.” Alexandra was no longer sure of that. Hadn’t I seen her looking both old and then young on a few occasions?
“Ok.” Cassidy shrugged.
“And how would you know what her mother and her mother’s mother looked like?” Alexandra’s tone was sharper than she’d meant it to be. “This is how vicious rumors go.”
Cassidy rolled her eyes. “You know, there are people in this town who know more about her than you do. You’re new here. They’ve seen the odd things she does. Her coming and going at weird hours.” Cassidy paused, as if considering saying more, and then added, “I’m just saying. Ask around if you don’t believe me. But I’d stay away if I were you.”
* * *
Alexandra decided to skip classes. With her slow start, not feeling well, and growing concerns and questions about the Winters family, there were bigger mysteries at hand. Cassidy’s warning held steady in her mind and wouldn’t let go.
Fresh air on her face did her some good, and she began to feel better as she pedaled to Mr. Maples’s house. Her last odd job had been helping the old man clear out his attic. She parked her bike and walked up to the stoop, then rang the doorbell. Shuffling from within preceded Mr. Maples slowly opening the door. He wore slippers and his usual sweatpants and sweater. Alexandra had never seen him wear anything else.
“Mr. Maples, hi.”
“Alex, what a nice surprise. What can I do for you?”
“I hope I’m not bothering you. I just wondered if I could ask you something. Some questions.”
“Sounds ominous.” He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers in the air.
Alexandra laughed. “Nah. It’s just for school,” she lied.
That seemed to be enough for him. “Come on in.” He opened the door and made a grand sweeping gesture with his hand, then shuffled in his slippers behind her as she stepped into the living room. “Have a seat.”
They both sat, and Alexandra dove right in. “You know Ms. Winters. How long have you known her?”
“I’ve known her, or more like of her, for forty-nine years. Mrs. Maples and I moved here when we were thirty. It was our first house. And our last, I guess.” He sighed and a frown fell over his face. “I miss her.”
“I know you do. I’m so sorry.”
He only nodded.
“How old was Ms. Winters when you moved in?”
He thought on it for a moment, his hands rubbing his stubble on his chin as if it would jog a memory. “I suppose about the same age as us.” He thought harder, his eyes squinted. “Or maybe she was already in her forties. You know, now that you mention it, that woman doesn’t quite age with time.”
Alexandra thought that was both a strange and accurate comment. “Do you know how long she’s lived in that house?”
“Well, I think she inherited it from her mother when she passed. Spitting image, I hear.”
“So, her mom lived there her whole life?”
“I think so. I don’t know for certain. What’s this about?”
Alexandra hated lying. “Like I said, school project. About the history of the town. First residents and stuff.”
“Interesting. Sorry I don’t know much more about the family. She keeps to herself.” He shrugged, and Alexandra knew that was all the information she’d get.
“Thanks for your time.” She rose and made for the door.
“Alex? It was the Smiths.”
She turned back. “What about the Smiths?”
“First residents.”
“Right. Thanks. Good to see you.”
“Take care, Alex.”
She hopped onto her bike and pedaled much faster to Mrs. Smith’s house. A month previous, Alexandra had helped her do some gardening when she pinched a nerve in her back.
Charlotte Smith answered the door with her three-year-old, Timothy, tucked behind her. He peeked his head out shyly. “Hi, Alexandra,” said Charlotte. Timothy just glared.
“How’s your back doing?”
“Much better, thanks. But if I have to bend over and pick up one more toy off the ground . . .” She turned and looked down at Timothy. “Who knows if it’ll last?”
“Let me know if you ever need anyone to watch him now and then.”
“Thanks. What can I do for you?”
“I know you’re busy, but can I ask a few questions about the town? I’m doing a project on the history of this town and could use some help. Mr. Maples said your family was the very first here.”
“Sure, come on in.” She led Alexandra inside, and Timothy raced into the living room. Toys were strewn everywhere. It was like a minefield. He dove in.
Both women sat. “When did your family move to town?”
“My great-great-grandfather came in 1898. Lived here his whole life. His brother and sister both followed at some point, but I’m not certain of the years.”
“No worries, I can try to look those records up at the library.” She bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know why, but I thought the Winters were the first family.”
Charlotte tipped her head to the side as if debating the answer she wanted to give. “Hmm, I don’t know exactly when, but yes, they were one of the first families. But their history is sort of cloudy. No one seemed to know them well. All recluses. Just like the current Winters.
“There’s a rumor, though, that they moved to town after a tragedy. I think maybe it was Eleanor’s grandmother, or great-grandmother more likely. Like I said, I didn’t know them closely.”
“Eleanor is the current Winters, right? What happened?”
“Yes. There was a fire. Their whole house burned down. Apparently lost two little girls in the fire. Both under ten years old.”
“Oh my God. How awful! So that would have been the current Ms. Winters’s mom’s siblings?”
“I guess. Sorry I don’t know much more than that. Eleanor keeps to herself. Always has. Doesn’t do much in town in the day. Seems like she only comes out at night.”
“Is that why everyone thinks she’s a witch?” The words came out before Alexandra could stop them.
“Burned houses. Lost little girls. Strange woman. Witch. Yeah, that’s kind of the thing.” Charlotte stood. “Where is Timothy? I’m sorry I can’t help more. I’ve got to see what he’s up to. Good luck with your project.” But the way she said it suggested she knew Alexandra was lying.
Alexandra typed away on her phone, sending a text to Cassidy:
Dude, I think I’m nannying 4 a witch
Told u
U knew about the fire?
Yup
And the little girls
Yup
I’m nannying 4 a doll. IT’S A DOLL. Thought the old lady was crazy but now I think u were rt.
A doll? WTF. I need deets
I’ll fill u in later. Gotta run
Careful
* * *
Ms. Winters met her at the door, whistling a cheery tune.
When Alexandra glanced up, she caught Ms. Winters staring at her expectantly. “Alexandra. Nice to see you. Come in, come in. Ophelia is in the sitting room again, by her window. Should be another calm night.”
Alexandra wanted to ask why any woman in her right mind might keep a doll. She wanted to ask how old Ms. Winters was, or if she even had a mother, or if she’d been living there the whole time. Instead, she nodded and agreed. “She is such a well-behaved, quiet girl.”
Ms. Winters smiled and waved her into the kitchen. “There’s some homemade chicken soup in the fridge. Ophelia said she had a touch of a stomachache this morning, but she seems right as rain now. I think it’s the jitters of having a new sitter. Help yourself if you like.”
“Oh, that’s so nice of you. I started the day a bit slow as well. Maybe Ophelia and I are feeling the same thing.” After she said it, she realized how absurd it was. Ophelia was nothing more than a doll. This old woman might see her as a real child, but Alexandra knew better. “My mother never made me chicken soup when I wasn’t feeling well. I just got the canned stuff.”
“Poor thing. Homemade is the best,” said Ms. Winters.
“What about your mom? Did she make you soup too?”
“Taught me everything I know!” She reached out and swept Alexandra’s bangs out of her eyes. “Could use a trim, there, couldn’t you? I could help you with that if you like?” And just like that, Eleanor had changed the subject, and Alexandra had lost some nerve.
“Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble.” As if to contradict her words, her bangs slipped down over her eyes again as she bashfully lowered her head.
“Don’t be silly. You’re not going to be able to see soon enough.”
The warmth that came off Ms. Winters at that moment took Alexandra aback. She nodded and said, “Thanks.”
“When I get back, we’ll get it done, lickety-split.” On her way out the door, Ms. Winters grabbed her black hat and set it on her head. She took a couple of steps toward the door and paused, turning back around. “Almost forgot! It’s supposed to rain.” She reached down and grabbed her umbrella, which was also black, and disappeared out the door. Alexandra put a hand over her mouth and bit back laughter. Ms. Winters surely was dressing the part. But would a witch want to call attention to herself like that? Or maybe a witch wouldn’t care.
Alexandra headed to the sitting room to find Ophelia. As she approached the door, a soft humming filled the hallway.
She cracked open the door. The humming stopped. She paused. But nothing else happened.
The doll sat in her chair facing the window, one little hand resting over the arm of the chair, betraying her presence. Alexandra wondered how many hours Ophelia sat in this same spot. She wondered if Ms. Winters placed her in a chair at the dining table and pretended to feed her each meal, and if she carried her up the stairs to a bed every night and tucked her in like a real child. Did she sing nursery rhymes to the doll at night? Ask her about her day?
Alexandra moved behind the chair and spun it around quickly to face her. The doll shifted to the side with the abruptness of the movement. “Hi, Ophelia. I wanted to check in on you. Looks like you’re content here.” The doll’s left hand clenched the arm of the chair. And then it didn’t. Alexandra doubted what she’d seen. As she stared closer, one of the doll’s eyes fluttered carelessly.
Alexandra jumped back.
“So, I guess I’ll just let you be. I’m gonna get some soup and some studying done. So . . . if you need anything . . .” She stepped back. “Okay, then.”
She turned to leave the room and again knocked into the same bookshelf as last time. A picture fell off the shelf. The sharp sound of cracking glass cut through the silence. She cringed and bent to pick it up.
In the frame was a picture of Ms. Winters sitting in the living room on the sofa with the doll Ophelia in her lap. Ms. Winters wore all black, and Ophelia had on the same dress she wore now. The picture looked as if it could have been taken recently. As she lifted it from the ground, Alexandra noticed another picture underneath. Carefully, she slid it out of the frame.
Alexandra studied the picture, noting the similarities. Ms. Winters in a black dress. Sitting on the same couch. Fingers of a real girl were laced around Ms. Winters’s hand. A smile creased the child’s lips, and her eyes glanced at her mother, and her mother looked lovingly back at her child. Alexandra gasped. Peered closer. She took out her cellphone and snapped a picture of it and blew it up, examining the differences. Similar dress and trim, but there was no doubt this was a real child. And Ms. Winters looked different as well. She was younger. Much younger. Ms. Winters, at one time, must have had a real live child. She remembered her earlier conversation with Charlotte. Wasn’t it Ms. Winters’s grandmother who’d lost two children in a fire? Was this actually Eleanor’s grandmother, or was it Eleanor Winters, the unageing witch?
She put the picture back behind the other and reminded herself to apologize for breaking it. But her interest had been piqued. She plucked through the books on the shelf until she saw a rather large one sticking out—a photo album. She flipped the book open and found more pictures of both Ophelia the doll and Ms. Winters, and Ms. Winters and the real child. What shocked her more were pictures of another little girl, this one younger and smaller than Ophelia. The pictures of this girl were all of a real child, no dolls. This little girl existed. It must have been Ophelia’s sister. There had been two real girls, once upon a time. Ms. Winters must be using this doll as some sort of therapy to deal with the loss of her little girl, that’s all. It’s just a doll for a sad woman.
Alexandra went to the kitchen and pulled the container of chicken soup from the fridge. She ladled a couple of scoops into a bowl and put it in the microwave. All she could do was think about those pictures. Who were they, really? And which Ms. Winters had the two real girls, and which Ms. Winters was she nannying for?
The microwave dinged and brought her out of her reverie. She placed the steaming bowl on the table and sat down. It smelled delicious; carrots and onion and chicken wafted in the air, and a ravenous urge overcame her. Her stomach growled. She tested the first spoonful to make sure it wasn’t too hot, then shoveled it into her mouth faster than she should have. She slurped at it and gulped it down. She tipped the nearly empty bowl back and drank down the rest of the broth. Her stomach growled and called out for more, and she obliged.
Mid-second bowl, the front door opened, and Ms. Winters called out, “Hellooo. I’m home. How’s my girl?” Her footsteps clicked across the floorboards as she moved toward the sitting room.
The picture!
Alexandra scrambled to her feet, wiped a bit of soup from the corner of her mouth with her sleeve, and hurried down the hallway after her. “Ms. Winters?” By the time Alexandra got there, Ms. Winters was holding the picture in her hand.
“I’m so sorry. I was coming to tell you. I bumped into the shelf, and it fell. Can I replace it for you? Buy you a new frame? This one is really old.”
“No,” Ms. Winters snapped. “It’s irreplaceable.” She ran her hand lovingly over the picture and over the broken glass. Her fingers came away with a little trickle of blood. “I lost so many things in the fire . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Alexandra struggled to hear the last word.
“Let me at least get you a bandage.”
“No. No, it’s fine.” Her voice and face softened as she looked at Alexandra. “It’s stopped bleeding already.” She showed Alexandra her finger. “Besides, we need to trim that hair of yours.” She smiled, and there was such warmth coming from it. She seemed so motherly at that moment that Alexandra softened to her. “Come, come.” Ms. Winters led her back to the kitchen. “Best lighting in here.” She pulled one of the chairs away from the table and into the middle of the floor. “Sit. Let me grab my scissors.” A few moments later, she returned with them and opened and closed them. Snip-snip. That one action sent a strange heaviness creeping through her gut that had nothing to do with food. Calm yourself, she’s trying to be kind. She’s just a mom at heart. And the poor woman lost her child . . . Your own mother never showed you such kindness.
She sat still and let Ms. Winters do her work. Rather deftly, she snipped here and there, evening things out and clearing the bangs from Alexandra’s eyes. When she was done, she tapped Alexandra on the shoulder and beamed. “Much better! Go down the hall and take a look. You look lovely.” Again, the warmth radiated off Ms. Winters. I feel sorry for her, really. Poor, old, confused woman. If she needs a doll to get through her own pain, who am I to judge?
Her bangs were trimmed, nice and short, perhaps a little too high on her forehead. But she could see. And she needed to be able to see clearly if she was going to solve this mystery.
* * *
Ophelia stood behind her, brushing Alexandra’s hair with a Victorian, sterling silver, antique brush. She sang a song, cheery and playful. “Alexandra’s falling down . . .”
At first, the brush went through without a problem, but as Ophelia continued, somehow, Alexandra’s hair became more tangled. Ophelia tugged and pulled, harder and harder, through Alexandra’s ratty hair. She continued her singing, her words getting harsher. “Falling down.” And rougher. “Fall-ing . . .” She raked the brush through Alexandra’s tangles. “Down!” Darkness crept into her tone. Chunks of Alexandra’s hair came out at a time, yet Ophelia kept yanking.
Alexandra woke with a start. In her bed. Just a bad dream. Sweat covered her neck and chest. Her stomach flipped and turned. She flipped on her bedside lamp.
She ran her fingers through her hair and came away with a knot of tangled hair in her fingers “NO! This can’t be real! It was just a dream!” She bolted out of her bed and raced through her open door. The world swam as she opened the door to Cassidy’s room and flipped on the light. The room swayed as if she were on a boat, and Alexandra fell forward onto her friend’s bed. “Wake up!”
“What the hell?” Cassidy sat up.
Alexandra held out her hand, showing her roommate the hair. “I had a dream about Ophelia brushing my hair, and I also let Ms. Winters give me a haircut, and look, my hair is falling out! They did this somehow!” She sucked in a long breath after her run-on rant.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go back.” Cassidy reached out to help her friend right herself.
Alexandra pulled herself to a seated position. “I need to. I need answers, once and for all. This town has been sitting on the idea of a witch for too long. If she’s up to something awful—and I think she is—I need to catch her. Stop her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Screw the discretion on this job. I need to tell you what’s been happening there. This is no normal household. I thought I was babysitting for a sad woman who maybe was grieving the loss of a child and using a doll to mourn and somehow process it. But it’s not that. The doll. It’s real, really a child. At least sometimes.” Alexandra fumbled with her words but managed to fill her roommate in on the strange happenings of the house. When she was finished, she reached out to Cassidy, imploring, the tangle of her hair falling to the bed. “Will you help me?”
“Okay, I’m with you.”
* * *
The next evening, Alexandra arrived at the house with a small gift. Ms. Winters opened the door, and Alexandra handed the package to her. “I’m so sorry about the frame. I bought a new one.”
Ms. Winters nodded and opened the door wider. “Maybe we should take a picture of you and Ophelia together. She hasn’t stopped talking about how much she enjoys having you here.” The woman lingered at the door, adding, “And how much she loves your hair.”
The words sent a chill that tiptoed across Alexandra’s skin. She recovered by asking, “When did you take that picture? It’s such a nice one. Is it your favorite? Do you have a lot of other pictures, any more like that? Is that Ophelia’s favorite dress?”
Ms. Winters looked Alexandra up and down as if she were sizing up a slab of steak at the butcher. “I don’t recall,” she replied, squinting. “Lots of questions tonight.”
“I was just trying to be conversational.”
“Sorry, I’ve got too much to do tonight for chitchat!” She grabbed her coat and stepped out the door and called back, “See you in a bit!”
Alexandra pulled the window curtain by the door back just enough to watch Eleanor drive away. She paused, then waited a little longer to be sure the woman was truly gone. Where does she really go, and what is she doing? This excuse of midnight gardening doesn’t hold up. To the stairs she went, taking two at a time, moving quickly. She faltered, almost missing a step, and grabbed the banister and noticed a full moon carved into the wood. She looked to the next and the next, and it was carved with a waning gibbous moon. Each after that went through the phases in order, right through the waxing gibbous moon and back to full again.
Standing at the top of the stairs, she tried to talk herself into the idea of snooping. When she and Cassidy had talked about finding some sort of evidence of wrongdoing or witchcraft, it had been the best idea in the world. Now that it was time to enact the plan, however, she second-guessed herself. What if she got caught? What might the retribution be? Maybe she’ll fire me. Maybe she’ll do worse. What was she hoping to find that would sate her curiosity? Maybe I should forget about all of this. She ran her hand through her thinning hair and came away with more loose strands. No more.
She steeled her courage and glanced at each of the doors in front of her. There were two to her left and two to her right, and at the end of the hall stood a giant bookcase with a window next to it.
She tiptoed forward. As she wrapped her hand around the first knob, her heart quickened and her palms began to sweat. The feeling was both awful and inspiring.
She twisted and pushed the door open.
The sleigh bed was positioned against the wall, and beyond that was a window. The sun had set, and only a spray of moonlight through clouds fell over the room. The bed had been made to perfection: a dark, soft, purple comforter pulled neat and even, not a wrinkle upon it. Several pillows lay at the head, and one large floral-patterned throw blanket lay folded across the foot. Nothing “witchy” there. What do I think I’m going to find, anyway? What could cement in my mind that she’s a witch?
Alexandra stepped into the room and noticed even the carpet was a deep shade of onyx. The scent in the air was woody, almost like the tea she’d drunk, like being outside in nature. On the vanity dresser, a five-sided glass jewelry box rested. She opened the pentagonal box. It held only a few small pieces of dark jewelry; most of it looked antique. She moved on to the closet. Inside, several dresses, shirts, blouses, and pants hung, all very neat and orderly, all ranging from black to dark purple and blue.
The pace of her heart quickened the deeper into the house she went and the more she spied. She was terrified of being caught but drawn to continue in hopes she’d find answers. She closed the door to the woman’s room and headed to the hall. The floor beneath her creaked; she froze and cringed, waiting. Waiting for what, she wasn’t sure. Who could hear her? The doll.
She labored about the house as if the doll were truly a girl and she’d be caught or tattled on for snooping. She suppressed the notion and pressed on. There has to be a reasonable explanation for all of this that I’m missing. Otherwise . . .
The hallway appeared darker than before.
Alexandra rushed to the window at the end of the hall and peered out at the blackening night. The moon had tucked itself away for the night, giving way to thick clouds. Bloated, the sky was a blackish purple that threatened a storm. Light rain tapped at the roof and against the window. The drops increased, speeding to a frantic pace. Her heart quickened its pace as well. She swallowed hard. “I can do this. I’ve come this far,” she whispered to herself.
She turned away from the window and rain and moved to another room. She opened the door. Her hand trembled as she turned the knob. She held her breath, then exhaled, relieved she’d found nothing more than a bathroom. It smelled of lavender, and this room, too, was done in purple.
She closed the door and headed across the hall to another room, which opened as if it were waiting for her. A soft pink paint covered the walls, and the thick shag carpet matched it perfectly. The pink canopy bed had silky ribboned sheets hanging from the frame. A rocking chair sat under the single window. It was all so perfect, quite a dream bedroom, or rather, she thought, something one might see in a dollhouse.
A placard on the wall above the headboard read OPHELIA. Everything in the room looked pristine. Of course it would be though; nothing living lived here. Ophelia was just a doll. Alexandra pictured Ms. Winters tucking Ophelia into bed, kissing her hard, cold forehead, and even reading her a bedtime story while her dead doll eyes stared up at the ceiling.
Chills skittered up her spine. She shuddered and raced out of the bedroom, slammed the door behind her, and leaned against the hard wood. Lightning sparked outside the window. Thunder boomed as the storm moved closer. Rain pelted the windows.
Alexandra felt as if she were close to discovering something, but what, she didn’t know. Unable to quit, her pace quickened along with the intensity of the storm to the next room.
Red curtains and pillows and a fluffy red comforter covered the bed. Plush red carpet to boot. On the wall above the bed hung a placard with the name VERONICA printed on it.
There was no other daughter—girl—doll or whatever in the house, so who did this room belong to? Who was Veronica?
“The other daughter!” Alexandra slapped both hands over her mouth as she cried out, remembering the other girl in the photos and the two daughters who perished in the fire all those years ago. But how did the timeline add up? It couldn’t have been Eleanor’s daughters that had perished, but that was what the pictures had suggested.
Alexandra closed the door, her courage dwindling. Yet there was another room she needed to look into.
“Mama?” A chill crept up her spine when she heard that sickly soft voice calling from downstairs. The doll was a real girl, and she was crying out.
Alexandra was clearheaded in this moment, unimpaired. This cannot be a dream; I can’t be imagining it. Alexandra swallowed her fear.
“Mama? Ma-maa.”
“I can’t be hearing this. I can’t be hearing her.” Alexandra covered her ears. “She’s just a doll.” But as she thought it, she knew she was lying to herself. It wasn’t just a doll. It was alive. It was time to face the facts. And get whatever proof she needed in the process.
Alexandra gripped the knob of the last room, twisted, and entered.
An old Singer sewing machine sat under the window. Rain drummed against the pane. The storm had increased in intensity.
Long threads of cloth were strewn about, and the mannequin to the left of the sewing machine wore a work in progress—a red dress, almost complete. A long appliqué of lace lay by it, some already stitched around the neckline. The cuff and hem of the skirt were pinned, prepped for lace to be added there as well. Perplexed, Alexandra stepped closer. Something felt wrong with the dress. It was . . . too small for Ophelia. It was as if the old woman were making a dress for another child. Another doll? Veronica!
Thunder rocked the house, and the floor shook beneath her feet. Lightning ripped outside the window, sending flashes of light through the otherwise dim room. Alexandra peered into the hallway in time to catch movement by the bookcase at the end of the hall. She gasped. The doll—the girl—whatever it was stood there.
Ophelia stared at Alexandra with those dead eyes, one eyelid fluttering. She reached out those awkward bent arms.
“Mama. Mama, the storm scared me.” The voice came like nails scratching down a chalkboard. Uneven. Too high-pitched. “Mama, hold me.”
Alexandra’s voice squeaked, “Not Mama. It’s me. Alexandra.”
Ophelia tipped her head to one side like a bird, listening.
“What are you doing? How did you get up here?”
Ophelia shifted her head to the other side.
Alexandra waited—for what, she wasn’t sure. Fear had a way of interfering with rational thought.
A skin-prickling giggle erupted from the doll just as lightning flashed several more times in quick succession. “HIDE-AND-SEEK!” Ophelia screamed.
Lightning flashed—one, two, three times—and when it stopped, Ophelia was gone.
Thunder growled and rolled through the floorboards again, and Alexandra thought of a pack of angry dogs, giving warning before an attack.
She turned away from the bookcase. Ran toward the stairs and skidded to a rough stop at the top of them, bracing both hands on the banister.
Ophelia stood at the bottom of the stairs, her head tipped upward, eyes looking at nothing, calling out, “Mama.”
Alexandra whimpered. Even though she was here to prove that something foul was afoot, she wasn’t prepared for this reality. She had to get out of the house.
Lightning flashed again.
“I’m not your mama!” Alexandra screamed. She ran her hand through her hair, and more of it came away in her grasp. “It’s you! Why are you taking my hair?”
“HIDE-AND-SEEK,” Ophelia said once more, her voice now deepening unnaturally.
Slam! Alexandra took her eyes off Ophelia and stared down the stairwell toward the entrance.
“Alexandra?” Ms. Winters called out.
When Alexandra looked back down the stairs, the child was gone. She said a silent prayer and made her way down the steps slowly. Her knees shook and wobbled. A sneaky fear crawled up her spine that Ophelia might be lying in wait, ready to jump out at Alexandra and make her fall to her death.
“I came back early because of the storm. My, it was such a fright out there. Trees down, thunder banging so loud, I could feel it in my bones. And yet, just like that, here it is tapering right off.” She paused and looked long at Alexandra as she made it down the last step. “What on earth? Are you alright? Is Ophelia alright?” Not waiting for a response, she raced down the hall to the sitting room, and Alexandra kept pace behind her.
That little demon isn’t in there. She’s been chasing me through the house, tormenting me, was what Alexandra wanted to say. Instead, she kept her mouth shut.
“Ophelia?” Ms. Winters’s voice cracked with concern.
Incredibly, Ophelia sat in the chair, looking out into the yard and the storm. Eleanor turned back to Alexandra. “I thought maybe something had happened.”
“I—I think I just feel off still,” Alexandra said. “And I got a little spooked with the storm and the creaky floors and—” How she’s possessed and you’re a witch and this is all wrong.
“Oh, I understand. Say no more. Will you be okay getting home?”
“Totally fine.” Alexandra didn’t hesitate, and regardless of how bad the storm had been outside, she didn’t want to spend another second in the house tonight. She was already scooping up her belongings when Ms. Winters spoke again.
“I’ve got to get Ophelia to bed, but you take some of that chicken soup home and get some rest. You look like death.”
“Yes, thank you. Good night.” Alexandra bit back a response a third time: I may look like death, but you and your creepy daughters have escaped death for how long? She left the soup and trekked home.
* * *
Alexandra sat at the kitchen table with her head buried in her laptop.
“Dude, your hair. It’s falling out. You’ve got this one spot that’s pretty bald.” Cassidy reached over the table to point it out, and Alexandra flinched as if she were about to be hit.
“I know. I can’t stop though. Not yet.”
“What’s got you so intent?”
“I’m trying to find anything else I can on the original Winters. I went to see Charlotte Smith, and she filled me in on a lot of it, but the timeline doesn’t work. She said Eleanor’s grandmother lost two little girls in a fire, but I think it was Eleanor.”
“What do you mean?” Cassidy sat across from Alexandra.
“Well, I’m babysitting for one of them. I mean, I thought it was a doll. I took the job not knowing, then I just assumed it was sort of harmless, like Ms. Winters thought the doll was a real girl, but it turns out she is. Ophelia is a real girl. Sort of.” She shook her head and knew her roommate wasn’t following. She wasn’t even sure if she herself was following.
“Oh my God. It’s true, then. I thought so . . . The Martin’s kids, Stevie and Brice? They live around the corner from Ms. Winters, and sometimes their ball ends up in Ms. Winters’s yard. They’ve told stories that sometimes there’s a little girl in the window watching them, and sometimes the little girl just disappears. Like, in a heartbeat. Sometimes, they’ll see her in an upstairs window, but, like, moving too fast to be natural. Everyone pretty much stays away from that place. Even the grass and trees are all dead there.” Her words were a jumble, and Alexandra struggled to keep up. “Last year, the Martins lost their dog, and Stevie swore that Ms. Winters did something to it, but no one could prove it. That was a little while before the girl started popping up in the windows. And around that same time, there was this girl in high school, a couple years younger than me, that started nannying for Ms. Winters. Recluse, so no one really knew her or hung out with her or knew her story. But she got really sick, like, overnight. Started with stomach problems, really tired all the time, wicked dark circles under her eyes . . . and her hair started falling out!”
“Holy shit! Like me?”
“Like you.”
“What happened to her?”
Cassidy whispered, “She died. No one could prove anything.”
“We’ve got to stop this witch,” Alexandra said. “Let’s reach out to everyone who knows anything about her. I’ve got a plan.”
* * *
The next night, Alexandra accepted a request to nanny on her night off. But this time, she brought backup. “I’ll text you when she leaves,” she said to Cassidy. “Wait here.”
Cassidy parked her car down the street, and Alexandra rode the rest of the way on her bike through the drizzling rain. The clouds were black and bloated.
Alexandra loomed outside the front door, her raincoat deflecting the drops that fell on her as she put on her happiest face and opened the door. The house was dark and exceptionally chilly when she peeled off her raincoat inside the front door. She asked Ms. Winters, “Ophelia in her favorite chair?”
“No, heavens no. I shouldn’t have left her to sit in that chair when I left last night. That girl caught a fright! All that lightning in front of that window. No, no, she’s in her room.”
That girl isn’t scared; she’s evil, Alexandra thought. The image of Ophelia propped awkwardly in her bed on fluffy pillows made her shudder.
Ms. Winters noticed. “You alright?”
“Just cold tonight. I’m glad Ophelia is comfy upstairs. I have a ton of homework to do.”
“Ah, yes, she’ll be an angel. I’m certain of it.”
“It’s cold in here,” Alexandra said. “Do you mind if I warm this place up? Start a fire?” She waited for a reaction to that one word, and it didn’t take long.
Ms. Winters whipped around, her eyes wide. “No. No fires! Not ever. Ophelia doesn’t like them. They’re—they’re dangerous for children. Ophelia got burned years ago . . .” Her voice trailed off, and it seemed her mind had too.
“Oh, I hope it wasn’t too bad. I haven’t noticed any scarring,” Alexandra pried further.
Eleanor’s eyes grew wet. “Thank you again for working tonight. I have one last-minute errand to attend to before the new moon.”
Alexandra bit her lip and chose her words carefully, fishing. “The moon? Yes, I saw those lovely carvings on the stairs. All phases of the moon, right? What is the significance?”
Ms. Winters was quick with her response: “My garden. Moon phase gardening. I follow the cycles of the moon when planting.” She waved the conversation away as if she thought it silly or tiresome. “Anyway, I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Alexandra waited, watching Eleanor grab her coat and umbrella and exit. At the window, she watched Ms. Winters get into her car and drive off. She grabbed her phone and texted, Driving by u now. Come. Door open.
Cassidy sent the thumbs-up emoji.
A loud thump sounded from the floor above as if someone had dropped something. Alexandra jumped. Ophelia.
Thump. Uneven footsteps clattered above.
She glanced up the steps. “Hide-and-seek?” she whispered.
Not waiting for her friend, she raced upstairs and found the door to Ophelia’s bedroom open. The glow of a lamp shimmered over the dust motes in the freshly disturbed air. Someone had just come through here.
Alexandra paused in the doorway but didn’t see Ophelia.
She glanced at the window, half expecting to see the doll rocking back and forth in the rocking chair, dead eyes staring up at nothing. She closed her own eyes and sighed, steeled her courage, and walked closer to the bed. She kneeled, lifted up the bed skirt, and peered underneath. For a moment, she had a flash of fearful imagery, of being pulled under the bed by her ankles by stiff, lifeless fingers. But there was no one under the bed.
The hair on the back of her neck rose. She dropped the bed skirt and sat up.
Someone was behind her. She took a deep breath and turned slowly, expecting to see the creepy child-doll. “Cass.”
“Let’s sort this shit out.” Cassidy nodded and helped her friend to her feet.
A sound, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, like the one Ophelia’s feet made on the hardwood floor came from the hallway. The girls raced out of the pink bedroom.
No one was there. But the sound continued.
They moved with deliberate speed down the hall toward the source of the sound but stopped in front of the bookcase. “What the—?” Alexandra whispered.
A soft glow of light emanated from beneath the bookcase.
Alexandra dropped to the floor and laid her head on the cool hardwood floor. She peered at the crack between the bottom of the bookcase and the floor. A shadow tripped across the light that shone out. Not sure if it was her imagination, Alexandra waited, and a few seconds later, another shadow spilled through the light, along with the distinct sounds of Ophelia’s feet clicking on the floor.
“What do you see?” Cassidy whispered.
Alexandra jumped at the sound of her friend’s voice, her nerves frazzled. “Ophelia is back there, somehow,” she replied.
It wasn’t a bookcase at all but a trick door. Determined to see what was going on, she swallowed her fear and fumbled to her feet. She nodded at Cassidy, then traced her hands along the smooth bookcase, searching for something uneven, some latch, some hidden way to open it. Cassidy followed her lead.
“Mama,” Ophelia mumbled from the other side. A squeaking, high-pitched giggle froze Alexandra’s heart. She nervously ran her hand through her hair and came away with a handful.
Her hand was shaking, but Cassidy reached out to still it. “You good?”
“I’m not crazy, you heard that, right?”
Cassidy nodded.
“We can’t let this witch win.” Alexandra ran her now steady hands across and over the bookshelf until something clicked.
She caught her breath.
Silence.
She stepped back and noticed the bookcase didn’t sit flush against the wall but rather jutted out a few inches on the left. She grabbed hold and pulled outward, and the bookcase opened like a door. A rancid, pungent odor raced out of the room and assaulted her. Her eyes stung with it. She glanced at Cassidy, who had flung her hand over her nose and mouth.
The twosome stepped inside, and Alexandra gasped, raised her hand to her mouth to stifle the rest of her surprise. Both girls stood covering their mouths.
Inside stood Ophelia, her back to them. She tapped one of her feet and hummed a song. It reminded her again of “London Bridge is Falling Down”, a song she used to hear and sing as a child. Just like in my dream, Alexandra remembered.
The doll-child stood with her back to Alexandra, facing a workbench. Her little hand gripped something and swung it to and fro to the beat of the song she sang.
Alexandra moved to see what Ophelia held. It was another hand. An arm, attached to another doll’s body. A smaller doll lay upon the table. Naked and missing one arm. The workbench lay within a chalked circle. Upon the workspace, at the new doll’s head and feet, were large wax candles. Hanging along the wall were random body parts of dolls: legs, arms, hands, torsos, heads. Lining the outside of the circle were newly dead things: mice, rabbits, raccoons, squirrels, flowers. There were also some critters sliced open and pinned to the wall, like a strange dissection lab, parts of the insides removed. The odor of piss and decay coated her nostrils and tongue and made her gag. It was as if the sight of it intensified the smell. On a small table by the wall were a red bonnet and red shoes. Veronica.
It lay lifeless on a small wooden table. As Alexandra stepped closer, she noted its near baldness. Yet, clinging to its head as if freshly glued was some hair. The shade and length of this new doll’s hair was so similar to Alexandra’s that she reached up and ran her hand through her own, mostly to reassure herself it was still there.
She came away with a few more loose strands. She looked at the lost hair, then back to the new doll. All this time, as Alexandra’s hair had been coming out, the witch had been collecting it and giving it to this doll. Alexandra never considered this might be the reason the witch was all too happy to give her a haircut. She recalled Ms. Winters saying Ophelia loved Alexandra’s hair. Cassidy reached out and closed her hand around Alexandra’s and her hair.
It was all too much.
“You little demon!” Alexandra shouted at the doll.
Ophelia stopped singing. Her foot stilled as she turned, only her head, all the way around, spinning like an owl’s. One dead eye locked on Alexandra; the other floated in her head. Her mouth-hinge dropped open. She spun her body around to face Alexandra. The doll’s mouth moved awkwardly as she spoke, almost like she was chewing. “Playtime?” One of her eyes shifted, looking at Cassidy, while the other stayed trained on Alexandra. “Alexandra falling down . . . falling down . . .”
“Nope. Not me. No chance.”
“Hide-and-seek?” The girl squeaked as she spoke. Her mouth curled into a smile that was too big for her face. Her doll mouth contorted before Alexandra, the celluloid material seemingly melting away into skin. Yet her eyes were still made of that composite, and neither one of them looked directly at Alexandra. One drifted off at nothing, and the eyelid moved wildly. The other remained still. Her smile widened more. In her mouth were teeth. Real teeth. The top two front teeth were a little too big.
Stop smiling. Stop smiling. You creepy little thing. Alexandra stood taller.
Cassidy squeezed Alexandra’s hand too tightly as she muttered, “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy—”
“I know. I know,” she said to Cassidy, then turned a stern tone to Ophelia, pointing a finger at the girl. “No playtime.” She was doing all she could not to run away screaming.
Ophelia’s face contorted into a pout. Both of her stormy eyes were now trained on Alexandra. When had her eyes changed to human? Her cheeks were rosy and fleshy. But her arms and legs were still that unbending celluloid. She moved, her steps clicking as she walked toward the girls. “But I want to play!” she screamed.
“Who’s that behind you? Is that Veronica?” Alexandra held a severe tone, but inside, she was shaking.
Ophelia nodded vehemently. She brought her hands together and clapped them. But it was an awkward thing. Click-clap, click-clap. “Do . . . you . . . like . . . her . . . hair?” She dragged the words out, making a strange song, the last word holding and hitting a sour, high pitch. She continued her clapping, and the clickety-clack and click-clap of her doll hands suddenly changed to the sound flesh hands make. At last, she stopped and interlaced her hands in one another and rested them in front of her. Her little human thumbs began to twitch, and she fiddled them over and over.
Alexandra recoiled at the sight of a doll turning to flesh, then thought better of it. She took out her cell phone, fumbled with it a bit, then hit the Video button. They needed proof. Her feet clattered again on the floor as she stepped closer to the table. As Alexandra filmed on, the doll’s legs began to flex instead of lumber on with no functional bend to her knee joint as she had just moments before. Her knees bent and maneuvered like a real human’s, raising one leg, bending, setting it down, and then on to the next. At first, Ophelia did this in a painfully slow manner, and it seemed to Alexandra as if she were watching a film play out in slow motion.
The doll spun back to the table and grabbed something with blinding speed. When Ophelia turned back around, she held a dagger. And she was no longer a doll. Her eyes were wide and wild. She lurched at the girls, stabbing at the air. “Veronica says thank you! She needs more. Come close.” The girl giggled and lunged forward, her dexterity now frighteningly adept.
“You’re getting this, right?” Cassidy said as she swiped at the child, knocking the knife out of her hand, cutting her own hand in the process. Blood trickled from the wound.
“Yes.” Alexandra tried to hold steady, but her hands were shaking as she videoed the girl.
Ophelia eyed them both, pouted again, then bent and picked up the knife. She licked the few specks of blood off it with a tongue that was too long for a human.
“Enough!” Alexandra yanked Cassidy out of the room and slammed the door shut behind them. They leaned against the door. “Got it.”
“Send it.”
“Done.” Alexandra hit the Send button on the video, and off it flew to every phone number in town she and Cassidy knew. They were all waiting.
Ophelia started with a cry for Mama, but it turned into a howl of fear. High wailing, like a sickly human. The keening went on.
Knock, knock. Ophelia was trying to get out. “Mama, stuck. Mama, help,” she cried over and over. The door vibrated against the girls’ backs. The force of it was unnatural and shook them more than it should have. What if she bursts through?
“Let’s go!” Alexandra grabbed Cassidy’s hand, and together, they flew down the stairs and out the door. The ding, ding, ding of incoming texts rang out as they escaped. The rain had stopped. Petrichor filled their nostrils. Car horns ripped through the silent night. The girls waited outside the Winters house.
A car screeched to a halt, the driver-side door opened, and Cassidy’s mom got out. She signaled cars to pull over and flagged everyone out. Another car with Cassidy’s boyfriend and friends parked. Charlotte and her husband. Mr. Maples. The Martins. So many other cars pulled up, people spilling out. Mr. Maples reached into his trunk and pulled out torches, passing them along to everyone as they filed by.
Cassidy spat, “I fucking told you she was a witch. She’s gonna burn.”
Cassidy’s mom pulled out her phone. “Look what that witch did to Angie’s dog a little while ago.” She held up her phone and played a video that had passed around for the past hour or so. Ms. Winters threw the pup a hotdog. After devouring it, the canine passed out. The Witch Winters quickly pounced upon it, brandished a knife, and sliced the animal open, ripped out its heart, then ran off into the night.
Horrified, Alexandra covered her mouth. “Poor dog.” Her words were mumbled from under her hand. “No wonder they hated fire. I don’t think this is the first time this has happened. But history tends to repeat itself.”
The crowd of townsfolk had gathered around, waiting, holding their weapons.
“Burn her. Burn them all.” Alexandra threw the first torch.
Ms. Winters’s car pulled up, and she barely brought it to a stop before jumping out and racing toward the house, yelling, “My girls! Don’t hurt my girls!” She disappeared into the house, and Alexandra could hear her shouting out, “Ophelia! Veronica!”
“Come out, witch!” shouted someone from the side of the house.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Cassidy sing-songed the words, dragging out the last, mimicking and taunting Ophelia.
The old woman reappeared in the doorway. She pleaded, “Don’t. Whatever you’re about to do, I beg you. My daughters are inside. One of them is sick.” She raised her hands as if she were surrendering to the police and gave them an uneven and unnerving smile, her teeth showing a little too much. “Not again, I can’t lose them again. That’s why I needed the dog. It was nothing personal.” She looked at Alexandra as she spoke. “I’m sorry. I had no choice. It’s all for my girls.”
Tears rolled down the witch’s face, but Alexandra remained unmoved. “My hair, you were taking it. And you were draining me somehow. Poisoning me with your soup and tea. Killing me slowly. Killing me to bring Veronica back.”
Cassidy yelled, “You awful witch. How many have you killed over the years? You’re going to pay!”
“You don’t understand. It was all for my girls, my daughters. I had to. The only way.” Her tone suggested this was a more than acceptable reason for it all. She glanced at each and every person there and asked, “What wouldn’t you do for your own child? You’d do anything, I know. And so would I.” She sighed, her shoulders slumped, her age now betraying her. She appeared much older than the seventy-five years that Alexandra had at some point guessed. A hundred? More? “It’s a mother’s love,” she pleaded. “The love for her children. Please, you must understand.” She turned her eyes once more toward Alexandra, pleading, but Alexandra felt a cool resolution.
“Burn them,” Alexandra whispered. She found her voice. “Burn them!”
The townsfolk chanted, “Burn them! Burn them! Burn them!” All that was missing were pitchforks. Instead, they carried torches. Cans of gasoline sat on the ground, sporadically placed between the members of the lynch mob.
A torch flamed to life, and another, then another. The night was full of fire and anger, and it stoked the anger within Alexandra. She watched as torches went sailing through the air, crashing through the windows of the living room, the sitting room, the kitchen, the witch’s bedroom upstairs, then the hidden room. The room where Ms. Winters had been piecing together her younger child, draining Alexandra’s life, using her hair.
Each and every window was broken. A trail of fire burned through the night and into the old Victorian, and a trail of fire burned through Alexandra as well as the full realization of events finally hit her. She ran her fingers through her hair, and another clump of it came away. She fell to her knees, but Cassidy was there to help her back up.
The witch howled and screamed, “Nooooo!” She raced inside and slammed the door behind her. The house caught fire, slower than it might have had the rain not played a part. But the slow burn of hell burns as hot as anything else. Flames licked from the inside out, dancing and slithering around and up the windowpanes. The witch continued her screaming from within.
Within a few minutes, the front door opened, and the fiery doorway spilled out its contents. Ophelia. She dragged something behind her. Most of it had already melted, but what remained was a hand, a charred arm, and a part of a torso. Ophelia was yet again a doll. And she was not on fire, but she was dripping, and the celluloid body of her sister had now merged to her hand as she dragged it on behind her.
Her jaw unhinged and dropped and raised as her words came out even more garbled than before. “Mmmmemmme. Mmmme . . . Burns. Can’t see . . .”
Some of Ophelia’s hair still clung in a singed and smoldering ruin to one section at the very top of her head. All else had fused to the sides of her face. One of her eyes had dissolved into her head, but the other still stared blankly.
Alexandra looked on, unaffected, as the doll took another shuffling step and crumpled in on herself, melting. Her neck disappeared, and her head began to liquefy into the hole between her shoulders. It reminded Alexandra of a turtle receding into its shell.
A sound escaped her as her head disappeared, but no words were discernable.
“What’s that?” Alexandra mocked. “You want to play hide-and-seek? I think you’re winning.”
Ophelia’s single remaining eye popped out of the hole that remained. The eye rolled slowly down the walkway as if it were taking a casual stroll. It almost got stuck in several cracks, then stopped feet away from Alexandra. Alexandra almost giggled when the doll’s eye fell upon her for the very first time. Every other time she had looked at the girl—the doll—she’d had no idea where it had been looking. It always stared off into space, never quite landing on anything.
Until now.
With a wave of anger that had built over the past few days like the raging fire in the house, Alexandra lifted a foot and brought it down hard upon the staring eye, shattering it.
All the while, the screams of the witch echoed from within.
Some townsfolk threw more torches. No one left; all stood guard as the fire burned on and storm clouds dissipated. Soon, the hints of morning worked into the horizon.
As morning crept on and the sun burned through what was left of the clouds and rose higher in the sky, it was clear to everyone what they’d done in a rage last night.
The house was totaled; flames had devoured everything inside and collapsed the rest.
But no matter how long she screamed that night, and how long the townspeople searched the remains in the light of day, no evidence of the witch was ever uncovered.