~
The dreams were the problem. After her father died at the head of the table, Laura promised her mother that she would stick around for a while. She didn’t want to, but she felt obligated to do the right thing, waiting for her mother to stop sobbing, adorned in black velvet from hat to heels.
The dreams began when Laura moved her suitcase into her childhood bedroom. Different than the usual; the blue door, the red blood pouring out from underneath it. Instead, she dreamt of the dolls, for the first time since seventh grade. But they did not attack her. They followed her. From room to room, building to building. In her dreams, the dolls were always one step behind her, always reaching out to her with both hands, as if warning her of danger. Since her father’s death, she’d witnessed strange things— his ghost at the dinner table, his carving knife floating in the air before her, mysterious calls coming from his phone number— but nothing to do with the dolls. It was worrisome.
At first, Laura chalked it up to living with in the same place as the dollhouse again. Bad memories from childhood. Minor annoyances from childhood. But she was older now, and wiser: she could handle the pretty dolls with their mean, vengeful eyes. And the dreams came with more and more frequency. A month after her father’s death, Laura woke up three times in one night, and dreamt of the dolls each time she fell back asleep. There was no escape. The third time, the dolls gathered around her in a circle.
Everywhere she turned they surrounded her with their arms outstretched. Palms facing upwards as if in prayer. Their small porcelain mouths did not move, but Laura heard them crying out to her all the same. Help us Laura help us. She woke up, already scared.
~
Laura stood watching the house unfold itself.
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