Chapter 25 #2
We’re careful to give the dolls a wide berth as we make our way up, like they might lunge for us.
When I step over RBG, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
Though every part of me screams to ignore it and keep going, I glance over my shoulder.
The doll is lying on her back, her bespectacled gaze trained on me.
Wasn’t she face down before?
I can’t remember. All I know is I saw something flutter in the periphery of my vision.
My pulse thunders against my eardrums, and for a second, I am ready to scream or have a sizable panic attack.
Or drag my phone out of my back pocket and search for the number of some actual Ghostbusters.
If these dolls are moving on their own, then maybe Theo’s wrong about the movie. Maybe it is very, very real.
Like, could-be-a-documentary real.
That thought is wild enough to clear my head.
RBG did not move. My nerves are just fried, and we’re already freaked out and standing here in the dark. My mind is playing tricks on me. I’m experiencing an actual moment of inattentional blindness.
I nod to myself.
Firmly.
Then I give Ruth Bader Ginsburg a swift kick off the stairs. Just to be safe.
Sorry, RBG. But let’s be honest. The real RBG would have done the same. She never messed around.
“Amity.”
I finally tear my eyes off the doll to look at Theo. My hand slipped from his arm a few moments ago and he’s now standing at the top of the stairs. His eyes are wide, but it looks like whatever trance he was in has finally broken.
He reaches out for me. “Remember our deal? We’re doing this together.”
Our hands connect like a lock snapping into place.
Queen Elizabeth I lies in the middle of the second-floor hallway, and Katherine Johnson is sprawled in the doorway to the big bedroom. We make our way there. Then doll after doll guides us toward the walk-in closet: Harriet Tubman, Marie Curie, Frida Kahlo. Like breadcrumbs through a forest.
Mercy’s portrait rests on the floor at the back of the closet where I left it earlier. Only now Amelia Earhart and Charlotte Bronte are slumped on top of it.
Theo and I exchange a glance.
“This is…uh…” I start.
“Fucking nuts?” Theo suggests.
“I was going to say new, but that’s much more accurate.” We both stare at the picture. “What do you think this means?” I ask.
“It’s Mercy.” Theo’s posture has steadied and the certainty is back in his voice.
“She must be trying to communicate. To let us know she’s the ghost. And that we will need this”—he holds up the satchel—“to set her free.” He shakes our joined hands.
“That’s why the picture came down so easily.
And she must know these are your dolls. That you’d follow them.
That you’d find this.” He sweeps his free hand over the mess on the floor.
It feels like he’s making some logical leaps here, but I let it go. Does logic even have a place in a world where inanimate objects are moving on their own? “Do you have your EMF reader? Or the infrared thermometer?” I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth even as I ask them.
“No. I rushed right here.”
My stomach goes twisty and warm. He really was worried about me.
I flash him a little smirk. “I figured you kept them on you at all times. Like taped in your underwear or something.” He cocks an eyebrow, and for a second I am ready for Mercy to take my soul. “Not that I was thinking about your underwear,” I add hastily.
My cheeks are a million and one shades of red.
He sinks to his knees and pokes at Charlotte. Rolls her over and then picks her up. She, thankfully, does not react. He follows the same process with Amelia to the same result.
After shifting the dolls off the portrait, he flips it over and studies it from every angle but doesn’t seem to find anything. Frowning, he grips the edges of the frame and tries to pry it off. He has about as much luck as we had getting the portrait off the wall before today.
I step around him and approach the cubby. Flicking on the flashlight app on my phone, I angle it into the hole. It’s about the size of a shoe box, if you stood one up on the narrow side. When I stand on my tiptoes, I can peer all the way in.
As usual, the light in here has a haze to it, so it’s hard to see at first, but eventually my eyes adjust and I’m able to examine the space.
There’s nothing. Not even a speck of dust. Like the whole thing exists in a vacuum.
I stick my hand in to be sure, only to gasp and yank it back out. The air’s as cold as our freezer.
Theo’s eyes jump to me. “You okay?”
“The hole’s empty, but it’s freezing.”
“Definitely supernatural activity.”
I don’t argue with this either.
We spend a few more minutes searching but don’t find anything else, so I leave the closet to gather my dolls. I can feel Theo’s eyes trailing me. “What?”
“What are you going to do with those?”
I meet his gaze. “Lock them away in the den closet so they don’t murder me in my sleep.”
Theo snorts. “Acceptable choice.”
I shrug. “If I hadn’t worked so damn hard on them, they’d be taking a dive in the fireplace.”
After he helps me collect the rest, we make our way back downstairs. I check as we pass through the house, but nothing else seems disturbed.
“What do you think we should—” The words get caught in my throat when I step into the den.
In the middle of the room Joan of Arc and Taylor Swift lie torn to pieces. Stuffing oozes from their necks.
My skin goes cold, and my heart hiccups. I can probably sew them back together, but there will be scars. A forever reminder of the weird shit in this house.
Theo’s eyes are caught on something on the wall across from us.
I follow his gaze to a dark oblong shape near the window.
The sun is caught behind some clouds, so the whole room is darker than it should be for early afternoon, but this spot is different.
It’s thicker. More…alive, the edges shivering, almost as if it is breathing.
“Theo?” My voice croaks.
He hooks an arm around my waist and guides me backward. I watch him snatch the saltshaker from the kitchen island and twist it open before dumping a line of salt across the doorway.
He glances at me, his face pallid. His mouth is pulled taut, and he has that owl-eyed look again. “Maybe bunk with your mom in the living room tonight?”
“Like I want to be in there alone,” I mutter. The shadow is no longer in my line of sight but every time I blink, it’s all I can see, its form quivering over the crocheted corpses.
Theo braves the den to stow away the rest of the dolls.
He keeps his flashlight trained squarely on the shadow as he inches his way to the closet and stuffs them inside.
Then he shuts the door firmly. Air whooshes out of him the second he’s back in the kitchen, and he leans against me as he regains his composure.
We head back outside a few minutes later to call Matt and Arden, leaving Joan and Taylor broken on the den floor.