The Dollhouse

CW: Mention of suicide, implied child abuse, mention of child death

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“After ten years, Weepingridge’s infamous ‘dollhouse’ is holding up surprisingly well…relatively speaking. Let’s hope the inside isn’t too damaged for our sake!”

Ellen Goodman paused her speech to adjust her camcorder. The three-storied house sagged under the weight of its collapsing layers. The once vivid pink and white paint was faded by years of weather-related abuse. Shattered windows allowed the crisp breeze to shake the tattered remains of the inner curtains. Under the sinking red sunset, it looked every bit as evil as its backstory. Ellen shivered with excitement and looked at her husband.

“Patrick, are the horrific rumors of this place making you nervous yet?”

Patrick Goodman stared into the camera. His red-rimmed eyes were partially obscured by the glint of his circular glasses. Like Ellen, he was dressed in multiple layers from head to toe, and had a large backpack strapped to him. He glanced from his wife to the camcorder.

“No.”

Ellen wrinkled her nose and flipped the camcorder around to herself.

“Well that’s just Patrick for you!” She chirped. “The obligatory thundercloud to my sunny disposition.”

She continued filming the house as they drew closer.

The dollhouse was miles away from the rest of the town, just as its creator intended. It was surrounded by a forest full of lanky red maple trees, the occasional weeping willow, and muddy alligator-infested waters. It was all so deliciously dreary that it gave Ellen a little skip in her step.

“Everyone watching should know the story of poor little Dorothy 'Dolly' Carrington. She was the adopted child of Oliver Carrington, the most prolific doll-maker in recent years. He was so obsessed with his craft that he designed his family home as a dollhouse and personally created every one of Dorothy’s dolls.”

Ellen stopped at the steps of the decaying house. Yellow caution tape lay in the dirt, faded and obscured by years of disuse. The smell of mold, dirt, and animal feces stung her nose and made her eyes water. She coughed.

“It smells awful!”

“It’s an abandoned house, Ellen. It’s not going to smell like roses.” Patrick scoffed as he examined the porch. Broken planks stuck out like gigantic splinters with a promise of tetanus. He rested his boot on the platform and slowly pushed his weight into it. The resounding creak was ear-splitting, but the wood didn’t give way.

“We’ll have to tread lightly.”

“What a stunning observation!” Ellen exclaimed, but she didn’t smile until she looked back at the camera. “Then there’s Victoria Carrington, Oliver’s wife. The former model served as a muse for most of Oliver’s best dolls. Many have tried and failed to find more clues about this mysterious family. Even the officer originally assigned to the case went missing. But Patrick and I have a never-before-seen blueprint of the house that promises secret passageways. Hopefully it’s legitimate.”

Patrick huffed. “For ten thousand dollars, it better be.”

Ellen stopped the recording and slammed the camcorder shut. She glared at her husband, ignoring the trickle of rain sprinkling from the darkening sky.

“What’s your problem? This whole thing was your idea.”

Patrick glared at her, but his anger visibly fizzled. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“I’m sorry, Ellen. I’m just stressed. If this blueprint doesn’t produce anything interesting, I don’t know if the show will survive it.”

Ellen’s glare softened. “It will. We’re the original unofficial reporters of the Dollhouse case. People know so much about it because of us. No matter what we produce, they will be interested.”

Patrick sighed. “I hope so. I thought we’d ride the hype of this case for a while, but all we did was influence those ridiculous copycats. I just…I can't go back to accounting.”

Ellen rested her hands on her hips. “You think I want to go back to real estate? I wouldn’t have spent the money if I wasn’t absolutely sure this was legitimate. So stop being such a sourpuss and explore a dead family’s murder site with me!”

Patrick grinned.

“You mean like our first date?”

Ellen wiggled her eyebrows.

“Well if you want it to have the same outcome, stop pissing me off and get back to work.”

“Yes ma’am!” Patrick saluted her with a snicker and the two entered the house.

The door fell off of its hinges the moment they stepped inside. Their powerful flashlights revealed exactly what would be expected.

Cobwebs hung from ceilings and stretched across corners. Dark spiders with fat bodies and spindly legs rested in their centers. Water dripped from the caving ceiling. Empty frames nailed to hole-ridden walls had broken glass on the floor beneath them. Large couches and rugs that had once been lavish were moth-eaten and riddled with mold. Then of course, there were the babies.

“Oh shit!” Ellen gasped.

Shattered porcelain infants were strewn across the floor. They were missing limbs, wearing dirty clothes, and covered in animal shit. Their soulless eyes stared, transfixed on whatever direction the heads were turned.

“Fascinating.” Patrick said, as he pulled out his own camera and began taking pictures. “This isn’t normal wear and tear…these were smashed.”

“Perhaps…” Ellen whispered dramatically, “It was ghosts!”

“There’s no such thing.” Patrick said. “But isn’t there some tidbit about the Carrington family and babies?”

Ellen scowled, then perked up and flipped open the recorder.

“Babies were certainly an interesting topic for the Carringtons. Reportedly, Oliver refused to impregnate Victoria because of the bodily changes that would affect his perfect muse. It is likely the reason he pushed for adoption instead.”

Patrick looked at the camera as well. “From the personality studies that have been done on the man, it makes sense. He was obsessed with perfection in both his dolls and in life. He wanted Victoria to remain perfect, and believed that the ideal child could be selected and molded, rather than born.”

“How positively tragic.” Ellen cooed.

Patrick shrugged. “They’re all dead. There’s no sense in getting emotional about it. I just find it fascinating.”

Ellen stopped the recording and began to dig through her bag for the blueprints. “According to this, there’s a mechanism on one of these walls that will reveal a secret trapdoor in the floor. I’m surprised the police didn’t think to at least rip out the floorboards.”

“It was an open and shut case for the most part.” Patrick answered as he stared eagerly at the unfurled blueprints. “Everyone knew how they died. The mystery was where exactly in the house it happened. And I guess that didn’t matter to the case.”

“But the bodies were never recovered!” Ellen protested. “They weren’t even buried. You know, some cultures believe that’s how you get ghosts.”

Patrick’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s not like a burial would change anything. And would you stop with the ghosts? I don’t want our show to be conflated with those ‘supernatural’ hacks.”

A child laughed. The girlish giggle bounced off the walls and reverberated in the cobwebs.

Ellen’s blood ran cold. The subject of ghosts was suddenly less funny.

“What was that?”

Patrick didn’t answer. He was surveying the living room, the steps that led to the destroyed upstairs, and the entrance to the crumbling kitchen.

“Hello?” He shouted.

No answer.

Ellen stared at Patrick.

“There are lots of dolls in this house,” he said sternly, “It could be malfunctioning voice boxes.”

“After ten years?” Ellen demanded.

Patrick shrugged. “It’s possible.”

Ellen scowled and waited, but they were alone with broken baby dolls and large spiders. Her fear ebbed. Patrick pulled the blueprints out of her grasp and pointed at a wall.

“That one that should reveal the secret entrance.”

A groan filled the house. The walls vibrated and the ceiling shook. Dust and cold water droplets rained on them. Ellen and Patrick dove to the floor, covering their heads. The ground directly in front of them slid open, revealing a dark hole that smelled like mildew and the top of a rusty ladder.

Ellen stared at the hole in disbelief, then at Patrick who was slowly getting up.

“I didn’t see you press anything.”

Patrick helped her up, using his free hand to rub his neck.

“Maybe the floor mechanism has become more sensitive over time.”

Ellen looked back at the hole and re-opened her camcorder. Soreness crept through her body. She approached the hole, her legs aching the closer she got to it.

“This must be the entrance to the secret room where the murder-suicide happened. The unfortunately banned video showed evidence that it occurred somewhere in the house."

Ellen remembered the video well.

There was Oliver Carrington tightening a noose around himself, precariously perched on a large doll chair. He shouted at the world for not appreciating his genius, and gestured to the dead bodies of Victoria and Dolly, riddled with bullet holes. The video was uploaded to the internet shortly after, but the bodies and the room it happened in had never been found. It was all incredibly dramatic, and the merchandise their show made for it had fed her and Patrick for months. That was until another tragic murder happened and some upstart college podcasters stole their shtick. After that, amateur true crime reporting became a trend that pushed her and Patrick’s show into obscurity. 

Now, there was this discovery that could put them back on top. So why did her legs stiffen as she neared the hole? Why did she her heartbeat slow down so much that she was struck with lightheadedness?

She glanced at Patrick, who was surveying the ladder while he rubbed his evidently sore arm.

He glanced up at the camera, his face unexpressive.

“The bodies will likely be decomposed, but we may find the skeletons. And if not, the room the death took place in will be its own discovery."

He glanced at the ladder as if he too were overtaken by the same inexplicable discomfort.

“Patrick–” Ellen started, but the girlish laugh interrupted her.

There was no mistaking it this time. It was too loud and clear to not come from a human child. The giggles continued, seemingly originating from the dark hole beneath them. Ellen felt the blood leave her face.

“Th-that has to be a ghost!” She sputtered at Patrick.

Patrick shook his head, but behind his newly broken lenses, she could see his dilated pupils.

“Ellen, there’s no such—”

Another laugh boomed, more aggressively this time. The cobwebs above shook from the force and the spiders fell on them like rain.

Ellen screamed as the spiders engulfed her like a living sheet. They scurried across her skin, biting her every time she moved. One jumped in her mouth when she started to cry. Their feet left itching trails as they scurried across her skin, their painful bites made her vison explode into whiteness. She shook some free from her face, struggling to find Patrick.

He was covered in a mass of scurrying spiders, stumbling towards the ladder. Ellen followed, sobbing, and retching as the spiders filled her mouth, her ears, and crawled up her nose. Judging from Patrick's muffled sobbing screams, they were doing the same to him. She couldn’t think of anything but clambering towards the hole that smelled like rot.

In a panic, she jumped over the edge and slammed into Patrick. The two screamed as they plummeted into the hole and the spiders fell from their bodies. They crashed into the floor below. The impact came with a surprising lack of pain.

"Are you okay?” She coughed. Patrick’s stiff body was underneath her and she could hear him retching. Nausea plagued her stomach, and it lurched, as if wanting to vomit but unsure how.

"I... I think so."

 She sighed in relief as she rolled off of Patrick and fumbled through her bag for another flashlight.

A few desperate clicks later and the powerful beam lit up their surroundings. The yellow glow landed on the dead-eyes of Oliver Carrington. She screamed and dropped the flashlight.

“Ellen.” Patrick coughed and she saw the shadow of his hand grab the flashlight. “It’s alright, it’s just a doll.”

“Just a…” Ellen followed the beam of light and realized that Patrick was correct. She tried to relax the tension in her body, but she remained stiff and rigid. It took great difficulty to force herself to walk forward.

The life-sized doll leaned against the wall, surprisingly clean. There was no mistaking the striking features, the perfectly styled hair, and the iconic pastel suit. This was a perfect replica of the doll-maker himself…with a noose carefully tied around his neck.

“Fascinating.” Patrick said as Ellen fought against her inexplicably stiff fingers to open the camcorder.

“The man was so obsessed with dolls,” Patrick continued, “that he even made a replica of his own suicide shortly before it happened. An excellent craftsman up to his self-inflicted demise.”

He moved his own flashlight around the room. “Holy shit.”

Life-sized dolls were scattered across the floor. Some were police officers, some just seemed to be random people in plain clothes. They lay on the ground, stiff with lifelessness and an eeriness in their dull eyes. The walls surrounding them were pristine white.

Ellen cleared her throat.

“Obsessed doesn’t even cover it.” She schooled her voice back into 'narration' mode. “Dorothy was adopted by the Carringtons and many remarked that she resembled their dolls. Everything from her hair, to her outfits, to the makeup, was perfectly doll-like. In interviews, she rarely spoke outside of laughs, or the occasional fit of crying. Speculations about abuse became media gossip. To capitalize on both dolls and child, Victoria and Oliver began to sell recordings of Dolly’s playtimes. And soon, yours truly noticed a pattern–”

Ellen stopped when her flashlight landed on two particular dolls a few feet back. One was a woman dressed in fine clothing and the other was a little girl. Both were riddled with bullet-holes. Soreness crept into her eyes as if the very act of looking at it made her them want to fall from her sockets.

“Ellen?” Patrick asked, rubbing his eyes underneath his broken glasses. “What are you—”

He stopped short.

“He…he staged the rest of the killing as well…with dolls?”

“Patrick…” Ellen’s voice was as tight as the rest of her body. “Look at the clothes. Look at the room.”

The scene was the same as it was in the video, aside from the life size dolls. Oliver with a noose around his neck, the dead family in the background. They wore the same clothes and were positioned in exactly the right place. Ellen’s heart thrummed so faintly that she could barely feel it.

Then, the little girl doll sat up and laughed. Ellen froze. It was the same giggle that she had been hearing since she’d got here.

Ellen tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t move. She couldn’t force herself to run either. She was rooted in place, camcorder in hand as she watched the animated doll. It moved stiffly, like a windup toy. More giggles erupted from behind its painted smile.

“Ellen!” Patrick’s voice sounded fuzzy, but she couldn’t see him, nor could she respond.

The doll-version of Dorothy stopped just in front of Ellen, pointing at the camera. Her painted brown eyes seemed to glow. Ellen flew backwards. Unable to fight it or scream, she could feel her body rotate until she was facing Patrick…but not Patrick. Her heart came to a standstill as she stared at the doll that had replaced her husband.

Same broken glasses, his face schooled into the condescending expression that often drove her crazy. A flashlight was gripped in his hard-unmoving hand. But the look in his too-large eyes was undoubtedly alive and made it unable to deny.

The doll was Patrick. The light faded from his eyes as the realization hit her. Then everything became clear. Her stiffness, the burn in her eyes, her fading heartbeat.

Oh no, Oh no, Oh no.

She couldn't even scream as the wicked smile she was known for stretched across her face.

Then Patrick rocked from side to side as if the giant invisible hand of a child was moving him. His voice came out of unmoving lips, with the quality of a pre-recorded voice box.

Ellen! Look at how that Dolly Girl has been posing her dolls in all her videos!

Ellen’s felt herself rocking in the stiff exaggerated way Patrick had. Her own voice, far-away and strange, came from her throat.

She’s using them to spell out the word help! I knew something weird was going on with those people!

Doll-Patrick spoke again.

If we tell the police or CPS, they’ll order a silence. By the time it’s lifted, the case won’t be hot anymore. We need this big reveal for the show.

Ellen wanted to scream the words: ‘I’m sorry’ to the doll, to the little girl that was punishing them for their part in this. Their eagerness to boost the show’s popularity may have cost the child her life. A million excuses died in her plastic throat.

Well, let’s not tell anyone, then. We’ll release the information live on the show first! They can figure out the rest.

The police-doll who only now looked familiar, stiffly joined their ranks.

They want us to do another wellness check at the Carrington House again, but it can wait. That kid gives me the creeps.

Oliver’s doll floated over, shouting with its unmoving face.

You little brat, look what you’ve done! It’s all over the television already!

The Victoria doll began to scream.

If either of you think you’ll get away with this and enjoy the fruits of my empire, you’re delusional. I’ll kill us all before I let that happen.

Ellen inwardly screamed as she and the rest of the human dolls performed the script over and over again. During which, Dorothy’s haunting laugh devolved into hysterical sobbing.