Chapter 4

The silence that follows is mindnumbing. I gasp for air as the sound of my thumping heart echoes off the wooden walls of the foyer. My mouth opens but no sound comes out. It isn’t until my daughter’s borrowed voice calls my name again from upstairs that I find the courage to speak.

“Hello?” I call, my voice cracking. “Who’s there?” 

There is no response. The halls have fallen silent again. An eerie, unsettling silence that chills my bones. 

I don’t remember making a conscious decision to climb the stairs, but suddenly I’m on the landing where I nearly watched Harlow fall our first night here. 

Hands still shaking, I tiptoe into each room—checking closets and underneath beds, but of course there is no one. I pause at the door at the end of the hall that I’ve yet to be brave enough to go behind. I’ve nearly convinced myself it was nothing, like all the other strange things that have happened here.

But it isn’t nothing. This isn’t an unplanned nap on a porch swing, or a trick of lighting making the stair railing appear to split. This was my name, echoing through the halls of an otherwise empty home—in a voice I know can’t possibly be inside it. 

I take a deep breath and twist the door knob. It slides open effortlessly, with barely more than a creak. Then I am left staring up at a matching door at the top of a narrow staircase. 

The attic. 

A shudder runs through me, but I can’t be a coward now. I have no idea what’s going on here—or why it seems to only be happening to me—but I need to get to the bottom of it. To protect my family. 

Slowly, so slowly I fear Bryce may get home before I even make it to the top, I begin up the rickety wooden stairs to the attic. I clamp my eyes closed at the top, drawing in a deep breath. 

“Be brave,” I say aloud to myself, but inside I am hoping when I twist the final door knob it will be locked. 

To my chagrin, this door opens effortlessly just like the last. 

I blink into the darkness. The few rays of sunlight brushing over the dust-covered floors from the small window on the front of the house does little to light the room. I feel around on the wall for a light switch, but find none. So, I step into the dark attic—ignoring every warning signal my brain is trying to send me—and step towards the single bulb suspended from the center of the ceiling. 

“Oww, shit!” I exclaim as my shin makes contact with the corner of a box barely sticking out into the center of the room. 

I sidestep it and finally reach the cord for the light. When I pull it the attic is illuminated, highlighting the dust particles floating in the air. I glance around in awe before breaking into a fit of coughing. The attic is filled with boxes—evidence of the lives once lived beneath its wooden beams. 

When the coughing subsides, I squint and tilt my head towards the box I previously tripped over. On the side, in a familiar scrawl, are the words: Jenkins Family. 

I read it several more times, heat rising up my chest. I finally will my feet forward. This box lacks the thick layer of dust collected on the other boxes lying around. Hesitantly, I lift the corner of the lid, half expecting bats to come flying out of it but of course, they don’t. 

I pull the lid the rest of the way off and peer inside. At first it is nothing unusual. A copy of a will draws my attention and I pull it out. I begin to flip through it until I reach the portion pertaining to this home. Bryce inherited it from a distant relative we never met. He had no idea he was in the will at all, let alone the beneficiary of a nineteen-twenties Victorian mansion. 

I read through every page, examining them carefully, but I see no mention of Bryce’s name at all. I sit back on my heels, trying to understand how we inherited a home without being in the will. 

Maybe this wasn’t the final copy, I tell myself. There must have been another draft that was actually filed. Bryce is a lawyer, of course he never would have moved us here without seeing the paperwork. 

I set the will aside, my eye catching on a photograph of the people who lived in this house before us. 

Also the Jenkins. 

I turn the photo over in my hands, the image doesn’t change but I can’t help but see the striking similarities to our family. The man, tall and broad-shouldered like Bryce. Though the colors have faded with time, his hair appears to be the same dark brown, his eyes the same bright blue. 

Then the woman. I have no relation to her but I can’t deny a shared quality, though I can’t put my finger on what it is. Something about this woman feels like she’s reaching back through time and space to tell me something. Her smile is tight, her husband’s hand rests possessively on her shoulder. 

And the children. The most chilling part of it all. A teenage daughter—smiling through the tattered photograph in the same bright orange jumpsuit Bethany pulled from her new closet our first night here. A son, standing stoic beside her. 

I drop the picture to the wooden floor as my eyes land on the final child. A baby, no more than two years old. She wears a pale pink dress and a matching hat. 

In her arms is a doll dressed exactly like her. 

I clasp a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream as I reach, with trembling fingers, to retrieve the photo. 

I flip it over, on the back it says: Robert, Mary, Alice, Henry, and Mabel–Christmas, 1975

The other writing fades away, all my eyes can manage to focus on is the word Mabel as it seemingly hovers—quivering—in the air above the photograph. I’m still staring at it when my alarm begins blasting on the phone in my pocket. I startle and drop the photo back into the box, putting the lid on and shoving it out of the way. 

It’s time to go pick up the kids already. 

There is more digging I need to do here, but somehow I’ve spent the entire day staring at the impossibility of the little girl with the name of a doll she once clung to, that has now found its way into my own daughter’s arms. 

I rush down the stairs from the attic, closing doors behind me as I rush down to the foyer and grab my purse off the coat rack. 

My heart is still racing from everything that’s happened as I climb behind the wheel of my Highlander and make my way into town. 

Having suffered a severe case of highway hypnosis, I find myself parked in the pickup lane at Bethany’s school with no memory of the drive here. My head snaps to the passenger side as a sudden pounding on the window sends my pulse vibrating up into my throat. My hand flies to my chest as I see Bethany, impatiently waiting for me to unlock her door. 

I click the button and try to calm my breathing as she slides into the passenger seat. 

“How was your first day?” I force a smile, thankful that Bethany is the first to get out of school. She won’t notice my erratic behavior the way the other kids will and I can work out some of the jitters by attempting small-talk with her on the way to Charlie’s pick up line. 

“Fine,” is all she says, and then she reaches into her bag, rooting around for something before throwing herself back against the seat with a heavy sigh. “Did you find my phone?” Her voice sounds hopeful. 

“Molly. Welcome back.” 

I shake my head to clear the memory. The proof that she couldn’t have been the one calling my name stares back at me with annoyance. 

“No, I–I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t find it.” 

“What the hell?” 

“Language,” I scold half-heartedly. “We’ll look again when we get home.” 

The rest of the drive to Charlie’s school is silent. So much for getting out the jitters with small talk. Bethany thumbs through a textbook I’m pretty sure she’s only using to avoid talking to me. 

“Mom!” Charlie calls as he hauls the back door open and climbs inside. “My new school is awesome! Can I play soccer? Did you bring any snacks?” 

“Charlie,” I laugh. “Slow down. One question at a time please.” 

“Snacks?” he asks, digging through the seat back in front of him. 

“Sorry, bud. I forgot to grab snacks on my way out.” 

“Ugh. I’m starving.” 

“Well, I’m making pasta for dinner when we get home,” I offer. 

“Can I have a snack when we get home?” he asks hopefully. 

“Sure,” I relent. He pumps a fist and settles back into his seat, stretching his buckle over his chest. 

At Harlow’s school, I let the older kids stay in the car as I run inside to get her. 

“How was she?” I ask Mrs. Tiffany as I sign Harlow out at the front counter. 

“She was great!” she says with a smile. “She’s very smart.” I smile at her as Harlow comes rushing down the hallway. 

“Mommy!” She flings herself into my arms, stretching hers around my neck.

“Did you have a good day?” I ask her. 

“Yes! And I made a new friend. Can I bring Mabel to show my friends tomorrow?” she asks. 

“Oh, I–umm, you know I don’t really think they want you bringing toys from home,” I start. 

“Oh no, it’s perfectly fine,” Mrs. Tiffany interjects. “We actually find it can be really helpful with adjusting if they bring a friend from home for the first few days.” She smiles kindly and I force one of my own in return. 

“Great,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Then sure baby, you can bring Mabel.” 

“Yay!” Harlow bounces up and down on her tiptoes before saying one final goodbye to Mrs. Tiffany. We walk hand-in-hand to the car and I help her into her seat. 

“Mom, what are you doing?” Bethany eyes me disgustedly from the passenger seat. We’re halfway home and I don’t notice that I’ve chewed my nails nearly down to the quick until she adds, “when did you start biting your nails?” 

“I didn’t,” I say defensively, lowering my hand back to the steering wheel—assuming a ten and two position for the remainder of the drive home.

“You’re being weird,” she adds. 

“I’m not being weird,” I protest, but I can feel the act I’m trying to put on for the kids failing with each passing minute. 

Bethany doesn’t press me for the remainder of the drive. When we get home, I pause in the foyer waiting to hear a voice calling my name or welcoming me home. 

The kids have all split off to their rooms—Bethany and Charlie to do homework before dinner, Harlow to find Mabel. I linger in the foyer far longer than necessary before finally forcing my feet to take me to the kitchen.

The big pot is boiling, ready for the pasta, when I hear the front door open. I toss the noodles in quickly and step out into the hallway to greet Bryce. 

“Bethany!” he shouts up the stairs, his voice laced with panic. He doesn’t wait for her to respond before he heads down the hallway towards me.  

“Bryce?” I ask. He grabs my face in his hands gently. 

“Are you okay? Where are the kids?” He releases me and heads back towards the stairs. “Bethany!” he yells again. 

“Bryce, what is going on? The kids are upstairs, we’re all fine.”  

“What?” Bethany finally calls back down, descending the stairs. The scowl on her face drops as she takes in her father’s haggard appearance. 

“Everyone is fine?” he asks, his panic turning to confusion as Charlie and Harlow appear in the foyer to greet him. 

“Bryce?” I say again, in a calming tone I have used more than once with the children. “What’s going on? Why did you think we wouldn’t be okay?” 

He glances between me and Bethany for a moment.  

“Why did you send me this?” He doesn’t sound angry, per se, but certainly confused. He turns his screen so Bethany can see it. 

“Dad, I didn’t send that,” she protests. He scoffs and runs his hand down the back of his head, pinching his neck like he does when he’s frustrated. “I don’t even have my phone,” she goes on. “I lost it and Mom didn’t look for it.” I don’t miss the accusatory tone of her voice and I shoot her a look of derision. 

“She’s not lying,” I confirm. “She lost her phone this morning and we didn’t have time to look for it before school. And I got. . .distracted today and didn’t have a chance to look much.” Bethany rolls her eyes from her place on the stairs. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest. 

“Then how do you explain this?” he says, tilting the screen of his phone to face me. 

“How should I know?” she shrugs. 

I glance down at the phone in his hand and my breathing halts. It is a text message, clearly from Bethany. It’s in the same thread where a day prior she texted him from her room asking for a bowl of ice cream. 

“Maybe Charlie stole it,” she adds. 

“Hey, no I didn’t!” he whines, glaring at his sister. 

The room takes on an eerily quiet thrum. The kind that sounds like you’re listening to someone speak underwater. 

Bryce and Bethany are still going back and forth but I can no longer make out the words they are saying as my head swims with the memory of my name calling through the empty halls of our home and now this. 

A text message from my daughter to her father, but without hesitation, I know she isn’t the one who sent it. 

Whoever, or whatever, is haunting us did. Maybe it was Mabel the creepy doll that moves on its own when no one is looking. I make a silent vow to spend my days here alone trying to figure it out.

No matter the cost. 

I close my eyes and steady myself against the wall to keep from fainting but all I see branded on the backs of my eyelids are the words from Bryce’s screen. 

Emergency. Come home. Now!