The Doll Story MEGAPACK ®. Frances Hodgson Burnett
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of course:
We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be the horse;
And I’ll walk behind and cry, and we’ll put her in this, you see—
This dear little box—and we’ll bury her there out under the maple-tree.
And papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;
And he’ll put what I tell him on it—yes, every single word!
I shall say: “Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;
She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head.”
THE DOLL, by Edmund Glasby
Who knew what horrors the doll had seen through the centuries?
“It never ceases to surprise me just how much rubbish someone can collect over the course of a lifetime.” Stanley Jones sipped from his cup of tea, surrounded by chests and boxes of various shapes and sizes, most of which had now been packed with antique child’s toys; spinning tops, garishly-painted marionettes, hand-crafted wooden animals, small drums, and the like. Faint rays of sunlight shone in through the small attic window, filtering through the thin cloud of dust motes, which were suspended in the musty air.
“Me too,” replied Michael Hargreaves. “Although that said, according to Briggs, some of this stuff could well be worth a bob or two.” He pointed to a pile of heaped paintings, which rested on a chair nearby. “Take that lot there, for instance. Although they may look a bit tatty, and I for one don’t like the look of them, I daresay someone will pay through the nose for them at the auction.”
Jones finished his tea, got up from his chair, and walked over to examine the paintings. Removing a rag from a pocket in his brown overalls, he reached down and wiped free the layer of dust which had accumulated on the topmost painting. It was an old-fashion oil painting, a landscape, featuring a majestic yet dark and foreboding castle set atop a densely-wooded mountain. The thunderous brooding skies augmented its sinister appearance.
“What do you think?” asked Hargreaves, getting up and walking over.
“I’m just seeing if I can find a signature.” Jones rubbed his rag around the edge of the painting and then along the ornately-carved frame. “Doesn’t seem to be any.”
“Still hoping to find a long-lost da Vinci?”
“I’d be so lucky.” Jones returned his rag to his pocket. “How long have we now been in this business? Ten, eleven years? You would have thought in all those years of clearing out some of these old houses, we would have come across something of value. The one and only time I ever found something of any real worth was that Edwardian chest of drawers—”
“The one from the old Fitzwilliam place? I remember. Didn’t one of the heirs turn up to claim it or something?”
“That’s right. Beats me how he hadn’t learned of the old man’s demise earlier. After all, his obituary had been in all of the papers. Besides, Briggs is usually very thorough checking up on whether or not there are any living next of kin.” Jones removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
Hargreaves leaned forward and accepted the cigarette the other offered. He inhaled it quickly into lighting, then scowled down at it, rolling it absently between his fingers. “You know, there are times when I’ve been tempted to pocket a little something or other. After all, it’s not really like stealing, is it? I mean, who’s going to miss the odd necklace or a few rings? It’s not as if the old man who lived here kept an inventory of all his worldly possessions, now is it? And as you said yourself, some of this might fetch a—” He stopped abruptly upon hearing the sounds of a door slamming downstairs and the sound of heavy footsteps coming closer.
They glanced guiltily at each other and tried to look busy.
A few seconds later the door to the small attic room was flung open and Peter Briggs stepped inside. He was a short, slightly fat man in his late fifties; balding and bespectacled, his forehead wrinkled by worry frowns. In his right hand he held a clipboard, and he carried about him an air of officiousness.
Jones stubbed out his cigarette and jumped to attention. “We’re getting there, boss,” he said. “This is the last room in the house. We’ve packed up all of the pieces from the two large rooms downstairs, and we’ve got most of the furniture outside waiting for the delivery van. It was a struggle getting that piano down from the upstairs bedroom, but we managed it.”
Stepping further into the room, Briggs flung his disapproving look around the cluttered attic room. He ran the fingers of his right hand over a thick layer of dust on one of the nearby crates before looking at both of his workmen. “I want all of this lot out of here by this evening. Do you think you can do that?”
“I think we can manage that, boss,” answered Jones. He indicated to where an array of unsorted clutter lay scattered haphazardly in the far corner of the room: the iron frame of a child’s bed, a broken rocking-horse, several small chairs, and other miscellaneous pieces of dated furniture. “It’s just a case of getting that lot packed and then shifting what’s up here outside.”
“Well then, jump to it,” said Briggs. “The sooner we’ve done this house clearance, the better. There’s something about this place that just doesn’t feel right.”
There was something in the way that his foreman had made this declaration that made Hargreaves uneasy. It was an admittance of what he himself had been feeling for the past week ever since he had set foot in the old house. Although as a level-headed, practical man, it was something he had not dared confide to any of the others. Now, after what Briggs had said, he thought it was time to raise certain issues.
“You’re not the only one who thinks there’s something not quite right going on here,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Briggs. He looked up at Hargreaves.
“Well, it’s just that I too have had the feeling that there’s something, what shall I say, slightly spooky going on here. It’s not something I’ve mentioned before for fear that either of you would think that I’m beginning to lose my marbles or something.” Hargreaves looked to Jones for some kind of support, but saw only blankness in his weary-looking face before continuing: “It’s worse up here in the attic. At times, when I’ve been up here on my own, I, well—”
“Well, what?” inquired Briggs. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Hargreaves looked uncomfortable. He bit his lower lip and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked down at his scuffed shoes for a moment before looking up. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I’m sure I’ve heard the sound of a child whimpering, crying almost. It’s very faint, and I’m not sure if it’s just the sound of the wind blowing through the eaves or what, but it sure has scared the hell out of me. I don’t know about either of you, but I also get the feeling that it’s much colder up here than it is downstairs. Don’t you feel it?”
A little chill shivered down Brigg’s spine, and he felt a sudden nervous tenseness shudder through his whole body, forming a tight knot of fear in his stomach. He had worked in the removal and acquisition business for over thirty years, and had been in countless houses, private homes, and mansions across the country throughout his career, and he had to admit there had been a few instances when the fearful realization that he was handling the treasures and personal effects of the recently deceased had made him distinctly uneasy. At such times, he had had to wrestle hard with his own conscience to dismiss the belief that what he was making a living from could be viewed by some as nothing more than legalized grave-robbing. It was undeniable that there was a certain ghoulish element to the entire business.
“I don’t feel anything. I think this is just a load of nonsense.” In an act of purposefulness, Jones put on his workmen’s gloves. “The sooner we get this stuff into crates and get it outside, the sooner the job will be done. I’ll admit there is some weird stuff here, but I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have. Never will.”