The House

Chapter 7 - Day 1: A Fight for Light

I land hard on the floor and lie there for a few seconds, completely winded. 

After some gasping, I finally feel alive enough to try to escape, but whatever has me in its grip is holding on tighter and tighter the more I fight. I drag myself forward, sliding on my stomach, dragging my captor with me.

"Let go! Let go!" At least that's what I'm trying to shout, but only some incomprehensible sounds are coming out of my mouth, scaring me even more. Fear is making my movements awkward and clumsy; I try to kick my assailant but only manage to kick myself.

My journey to the table ends when I bump my head into what I believe to be its edge. It hurts enough to make me want to cry, but I cannot afford more than a short yell of pain. I have to get the light on. Where's the mop and poker now that I need them?

I could really beat myself up with those...

My hands are trembling, knocking things out of their way in my desperate attempts to find my cell phone on the table. I can hear the silver bowl and keys hitting the floor. When I finally touch the phone, I do so with enough force to slap it away, causing it to become unplugged and slide across the floor to somewhere out of reach.

I'm truly freaking out now, panic and fear echoing in my harsh breathing. Whatever has me by the ankle is heavy and persistent. I'm bracing myself for the full-on attack that I know is bound to come at any second.

I almost knock the lamp from the table when I locate it. My heart does a double take as I grab hold of it, and I use the fingers of one hand to search for the switch gently. Even in my current mental destruction, I can vaguely remember thinking earlier that the lamp is an antique and probably costs a fortune.

Antique...

Will it even work? Is it even plugged in? I cannot remember! Despair is bubbling up my throat, ready to enter the world as a scream and then I find a small switch.

And there is light!

Glorious light. Not very bright, but warm and comforting and revealing. My foot is tangled in some clothing spilling from my heavy suitcase, and I've been dragging the case along with me.

I stare at my foot. I stare at the ropes of twisted fabric wrapped around my ankle, protruding like a tongue from the partially open mouth of the suitcase. I stare at the rumpled rug that has added itself to the hampering mess. I am speechless. I rub my sore forehead, not sure whether I should laugh or cry.

Woman murdered by untidy suitcase.

That will teach me to leave my bags in the middle of the foyer, where I dropped them in my haste to take a bath. I should've taken them to the bedroom after the bath. Just moving them to where I stacked all the other items from my car, safely out of the way, would've been good too.

"I was hungry!"

Besides, I'm pretty sure I tidied up this area... a bit... I think... And weren't my bags closer to the door? I'm not sure. I moved stuff around when I cleaned the floor earlier.

"Let's never tell anybody about this."

I'm traumatised, I'm humiliated, and I'm also cracking up with laughter now. My head hurts, my knee is possibly bruised, and I've grazed my one palm a bit. I should probably rather be crying, but come on, my suitcase just tried to swallow me whole!

Feeling somewhat calmer, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and stuff the clothing back into the suitcase. I'll untangle them later. For now, I make sure to close the suitcase properly, unravel the rug and push all bags out of the way.

A crawling-around-on-all-fours search of the possible area my phone could've escaped to reveals its betraying glint under the couch.

How did it get all the way over there?!

Regardless of the angle I try, it is just deep enough under the couch for me to have to lie flat on my stomach and shove my entire arm underneath to grab it. I'm not thinking about something grabbing my hand. I'm not thinking of weird things at all. 

Of course, I'm not!

And no, the couch wouldn't budge when I tried to move it before lying down. The couch is made of solid lead, dipped in wood chips and cloth and has a giant sleeping on it... Well, maybe not, but it is far heavier than any wooden couch has the right to be. It is probably glued to the floor.

My fingers touch the edge of the phone; it rolls away from them a bit, bumps against something and returns, this time almost within reach, to get a better hold of it. Even my phone is misbehaving now! The third attempt finally enables me to close my hand around it properly and pull it out. 

I know before I've firmly gripped it that it cannot possibly be my phone. Phones don't roll, phones are not round, phones are not this heavy, nor this big, and my phone is lying right next to the foot of the nearest end table. It is not under the couch.

I pull my arm out, simultaneously scurrying into a sitting position to examine my treasure.

It's a Matryoshka doll. One of those nested Russian dolls, where each one opens up to reveal a smaller doll inside. My grandmother had one. I used to play with it all the time. Her set consisted of seven dolls. I gave them all names. 

The problem was that her dolls were all identical, and I wasn't always able to tell them apart unless they were side by side and I could compare their sizes and even then, it was hard to remember.

Playing with them went something like: "So, Annie says to Penny... no... oh wait... you're taller than Sammy but shorter than Annie... uhm... So, Emily says...! No... no... wait... Let me see again... Which one of you is Gloria?" Not very effective when trying to play some elaborate scene I was making up.

My grandmother's dolls were cute and pretty, with rosy cheeks and bodies painted in lovely bright colours.

My grandmother's Matryoshka dolls were not sad and scary.

The body of the doll in my hand was artistically decorated long, long ago. The paint is faded now, and the designs are barely discernible in certain areas. It might once have been beautiful, but now it is pale and washed out. The eyes seem haunted and sad, and the lips are cracked. 

A splinter catches my finger, sharp enough to draw blood, and I drop the doll with a startled cry.

She falls into pieces in my lap. Each layer opens up to reveal the one inside. Each revealed doll is in a little better shape than the one protecting it, but none of them is colourful or pretty. They are all different from each other, but they all seem sad. There are four dolls in all.

The last doll in the set is not opening up, but she is too big to be the small solid one that always nests at the core. Judging by her size, there should be at least two more dolls. She's hollow, and she rattles when I shake her. I can also hear a soft tinkling sound. 

Her eyes are huge and filled with the kind of emotions that only a very skilled artist could've captured this well. I almost apologise for shaking her. Almost.

She is glued shut; no pulling or prying is making her seam open up. Whatever is inside her doesn't quite sound the way I remember the tiny knobby baby one in my grandmother's doll sounding when you moved the doll nesting it. 

It sounds as if there is more than one item locked up inside this doll. She's much heavier than she should be too. I re-assemble the doll and place it on the end table. I cannot go un-glueing other people's property. 

Can I? I know I shouldn't. Right?

I'm truly itching to revamp the poor girls and make them pretty and happy again... Perhaps the owner will give me permission to repaint and varnish them. I'd love to do that... and even more than that, I would love to take a peek at what's inside the last one. 

I'll put everything back and glue her shut again; I promise...

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