Family Ties

by Mandy Monster

I stood staring at the house, Everything in my being told me to leave, yet I proceeded. I walked slowly to the door, creaky porch beneath my feet. The house had been in the family for centuries and had long been neglected. My Grandparents, the last occupants. I walked through the door and smelled the musty air rise up around me. I'd heard stories of my grandparent’s travels. The posters on the wall chronicled their life and the places they’d been. They say a magician is only as good as his wand. Well, a ventriloquist is only as good as his Dummy, and my grandparent's dummies were possibly the creepiest things I had ever seen.

A boy and girl made of wood and porcelain, stuffed with care, and painted to perfection. Pictures on the mantel showed the dummies posed like children on laps, sitting around the dinner table, tucked in bed, pushed in a stroller. The more I stared at the dummies the more unnerved I felt. Maybe it was the permanent smiles or the way the expressions never changed? I took the pictures down and placed them in a box.

The Grandparents had passed on about a decade ago. My mother inherited the house. Now it was mine. I never expected mom to pass so suddenly. She never spoke of her childhood or her time living here. When I got curious and asked, she changed the subject. Now I understood why. It now fell upon me to deal with the decaying property. I looked around pondering if I should renovate or just tear it down and sell the lot to some high-end strip mall investor. The cleaning crew I hired would be here in a few days to empty the house. As far as I was concerned, it could all go. I set things to keep near the door and stressed about where to go next. Upstairs or basement? To be honest, I didn't want to do either. I took a deep breath. Decided basement.

Butterflies rose in my stomach as I found myself staring at the basement door. I opened it, flicked the lightswitch, and to my surprise a dim bulb lit at the bottom of the stairs. I descended, feeling goosebumps on my legs. I contemplated turning around, but continued. I reached the bottom and found a laundry area, work station, boxes and a small play area with toys and a table. I opened the boxes and found what looked like doll clothing. No, children's clothing. I rummaged and found a photo album.

The album contained pictures of three adolescent children. Playing at the very table before me, at birthday parties, and Christmas. Two boys and one girl. Who were they? Seeing a close up of the girl smiling, I dropped the album and ran upstairs. That smile! Haunting. I grabbed the mantel pictures from the box. It was her! It dawned on me why the dummies where so creepy. They weren't dummies at all, but mummies! I ran downstairs again, tearing through more boxes. Trying to find what? I had no hesitation about running up the stairs. Opening every door, looking through drawers and closets.

I finally came to the last room. I knew instantly it was mother's. The quilt on the bed was the same as at home. I lay down and stared at the ceiling. A wave of emotion came over me, I sprung up. Perhaps mother kept important things under the bed? I got on my hands and knees and sure enough, I found boxes. One was heavier than the others. Could it be what I was searching for without realizing it? Papers, journals, pictures, birth and death certificates. An old newspaper article grabbed my attention. An advert for a Nanny want ad phone number circled in black. Attached to the article was a picture of my mother standing on the once immaculate porch holding the hand of a child. She looked young and beautiful. Written on the back was, "Patricia’s First Day."

I felt shock and anger. So many questions. Mom wasn't even their real daughter and I had a brother I knew nothing about! Anger turned to sadness. Sadness turned to horror. I could see why she left it here, buried and forgotten. “A runaway with a bastard child can never go home again.” That was her first journal entry. She had found a new family. A new home. Children to love. She took care of everyone, and everything. The Grandparents lost their daughter in an accident and they had her children to take care of now. They had shows to perform and my mother reminded them of what was missing in their lives and they opened their home and hearts to her. “Funny thing about love” she wrote, “ people will go to great lengths to bring it back once it's gone”.

I didn't understand until I saw the entries about illness that spread through the house affecting the children and then the adults. The adults recovered...the children...did not. My grandparents couldn't cope with another loss. My brother was buried, but the other two corpses were taken to the basement. My mother didn't dare go down there, but what emerged from that basement was not quite human, not quite doll. A boy and girl made of skin and porcelain, stuffed with hair and painted to perfection. They felt guilty for being gone so much that they vowed to have the children with them at all times, and they did, even after death.

I couldn't read much more beyond that. My mother eventually left. She couldn't live there knowing what others thought were beautiful dolls were once her beloved wards. I gathered her things and took them downstairs. I looked around and realized that it would be best to condem the property, and the past. I packed my car, locked the door and said a prayer. "I will never come back," I whispered. Oddly enough, that was my mother's last journal entry.