Househunting.

This is probably the first story I have attempted since junior school. Actually no - I'm forgetting  'Lucky the Naughty Dog' and 'The Princess and the Slug'. I may need to look those out. It is, however, the first story I am daring to share. Both the writing of it and the sharing of it are practice for the Creative Writing module I am due to start in September. The prompt for the story was taken from the Writer Wednesday Blog Hop. I was too late to enter that week's story share, and the story doesn't actually conform to the requirements. However, I appreciate the stimulus and will work towards joining in properly at some point. I hope you enjoy the story (if there is anyone out there). Have a go yourself. It's fun.

Househunting

            She wasn’t shocked so much by the screaming as by the way it contrasted the deep quiet that preceded it.

           

            “What the…?” Their three heads swivelled as the shrieks bounced around the dark walls. The crash of the heavy door against the arm of the overstuffed sofa focussed them on their source.

           

            “Jasper? What…?”

            “Babies!”

            “Babies?”

            “Dead Babies. There are dead babies everywhere. I think I saw one move.”

            Confusion vied with the need to take the sobbing child into her arms. The house was heavy with the smell of dust and mothballs; day-to-day noises were absorbed by the wooden panelling and faded velvet curtains – but dead babies? One could imagine a stuffed fox or two. The estate agent laughed a little too shrilly.

           

            “Probably the dolls.”

            “Dolls?”  She seemed to have lost the knack of doing more than repeating the last word of every sentence. She looked at the estate agent and tried again. “Erm…dolls?”. No. It was all she could manage.

            “The lady who lived here - poor Mrs. Iles – was a bit of a collector. There is a story but we usually show you around downstairs before we warn….err, before we…” She sighed. “Before we warn you.”

           

             The three of them plonked down in the indentations left on the sofa by years of bottoms. Jasper parked his six year old behind firmly on his mother’s knee. No-one here would tell him that not only was he too old for such babyish behaviour but moreover he was a boy. Any of his friends, if they’d seen what he had seen, would be on someone’s knee too. He hiccoughed and a thumb crept unnoticed towards his mouth.

           

            “Mrs. Iles still thinks she is coming home so we can’t move anything until the house is sold. We’ll clear it then of course.” She turned a wide and hopeful smile towards the puzzled faces. “The price reflects the décor.”

           

           “But the babies?”

            “Dolls. The dolls. Mrs. Iles couldn’t have babies so she rescued dolls. Well, I say rescued.” The smile had faded, her drooping shoulders presaging a sigh that was taken up and passed around the limp aspidistra, the table with its tea-towel protection and the dangling fringes of the antimacassars. Hope put its tail between its legs and slunk behind the sofa.

            “People say she stole them.”

            “Stole them?” Good grief! She was stuck in a groove. She cleared her throat and gave herself a mental shake. “Ahem. She stole them? Who from? And what did she do with them?”

            “Looked after them. Nothing was ever proven against her. Nothing.”

            She stood up with such decisiveness that Jasper staggered three steps sideways, his thumb jolting damply to his side.

            “Let’s see these doll babies.” And grabbing a small, sticky hand she headed for the stairs, her husband and the estate agent like reluctant bridesmaids bringing up the rear.

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           “No wonder Jasper had the heebie jeebies.”

            She put her knife and fork down and considered the wisdom of having ordered trout with the head on after what they’d seen today.

            “Four bedrooms and these dolls lying on every bed. I don’t know – ten to a bed? All of them dressed in baby clothes and wrapped in blankets. It would have been sweet but they had no heads. All these little bundles and no heads. What with all the curtains drawn and that eerie quietness, well, you didn’t want to look behind you.”

 Her friend’s eyes were getting wider and wider.

            “Did you…did you…touch anything?”

            “God, no! The estate agent just wanted us out of there. She kept muttering about the amazing potential of the kitchen space and the possibilities for a wine cellar. As if we were going to look in the cellar after the bedrooms! What’s wrong?”

 Now neither of them was eating. Her friend leaned forward and glanced to each side.

           

           “I forgot you didn’t grow up round here. We weren’t allowed to go near the Iles’ house when we were children. It wasn’t just our dolls that disappeared. When I was about six, a real baby was taken from outside the bakery in the village. Mrs. Iles was questioned but nothing was ever proved. She wasn’t seen much after that. Mr. Iles did all the shopping and stuff until he died last month. I don’t think anyone was invited into the house until she was taken sick and had to go into the home. Oh God!” She shook her head slowly. “I’m glad I’m not the one who has to go and sort through all those dolls.”