Doll House

The white sheet was stretched over me, quivering with each gust of wind in the drafty room. I shifted a little, and the springs responded, resonating, and that dreadful noise I hear constantly pierces my ears. A million needles it seems pierce my legs in the bitter cold, yet on my forehead form dazzling crystals of sweat, dripping down my neck to form a wet puddle around my head. In the sheer torture I sob, and it allows a huge bit of reassurance. If I laughed, I would know that I had lost my sanity.
The walls were gray in the darkness, but in the daytime they were a pleasant shade of yellow—pleasant to anybody who did not know. Heavily adorned mirrors hung everywhere, and unnecessary, expensive glass curios sat with beautiful, angelic figurines staring out at you, eyes seeming to follow every step. Dolls, doilies, and dollhouses this room hosted; every doll/item is happy in every way imaginable. This huge mansion, including my room, is where I live, but it is not only me. Others live here.
This mansion has everything to compel a young child—bucketfuls of sweet candies, toys scattered everywhere, the expensive porcelain dollies with soft hair…I had been just like any other little kid would have been. Forever ago—or that’s as it seems—I was an orphan until a nice, loving couple adopted me (it seemed like adoption at least, just like an animal would be.) They were everything I could ask for…they would tuck me in my covers at night, defeat the sinister monsters under my bed, and replace the parents who didn’t want me. I lived then in a surreal life, a time bubble almost, where everything was perfect, of course including the gigantic house full of fun things. Every day I would wake up at dawn, eager to begin the new day of discovering different rooms and things in the house and new toys. Happiness never lasts long, however.
I see it clearly; it’s like a movie playing in my head. I remember shrieking, then awakening, panting, sweat plastering my body to the sheets. This nightmare I do not remember now, but I do remember it being the most terrifying dream of my life. Most terrifying event! It was worse than all of my fears combined. I lie waiting, time unmoving, for my ‘parents’ to rush in, tears in their eyes in fear of why I had screamed. That time never came. I felt unloved. But then, rationality would creep back into my young mind. Of course they loved me! But I could actually sense the emptiness in the house, empty of any living souls but myself. And that’s when They and I first met.
Teeth clenched together in fear, I force the sheet farther over me with every part of my body pinning it down. My bones and muscles ache from how hard I forced the sheet down. It is with crazy reassurance that I fall asleep.
My teeth chatter together; I shake my head from side to side. My eyes pop open to see the window open and the curtains billowing out. Have you ever imagined a window being opened when it was closed a few hours ago, and you can’t even get up from bed to shut it? It’s even difficult for me to believe that this is my new life.
It’s time. I feel it in the air, thousands of spirits coming alive, but not in human form. I bury my head against my pillow. Oh no! The pillow is snatched out from under my head and tossed lightly in the air, back and forth between two souls which I’ve gotten used to. Laughter from the ballroom directly downstairs from my room echoes through the walls.
I am somehow fortunate. None of the ghosts in my house would ever hurt me. All of them love me; they think that I am their lost child. That’s one thing everyone here has in common; they all have lost their child in some way, so they take possession of me. The ghosts are aware of how terrified I am of them, so they mostly keep their distance, however.
Gradually the entire house becomes alive with noises of every kind. Again, there are thousands of ghosts and the house is huuuuuge. Ghosts from all different time periods intermingle together and teach others hobbies and activities they did when they were alive. The oldest ghost is from the 1600’s, so that can show you how old this house is…
To the outsider, it may seem ridiculous that I am fearful of something that absolutely loves me, but you cannot judge until you have walked the steps I have. And, of course, you must consider the fears I have towards the future…will I die? Will I live forever? Will the ghosts kill me? Will the ghosts be freed and I become a restless ghost without peace? None of these questions I am able to answer. I have attempted on several occasions to communicate with the ghosts, but they have not spoken to me. They would smirk and continue dancing. However cruel this may seem, I wish with my entire heart that somebody could experience the sensation of having a mansion full of ghosts. Perhaps then you would understand my life for a day.
I shut my eyes momentarily. Lethargic death is rising over the house in a huge blanket of sunlight. When the sun comes up, the ghosts come down. I feel them sinking into invisibility, escaping back into the creepy, dark basement to hibernate for the day. The loud sounds of the symphony playing in the ballroom fades to silence, the aroma of soot and fire dies out, the giggling of hundreds of cute children is apprehended, and altogether the hum of life is enveloped into the basement. When I open my eyes, the pastel walls are to their full brightness, and the window is shut.
I have somehow endured another crazy night. To stay alive, I must endure much, much more. They watch me and protect me, but in all, the worst danger is Themselves. The ghosts is the thing that endangers me the most. With their selfish love of me, they will never, ever, ever allow my escape, even if it is what is best for me. This house is my personal hell/prison, maybe both. But for now, I must arise for the day, solemnly waiting for the night, when They come alive.