The dollhouse of souls The dollhouse of souls J u l i a a . G i r a r d When she lifted the lid, she froze. Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book The dollhouse of souls The dollhouse of souls Julia A. Girard Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The dollhouse of souls I t arrived on a cold , crisp morning, the kind of morning that made you shiver in your bones and question the warmth of the world. The house was quiet that day, too quiet, as if the air itself was holding its breath. The mailman had left it on the doorstep, wrapped in plain brown paper, nothing to suggest its contents. But when Mary opened it, the weight of the package felt wrong, heavy in a way that no child’s toy should be. She pulled the paper away carefully, her small fin- gers brushing against the smooth, cool surface of the box beneath. And when she lifted the lid, she froze. The dollhouse lay nestled inside, a delicate minia- ture replica of their own home, down to the creaking front door and the tiny windows that, when opened, Julia A. Girard let in the faintest light. It was perfect in every way. Too perfect. The colors, the details, the smell, it all seemed real. The wood was aged just right, its grain running with the kind of meticulous precision that only a master craftsman could achieve. She gasped. “Mom! Look! Look what I got!” Mary called out, her voice bubbling with excitement. Her mother, Eleanor, came in from the living room, her worn apron still tied around her waist, her dark hair pulled back into a loose knot. She smiled at Mary, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Eleanor said, her voice odd- ly distant, as if her attention was somewhere far be- yond the kitchen. Mary nodded, her small hands caressing the tiny dolls, each dressed in miniature clothes, their faces painted with an eerie lifelike precision. But as she touched one, she felt it, a coldness that made her fin- gers tingle, a feeling of something... wrong. “You like it, Mary?” Eleanor asked again, her voice a little too sweet, a little too empty. The dollhouse of souls Mary looked up, her face turning toward her moth- er, confused by the strangeness in her tone. “Yeah... but... something feels weird about it,” she murmured, still holding the doll in her hand. Eleanor’s eyes flickered, then softened as she reached out to take the doll from Mary. “It’s just a toy, sweetheart. Nothing more.” But as she held the doll, something shifted in the room. The air grew heavier, thicker, like a storm was coming. The walls seemed to grow tighter, the house... alive in a way Mary had never felt before. Her stomach churned. Then it happened. A faint groan, like the sound of old wood bending, stretching. Mary’s heart skipped a beat. She stood frozen, clutching the dollhouse in her hands as her eyes flicked to the walls around her. She hadn’t imagined it, had she? No, it was real. That groan, it was real. “You heard that?” Mary’s voice trembled, barely a whisper as she looked up at her mother. Eleanor blinked, her smile faltering for the brief- Julia A. Girard est of moments before it returned, too quickly, like it was a mask. “Hear what, sweetie?” she asked, as though she hadn’t noticed a thing. “It’s just the wood settling.” But Mary wasn’t convinced. She looked at the doll- house again, a feeling creeping up her spine, crawl- ing into her chest like something was watching her, something waiting. Her fingers still clutched the cold doll, and the whispering started, soft, insistent, like a voice inside her head. “Mary...” The sound was faint at first, but it was there. “Mom?” Mary asked, voice cracking as her grip on the doll tightened. Eleanor tilted her head. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Mary blinked, but her mother wasn’t looking at her anymore. Her eyes had gone far away, distant, as though she were seeing something Mary couldn’t. Eleanor’s fingers trembled, holding the doll a little too tightly. The room felt too still. “Mom, I... I heard something,” Mary stammered. “Like a... a voice.” The dollhouse of souls Eleanor’s gaze slowly drifted back to her. “You’re imagining things, dear. There’s nothing to worry about. Now go ahead, play with your new house.” But Mary felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The voice had come again, louder this time, closer. “Mary... help.” Her breath hitched. She wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t. Her legs shook as she stepped back, away from the dollhouse, away from her mother. But when she moved, it was as if the room shifted. The shadows in the corners of the kitchen stretched unnaturally, and the light from the window flickered, casting long, flickering shapes across the walls. Her mother’s eyes twitched. “Mom... what’s wrong?” Mary whispered, her voice small, almost fragile. The fear in her chest began to tighten. Eleanor’s smile had faded, leaving only a cold, distant expression. She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for the dollhouse again, her hands slow and deliberate, as though moving through thick, oppres- sive air. Julia A. Girard “Mom?” Mary repeated, her voice shaking. But Eleanor was no longer looking at her. She was staring at the dollhouse, her expression turning more distant with each passing second, her lips moving si- lently as if she were speaking to someone or some- thing, invisible. “Mom!” Mary cried, her heart racing now, her small hands trembling. Finally, Eleanor looked up, but there was some- thing wrong. The way her mother’s eyes stared at her—empty, dark, hollow—wasn’t right. It was like she wasn’t there. Not really. Mary stepped backward again, her pulse pounding in her ears. “I heard it,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. “I heard it.” Her mother’s eyes fluttered. “Mary,” she said in a voice that was no longer her own. “You have to help us. All of us.” The room went ice-cold. The whispering started again, but it wasn’t coming from the dollhouse any- more. It was coming from the walls everywhere. The dollhouse of souls The dolls. They were moving. Mary’s heart hammered in her chest. Her fingers curled into fists as she backed away, but the house, the dollhouse, seemed to be pulling her in, drawing her closer. The figures inside, those lifeless dolls, had come to life, their cold, glassy eyes fixed on her. “Mary...” they whispered. “Help us.” Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet seemed to shift, as though the whole house was shifting, tilting, warping. And in that moment, in the blink of an eye, she saw it, a dark shape, a shadow flickering behind her mother, something that wasn’t human. “Mom! What’s happening?” Mary screamed, but her mother didn’t respond. The whispering grew louder, insistent, until it seemed to echo inside her skull. Help us. Help us. Help us. Eleanor’s mouth moved again, but the words that came out were not her own. The voice was twisted, guttural, like the whispers of something trapped in the walls for too long. And then, the house groaned again, this time, louder. Julia A. Girard The sound of creaking wood grew unbearable, deafening. The dollhouse shook, and the walls of the kitchen seemed to bend inwards, as though the very house were trying to swallow them whole. “Help us, Mary...” Mary turned, her feet slipping as the floor tilted be- neath her, but she couldn’t run. The door was gone. The windows were sealed shut. The only thing left was the dollhouse, and the dead souls within it. Her breath caught in her throat. She reached out to touch the dollhouse one last time, her fingers trem- bling. And then, as she did, the voices all spoke in uni- son—louder, shriller, desperate. “Mary... we’re waiting...” And the world went black. The dollhouse of souls I. The days after the dollhouse arrived were marked by an unsettling silence. At first, Mary didn’t think much of it. She had always loved quiet, had always felt comfortable in the soft hush of the house, except now, it was different. The air itself seemed to press in, thick and suffocating. The house felt heavy, like it was settling, but not in the normal way. More like it was waiting. Mary spent her time playing with the dollhouse, as her mother had instructed. She would sit at the tiny table, arranging the miniature figures, imagin- ing stories for them. The dolls had a life of their own now, moving around in her little world. But there was something about them, something she couldn’t put her finger on. They looked too real, their glass eyes a little too shiny, their painted faces a little too lifelike. The first time Mary touched them, she’d shivered, but Julia A. Girard she shrugged it off as nothing more than a trick of the light. She couldn’t explain it—maybe it was the way the shadows inside the dollhouse seemed to move, to stretch in unnatural ways, like fingers creeping over the rooms. Maybe it was the way the floors creaked when no one was there to make them. But she felt it, even if she didn’t understand it. It wasn’t long before the whispers started. Soft, at first, like the rustle of paper in the wind. And Mary was sure that she heard them coming from the walls. It happened one evening, as she sat cross-legged on the floor, absorbed in her play. Her fingers hovered over the tiny kitchen table, arranging a doll to sit in front of a plate of food. The shadows were long now, stretching across the room in a way that didn’t quite make sense, and the wind outside howled, rattling the windows like an old man trying to break in. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel the cold, creeping up from the floorboards, a chill that made her skin crawl. Then the house shuddered. It was as though the very walls exhaled, groaning as though something heavy and old was stirring. The The dollhouse of souls floorboards creaked beneath her, the sound low and ominous, like someone was walking upstairs. “Mom?” Mary called out, her voice trembling in the stillness. The dollhouse shook again, and this time, it was unmistakable. The walls, the walls ...seemed to rip- ple. A low vibration ran through the room, and for just a moment, the shadows seemed to move. The air felt... wrong, like it was thick with something unseen, something suffocating. It wasn’t just the house set- tling anymore. It was alive. “Mom?” Mary called again, this time louder. She stood up, her heart racing. She could feel some- thing in the air, a presence, something invisible but there—a weight on her chest, pulling her in. Her mother didn’t answer. Mary looked around, her eyes darting from the dollhouse to the corners of the room. She was sure she had heard something, a low whisper. No, not a whisper. A voice. “Mary...” The sound wasn’t in her head. She could hear it, Julia A. Girard clear as day, like someone was standing just behind her. She froze. The hairs on her arms stood on end, a coldness creeping through her bones. Her heart hammered in her chest. “Who’s there?” Mary whispered, her voice shak- ing as her eyes swept the room. The shadows seemed deeper now, darker than they should have been. She could feel the weight of them, pressing down on her, like they were waiting for something. There was no answer, only that oppressive silence that filled the room, thick and heavy. The air seemed to close in around her, making it harder to breathe. And then the whispering started again. Only this time, it wasn’t just one voice. It was many. And it was coming from inside the house. From the walls. Mary... Help us... The sound was so close now, so clear, that Mary could feel it in her bones. It wasn’t the wind, it wasn’t her imagination. It was real. It was as if something or The dollhouse of souls someone, was speaking directly to her from within the very walls of their home. “Mom!” she screamed, her voice cracking, desper- ation flooding her chest. She bolted from the room, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor as she ran down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heartbeat pound- ing in her ears. But when she reached the kitchen, there was no one there. The room was empty. Her mother was gone. “Mom?” Mary called again, her voice weak. The house felt colder now. The shadows had deepened, turned almost black, and the air... it was still. Too still. She felt a creeping dread crawling up her spine, making her blood run cold. There was no sound. No movement. Nothing. Her mother had disappeared without a trace. Mary’s eyes darted around the kitchen, the silence Julia A. Girard pressing in on her like a heavy hand. The only thing that remained was the dollhouse, sitting innocently on the table, its tiny windows dark and vacant. The dolls, those cold, lifelike figures, stared back at her, their eyes gleaming in the dim light. Suddenly, the house shuddered again, louder this time. The walls groaned, and for the briefest second, it sounded as though something was scraping against the wood. Like nails being dragged along the floor, but muffled, as if they were beneath the house itself. Mary stepped backward, her feet stumbling over the rug as she reached for the doorframe. Her breath caught in her throat. There, behind the dollhouse, something moved. A shadow. Long and twisted, stretching unnatural- ly across the wall. It didn’t belong there. It was out of place—wrong. She took a step back, her pulse quickening. Her mind raced, searching for a reason, for something— anything—that could explain this. But there was no explanation. She had to get out. She had to get away from this house, from whatever was inside it. “Mary...” The dollhouse of souls The voice came again, clear as day, so close now that Mary could feel it on her skin. Her breath caught, her feet rooted to the floor. The whisper wasn’t from outside the walls this time. No, it was coming from inside her own head. “Help us...” Her eyes snapped to the dollhouse. It wasn’t just a toy. It was calling to her. The floor beneath her feet creaked again, a groan that seemed to come from the very foundation of the house. It was as if the house itself was waking up, stretching, growing, hungry. A cold wind blew from the cracks in the walls, sending a shiver down her spine. The air grew even colder, almost unbearably so, and for the first time in her life, Mary felt it, the unmistakable feeling that the house was alive. It wasn’t a home. It wasn’t a place of comfort or safety. It was a trap. And it wanted her. Julia A. Girard The whispering rose to a crescendo, loud enough now that it hurt. Her ears rang with the sound of voices, dozens of them, all pleading, all desperate. “Help us, Mary. Help us...” “Please... save us...” The walls were alive with voices, scratching at the very marrow of her bones. She could feel the chill on her skin, could hear the scraping, the shifting, the groaning, as though the house itself were reaching for her, stretching its dark fingers to pull her in. Mary stumbled backward, her eyes wide with ter- ror. Her feet tripped over each other, sending her crashing to the floor. But even as she lay there, she couldn’t escape the feeling—the sensation—that something was closing in on her, that it was only a matter of time before the walls would come crashing down and swallow her whole. And then, the voice came again. Louder. Clearer. Darker. “We’re waiting...” It wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was a scream. A scream that filled every corner of the house.