Page 17 of Broken & Bound

“I’ve gathered everything I could find on the house,” she explained. “It was originally built between 1895 and 1899. Renovated in 1983. It’s held several names over the years, but locals refer to it as ‘the Castle’. The property originally included four contributing buildings and three other structures. Those are long gone now in the remodel.”

She pulled out black and white pictures and laid them out on the coffee table. “The marble was shipped in from Italy. They built a small railroad on site to transport it up to the castle. It was the place to party back in the day.”

Judging by the look on her face, she wasn’t fond of the property. Did she sense the evil that had taken place there? I leaned forward, feeling Pasha’s eyes on mine as I studied the pictures.

These particular ones didn’t resemble what I remembered from my childhood. She pulled out more recent floor plans and pictures. A heat stole through me, and despite it all, I shivered. The rain continued to drum against the window, adding to the eerie atmosphere of our conversation.

“It was my husband’s dream to restore the castle to its former 1899 glory,” she explained. “He was obsessed with it, spent countless hours there, pouring over the plans and blueprints, envisioning what it could be.”

We listened intently.

“There’s a room upstairs,” Bea continued, her eyes taking on a faraway look.

“It’s filled with dolls and old clothing. It’s as if a child lived there after the remodel, but I couldn’t find any records to suggest that was true.”

As she described the room, I knew immediately which one it was. The mention of the doll room sent a chill down my spine. Part of me hoped they didn’t exist any more, that the place was ransacked and destroyed—maybe open to the elements. But it didn’t seem that was the case.

“If I thought my Benny was obsessed with the house, he was equally intrigued by one doll in particular.”

I almost wanted to ask her to stop talking, but I couldn’t. A restless energy crept beneath my skin, making it seem hotter in the room than it really was.

“It was unsettling, to say the least. He brought it home one day, and I instantly felt a premonition. Are either of you superstitious?”

“No, ma’am,” Pasha answered for both of us.

My heartbeat thudded harder the longer Mrs. Hawthorne spoke, every word tightening the pressure already building inside me.

“Hmm, I’ve always been. I like to think I’m sensitive to these kinds of things. Open-minded and all that.”

I tucked my hands beneath my thighs to stop myself from fidgeting. The ticking clock on the wall grew louder with every passing second.

“Some will say it’s foolishness or an overactive imagination, but that doll was what killed my Benny.”

“Excuse me?” I stuttered. “How so?”

“The doll itself was strange and macabre. It was dressed in an emerald, green Victorian style ballroom gown. But it was the half mask that intrigued my husband. He thought he saw some scratches on the porcelain and from the minute he removed the mask, there was a shift in the air. Come to find out scars were etched into the painted skin of the doll. On purpose.”

My breath caught in my throat, and nausea rose within. X’s doll was still there. And that meant if it was still there, then ours would be too. Eight intricately painted dolls behind glass. But I had to be sure.

“Do you still have the doll?” The question rolled off my tongue at a speed I didn’t think possible.

“I returned it to that house,” she answered quietly.

“You see, that night the doll sat in our bedroom on the dresser and my husband fell ill within hours. He was hospitalized by the next afternoon, his organs failing. He was very healthy and active for his age. In better health than most actually, so the suddenness of his unexplained illness…I knew it was connected to that doll.”

The weight of her words hung in the air. I didn’t believe the doll was the connection, but she seemed determined.

“I returned it to its original place, lit some sage and asked for my husband’s health to be restored. Two days later, he passed away. Do you mind me asking what your connection is to this property? Were you relatives of the late owner prior to us?”

I startled and shook my head.

“No connection,” Pasha offered. “She stayed there for a brief time as a child.”

“Oh, then the room with the dolls. Was that yours?”

I choked back a sob. We had determined in order to access the house that if we were asked, we would be truthful. She deserved to know the actual history of the house. The papers she’d shown us didn’t seem to have included it, but why would it?

“No, the room wasn’t mine. Although I was forced to spend time in there.”