I tried to back out of the doorway, but my mother blocked me. “We can’t leave now, Mellie. It’s asking for help.”
The shrieking stopped as soon as she’d spoken, the silence now punctuated by the sporadic splats of a dwindling number of flies. My eardrums took a moment to adjust, the piercing scream continuing to echo in them, and the words “help me” buried somewhere in that cacophony.
“I’m not going up there,” I said, meaning it.
“Yes, you are. And I’m going with you.” She put her foot on the first step and dragged me up beside her.
Immediately, I felt the cold rush of wind on my back, smelled the putrid scent of something rotting. I turned my head to the wall by the side of the stairwell, where the stench saturated the air. “Do you smell that?”
She nodded once. “I think even the dead could smell that.”
“Not funny,” I muttered. I looked up at the doll that still loomed ahead of us on the top step but had blessedly stopped making any noise at all. “If you want me to go up there, you’re going first.”
“Fine.” Without letting go of my hand, she began leading me up the stairs one at a time, the air now frigid in the attic despite the warmth of the air outside. “Don’t let go of my hand, no matter what.”
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of letting go.”
We stopped in front of the doll, my mother face-to-face with it. “She’s here,” Ginette said. “The little girl. Can you feel her?”
I nodded, aware now of a new sound behind me, a scratching sound like bone against bone. “I can’t see her, though, because she’s hiding. But I don’t think it’s from me.”
One of the snow globes slid across the shelf, then splintered and shattered in the middle of the room, glitter and water staining the floor beneath the exposed rafter. The plastic smiley-faced orange lay facedown in the puddle like a victim in a crime scene. I looked above the mess and saw a bedsheet, knotted into what looked like a noose, swinging gently from the exposed rafter.
“The two spirits are here now,” my mother said softly. “One of them wants me to touch the doll.” She stepped into the attic and reached for the doll, but I blocked her.
“But which one, Mother? That might not be a good idea until you know for sure.”
The sound of something heavy being slid across wood warned us to duck before the next snow globe was thrown across the room, smashing into the wall behind us.
“Anna?” she called. “Is that you? We’re here to help you.”
Her request was met with an almost deafening silence, like what I imagined would be at the eye of a tornado, broken only by the ceaseless scratching noise. And then a soft swishing noise, like the twisting of fabric, brought our attention back up to the ceiling, where the noose was unraveling by itself, then slowly slipping from the beam to land on my mother’s shoulders. She left it there, her eyes wary.
“Hasell?” she said, her voice calm and quiet. “Are you here?”
The whirring began inside the doll’s chest, the popping and grinding noise I now recognized. It went on for several long minutes, the doll’s mouth opening and closing but not saying anything until it finally wound down to a stop. I was left with the impression that it had tried but had been stopped by another force.
“Hasell?” my mother tried again. “You’re trapped here. Tell us what you need so you can move on to the light. There is a better place for you, and we can help you get there.”
I shivered from the cold, watching now as the entire shelf of snow globes bounced and vibrated; then I pushed my mother out of the way before another one shot across the room, hitting one of the posts of the bed and slithering to the floor.
“I’m going to touch the doll now, Mellie.”
Once again Ginette reached for it, but the doll tumbled backward as my mother was yanked back by the sheet that was now wound tightly around her neck by unseen hands. She let go of my hand to reach for the fabric at her throat, and I felt my strength diminish like a plug being wrenched out of an electric socket. She tugged on it with the desperation of a drowning man grasping at a watery wave.
I leaped for her, digging my fingers into the taut fabric, aware suddenly of a new smell, faint yet spicy, like pipe tobacco. And just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, as was the tension on the sheet, allowing it to slip free. My mother fell to her knees, rubbing her neck, which wore red welts striped across it. It was again warm in the attic, and sweat beaded on my forehead, dripping into my eyes.
I helped my mother to her feet, examining the marks on her neck more closely. “You’re going to have a fun time trying to explain that to Dad,” I said.
“That’s what scarves are for,” she replied almost absentmindedly as she studied the doll, now on its back, staring at the place the sheet had been draped around the beam. “The doll was Hasell’s,” she said. “I do remember that. Button gave it to her, not as a toy to play with—it’s too fragile and valuable for that—but as a companion. Hasell wasn’t allowed any friends because they might have germs.”