Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

Claire left her spot in the doorway and walked over to stare after her. At the back of the alley, the woman knocked on the door of the adjacent building, and a moment later, someone let her inside.

The alley was like any number of passageways that ran between narrow buildings in the Quarter, many of them leading back to the hidden courtyards for which New Orleans was so famous. At the rear, a wrought-iron fence ran between the two buildings, and the smell of wet brick and damp moss mingled with the scent of the yellow roses spilling over the scrollwork.

As Claire stood gazing after the young woman, she thought again of her dream last night and wondered if she might have glimpsed the alley a split second before the car hit her. Maybe the image had been stamped on her subconscious, only to surface hours later in her sleep.

Her grandmother would have claimed the dream was a sign. In spite of her devout Catholic upbringing, Maw-Maw Doucett had been a big believer in omens and presages, and had been buried, at her request, with the silver dime she’d always worn on a string tied around her neck.

Claire was more inclined to think that the shock of seeing the doll and the trauma of the accident had produced her strange visions. She entered the alley without hesitation, sidestepping a puddle left from the night’s rainstorm.

But as she slowly walked down the weathered pathway, she couldn’t get the dream out of her head. The sound of a child crying from behind a closed door. Dave’s silent warning as he stepped out of the shadows. And then the shattering of that porcelain face—a face that looked so much like Ruby’s—against the stone floor.

She might not share her grandmother’s faith in dreams and second sight, but Claire was Southern enough to believe that there were things in this world that couldn’t be easily explained, things that couldn’t be seen or felt, but were no less real and true. As she neared the end of the alley, a chill swept through her, and for one brief moment, she had the strangest sensation that her grandmother was somewhere behind her, calling her back before it was too late.

The feeling was so strong that Claire couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder. She could hear voices from the street, and from somewhere nearby, music drifted through an open window. The sky overhead was clear and blue, the air all around her as still as an indrawn breath.

But there was no one behind her. She was all alone in the alley. Her grandmother was dead and so was Ruby. Yet at that moment it seemed to Claire that she felt them both. The tug on her hands was as real to her as the pounding heartbeat in her chest.

She didn’t retreat, though. Instead, she walked to the back of the alley and peered through the iron gate into a courtyard that looked lush and cool after the night’s downpour. No one was about, so Claire turned away.

The rear entrance to the collectibles shop was set in the brick wall directly across the alley from the door the young woman had disappeared into earlier. Claire lifted her hand and rapped loudly enough for anyone inside to hear her. When no one responded, she tried the knob. To her surprise, it turned in her hand, and she pushed open the door. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Even with light spilling in, the back of the shop was dim and shadowy, and it took Claire’s eyes a moment to adjust. Then she stepped inside and glanced around. The space was apparently used as a storage area and workroom. One side was equipped with a sink, microwave and an old refrigerator, and on the other side, shelves were crammed with cardboard boxes and packing materials.

And scattered across the surface of a worktable was a grotesque tableau of doll heads, torsos, and a pile of glass eyes.

The mangled dolls were creepy and unnerving in the gloomy light, and when the door closed behind Claire, she jumped in spite of herself.

The room was cold. Someone had turned down the thermostat, and at first the frigid temperature was a relief from the relentless heat outside. But as Claire lingered just inside the door, she had to rub her hands up and down her arms to ward off a chill.

Strings of crystal beads covered the entrance to the shop, and tinkled softly in the air that flowed from a nearby vent.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Claire called as she moved nervously toward the beads. “I’ve been waiting outside for your shop to open. Your sign says ten. It’s after that now.”

No one was there. Whoever she’d spotted earlier must have stepped out and left the door unlocked. If the person came back, Claire could be in big trouble for trespassing. But now that she was finally inside, it would take more than the prospect of jail to deter her from searching for that doll.

Nervously, she parted the beads and entered the shop. The place was small and cramped, but the owner had utilized every square inch to display her collectibles. Dozens and dozens of dolls were lined up on the shelves, and unlike their broken counterparts in the back, the showcased pieces were perfect in appearance, from their frilly dresses to the exquisite hand-painted faces.

Claire’s mother had been an avid collector for as long as she could remember. Lucille had never been able to afford the one of a kind dolls that commanded hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars, but she’d always kept her eye out for bargains, and she’d dragged her daughters with her to flea markets and yard sales for years. From the hours they’d spent at shows and exhibits, Claire recognized the more common Madame Alexanders and Queen Tatianas. The expensive and truly collectible dolls were locked in cases.

As she made her way around the crowded shop, she had to resist the temptation to keep looking over her shoulder. She knew that she was alone, but all those glass eyes staring back at her became a little unsettling.

Ignoring the flutter of nerves in her stomach, she bent to explore the lower shelves of a display case, but had already concluded her search was pointless. The doll she’d seen the day before was nowhere to be found. As she stared at a collection of antique French dolls in velvet dresses and elaborate wigs, she tried to beat back her helpless frustration. She’d looked in every case, searched along every shelf. The doll was gone, and there was nothing more she could do until she spoke with the owner or someone who worked here.

She started to turn away from the case, then froze. For one split second, a dark silhouette had been reflected in the glass. Claire’s heart slammed against her chest as she spun toward the back room.

The crystal beads swayed in a draft as panic tightened her chest. But in the next instant, she realized that the owner had probably returned and might be as frightened as she was.

“Is someone there?” She took a step toward the beads. “I’m not here to steal anything. I just need some information about a doll I saw in your window yesterday.”

Silence.

Claire braced herself as she waited for an irate owner or employee to come charging into the shop to confront her. No one came. No one made a sound, but she could feel someone’s presence. It was one of those strange sensations that couldn’t be explained, but she knew someone was in the workroom, on the other side of the beaded curtain, waiting for her to make the first move.

She stood very still, wondering what she should do.

And then a knock sounded at the front door, and she jumped.

“Claire? Is that you in there?”

Alex’s voice was muted from the street, but she had no trouble detecting his irritation. At the moment, she didn’t care how angry he was, she was so relieved he was there.

“I’ll be right out!”

Parting the curtain, she peered into the workroom, saw nothing out of place and hurried through, leaving the glass beads tinkling behind her as she rushed toward the door.