Bentley Little - The House

A half-finished doll lay on the center of Tony's bed.

This one, if possible, was even worse than the one before. Like its predecessor, it was made up of junk food cups and plastic straws, toilet-paper tubes and toothpicks. But the newspaper photographs that had been cut out and taped together to form its composite face were angry and wild: widely staring eyes, flared nostrils, screaming mouth. The effect was one of discordance and derangement, and Daniel looked from the doll to his surprised son, who belatedly moved his body in front of the figure to hide it.

Daniel stared at the boy, felt the anger rise within him. "I warned you, didn't I?"

"There's nothing wrong with it!" Tony replied defensively.

"It's just my project!"

Daniel crossed the room in two steps, moved the boy aside with one arm, grabbed the doll with the other.

Did Margot know about this?

If she did, he'd get into it with her. Sticking up for her son in an argument was one thing, but deliberately going behind his back and helping Tony to deceive him was another.

The doll felt strange in his hand. Heavier than it should. More solid. He squeezed it hard, tried to crumple it, but only succeeded in creating two slight indentations in the cup body.

He shook the doll at his son. "I told youyou couldn't do this, didn't I?"

Tony cowered before him. "You don't have to go crazy."

He was a little more out of control than he should be, more adamant than he wanted, and he tried to calm down. "I specifically told you--"

"Mom!"

Daniel turned to see Margot standing in the doorway.

She hadn't known about the doll. There was a split second expression of surprise upon her face, then what looked like fear crossed her features as her gaze passed over the figure. Her eyes met Daniel's, and the two of them exchanged a wordless understanding.

Margot stepped into the room, her face set. "Your father told you not to make another one of those dolls."

"It's not a doll!"

"You purposely disobeyed him."

"But, Mom!"

"No 'buts,' " Daniel said. He was still holding the doll in his hand, but he wanted to drop it, get rid of it. The irrational fear that it would come to life and suddenly attack him, biting his face with its newsprint mouth, had come over him and refused to be dislodged from his brain. He could not let his son see that he was afraid of the figure, though, and he shook it again at the boy.

"You're grounded for a week. And if I ever catch you doing this again, you're going to be in big, big trouble."

Margot looked at him again, her eyes worried, before turning once more toward Tony. "Why is this thing so important to you? Why are you doing this?"

Tony stared down at his shoes. "Nothing," he said.

"The answer to 'why?' is never 'nothing.' "

"I don't know."

"Look at me, young man." He glanced up at his mother. "There's something going on here that you're not telling us."

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

"What is the big deal about this doll?"

"It's not--"

"It's a doll," she said flatly.

"Where did you learn how to make it?" Daniel asked.

"Doneen," Tony said reluctantly. "Doneen taught me how to do it."

Doneen?

Margot's expression was blank. She'd obviously never heard of anyone named Doneen .

But he had.

In the House.

"Who's Doneen ?" he asked.

"A new girl. She lives over on Edgecomb ."

"When did you meet her?" Margot asked. "And why haven't you said anything to us about her?"

Tony shrugged uncomfortably.

"Is she in your class?"

"Not exactly."

Daniel felt cold. "You can't see her anymore," he said. "You understand me?"

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to."

"She's a nice girl."

"I don't care."

"Her dad said he wanted to talk to you."

"Her dad?"

"Mr. Billingsly ."

The coldness intensified.

Billingsly.

He'd heard that name before, too.

Daniel dropped the doll in the trash can, wary of holding on to it any longer. He'd pick it up later and make sure it was destroyed. He sat down on the bed next to Tony, putting an arm around his son's shoulders.

"Look," he said. "Whether you believe it or not, we're doing this for your own good."

"But--"

Daniel held up his hand. "Let me finish. I'll go talk to this Mr. Billingsly tomorrow, but until your mother or I tell you otherwise, you are not to see this girl Do neen and you are not to make any more dolls."

Tony stared up at him. There was no duplicity in the boy's eyes, no indication that he was lying or intentionally trying to deceive them. Daniel had the feeling that his son didn't really know why the doll was so important to him or why he was so compelled to work on the object.

He found that frightening.

His anger had abated somewhat, and for the first time he saw both himself and Tony as pawns, small players in a much larger game. He had no clue as to what that game was or who was playing it or what its purpose might be, but he was determined to find out before anything happened to his family.

He glanced up at Margot, saw both concern and confusion in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Tony said.

"You're off the hook this time," Daniel told him.

"Just don't let it happen again."

They lay in bed, reading their respective magazines.

Or pretending to. The television murmured softly in the background.

Margot put down her Time and shifted in the bed, turning toward Daniel. "I'm scared," she said.

He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder.

"I thought you were overreacting about Tony's . . .

'project.' I'm sorry I didn't back you up. I didn't realize it was this obsession with him."

"At least it's not drugs."

"I almost wish it were," she said softly. "At least we'd know how to deal with it."

"You don't mean that," Daniel said.

She sighed. "I suppose not. But it's not normal, his fixation on making this doll. It's like he has to do it, like he's driven to do it. And he has to use exactly the same things to make it with." She twisted her neck to meet his eyes. "And what's with this girl and her father?"

"I don't know."

"The father of the girl who taught him to make this doll wants to meet you? What's that all about?"

He shook his head, hoping his face didn't betray the unease he felt.

Margot's voice was flat. "Maybe he's involved in a cult," she said. "Maybe he's turning into one of those suburban kids who are into devil worship."

"I don't think so."

"What is it then?" Margot asked.

It was his chance to come clean, to tell her about the shadow and what he remembered about the House, what he thought and what he suspected, everything. But he wanted to protect her, didn't want her involved.

"I don't know," he said.

Doneen and Billingsly .

Daniel started the car, turned on the windshield wipers.

The names were connected in his mind with the House, but he could not recall their origins or put a face to either of them. He'd heard the names before, though.

Of that he was sure, and he pulled out of the driveway and drove around the block to Edgecomb Avenue.

The rain had abated during the night, but it had started up again a half hour ago, and he drove slowly through the puddle at the intersection, careful not to splash a pair of raincoated kids waiting on the sidewalk to cross.

Tony had stuck to his story about the girl and her father, had insisted that Mr. Billingsly wanted to talk to him, but it was obvious that his son did not want him to go over and meet either of them. He was purposely vague about which house the Billingslys lived in, and he kept insisting that it was over, he'd learned his lesson, he'd never make another doll again.

Something was going on here.

Daniel vowed that he'd find the Billingslys if he had to knock on every door and ask every single person in every single house on Edgecomb .