Where it's cold

Iceland, circa 2014

Iceland, circa 2014

Writing Prompt No. 118

Roberta reached down into the dust and gloom of the dolls house.

Her mother kept it in the attic, off limits to her daughter. But Roberta was curious. Why have it yet hide it away? She’d seen it once when she’d gone looking for her old bike. The stairs were narrow and steep. The third step from the top creaked like an alarm making her heart thump a little faster in her chest. When she entered the room, she saw a corner of an old-fashioned house peaking out from a tear in the dust sheet. She walked over to investigate just as her mother called her town for tea.

She asked her mother about it over a plate of fish fingers and chips.

Who did the dolls house belong to?

Never you mind, came the reply, and, don’t go snooping around up there looking at things that don’t belong to you.

Roberta’s mother left for an hour to shop and run some errands leaving Roberta ill at home. Except she wasn’t ill. As soon as the front door closed, she was up out of her bed and padding up the stairs to the attic in her bare feet.

The dust sheet covering the house was thick and worn. She picked up one side and let it slide to the floor in large folds. She bent down and peered in through the tiny windows before pulling at the front of the house. The walls opened out revealing all the rooms.

Every piece of furniture was a perfect replica of its larger real world cousin. In the kitchen lay the remnants of a meal on the table. She pushed at a loaf of bread with the tip of her finger before tracing the outline of a sofa in the living room. A flash of something tiny leapt out and started beating and slicing at her finger. Roberta jumped back clutching at her hand, eyes wide in their sockets.

What or who was that?

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