The light got brighter. I could clearly see the old rickety-looking stairs that led down into the basement.

  “Gramps?” I asked into the empty space. “Grandma?”

  No answer.

  The one rule for this house was: don’t go into the basement.

  But standing there with all that weird purple light streaming out, I just couldn’t resist. I mean, if there was a light on down there, that probably meant that they were down there, right? Right. And I just wanted to…show them my prints.

  Having worked out my reasoning and my excuse, I started down the stairs. They creaked underneath my weight. The sound reminded me of the mouse I’d heard in my room that first day.

  Down, down I went, straight into the basement… Where there was…nothing.

  Even the light had vanished. There was just nothing down there that could have been making it. The ceiling light was turned on, but it was an ugly, old yellow glow and now a purple shine. I looked around, unsurprised to find that even more dolls were sitting around.

  A metal storage shelf had been pressed to the wall, held in place with thick bits of twine. The bottom shelf had a few old, water-warped cardboard boxes on it, and an equally old-looking dust-covered tool box. The rest of the shelves held dolls.

  “I just don’t think two people should have this many dolls,” I muttered to myself, stepping over to the shelf system. I ran my hands over the top curve of one of the polished black shoes that a red-haired doll was wearing. The tips of my fingers came away gray.

  Ew.

  Clearly, these dolls weren’t kept up.

  A few of them had spider webs in their curls. One of the others had started to fade, the paint of her eyes scratched in the center and the color all dull. It must have been sitting in the sun for a long time before it came down here.

  “Were you in a window or something?” I asked it.

  The doll didn’t answer. Because she was a doll. Right.

  But where most of the dolls were filthy and had clearly been down there for a while, one of them was…clean. Totally spotless, even. It sat at the center of the room, in a cradle. The cradle was clearly hand-made, and it had a coat of white paint over the top of it. Inside of it was another doll, with porcelain features and thick eyelashes, fabric, above her pretty brown eyes.

  She wore a pink ballerina dress, with a glittering tulle skirt and stars on the bodice. My nose wrinkled. She was pretty, but definitely weird looking. Compared to the other dolls down here, there wasn’t so much as a speck of dust on her cheeks, and her hair was clean of cobwebs.

  And something about her eyes just really struck me as being…different from other doll eyes. What color were they? It almost looked like they were changing, the way a person’s eyes did. Green one minute, and then blue, and then hazel. A kind of gray that shows up only when the light hit it right.

  “Wow.” I braced a hand on the top of the crib. There was no gray dust on my palm this time. “You’re kind of…something else, aren’t you?”

  Why was I talking to a doll?

  A handmade blanket that was almost identical to my own patchwork quilt had been draped over the doll. She was posed, her arms beneath the blanket, her head on a small, handmade satin pillow.

  “Almost looks like you’re sleeping, huh?” I dropped the backpack off of my shoulder so I could pick the doll up, curling my hands under her arms. She was hefty for porcelain and cloth. “What makes you more special than the others?”

  The doll didn’t answer. Since it was still a doll. It just stared at me.

  I stared back.

  The color of her eyes seemed to shift again, and a shiver ran down my spine. It was like the doll was staring straight at me, through me even. Like she was alive and looking at me.

  Something creaked behind me. Jumping, I dropped the doll back into the crib. Was that noise down here with me? I held my breath and heard it again. No! It was from upstairs! My grandparents must have been moving around.

  Crap, if they saw me down here I was going to be in so much trouble. Hastily, I threw the blanket back up over the porcelain ballerina doll and threw myself toward the stairs. I was halfway up them when I realized that my backpack was still down by the crib.

  Freezing, I looked over my shoulder. Did I have enough time to go back down there and get it?

  “Quinn?” Grandma called out.

  Nope! Not enough time at all! I ran up the last few steps and into the dining room, hastily closing the door behind me. The latch had barely clicked shut when Grandma appeared in the adjacent kitchen doorway.

  “Good afternoon, dearie,” Grandma greeted me. The window at her side revealed the full moon in the pitch-black sky.

  My stomach flipped. “What time is it?”

  Grandma blinked. “Almost eight. You missed supper. I was starting to get worried about you, Quinn.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you so out of breath? Did something happen?”

  “Spider,” I said, spitting out the first thing that came to mind.

  “Spider,” she repeated.

  “I am terrified of spiders,” I lied. “And there was a huge one upstairs. I must have fallen asleep when I came in to do homework and when I woke up, it was right there on the desk next to my face, you know? And it just scared me so badly—” I mimed zipping down the stairs. “I came running down here.”

  Grandma stared at me. Her lips pursed. Her gaze flipped toward the closed door to the basement, then back to me. I could tell that she didn’t believe me, but I didn’t have much else I could offer. I put on the biggest, fakiest cheeriest grin that I could manage.

  She didn’t believe me? So what. Whatever, forever. I was sticking with my story.

  “Well,” said Grandma. “I don’t want you to go to bed hungry. Come along, dearie. I’ll put something in the oven to heat up for you.”

  So, my leftovers were put into the oven and I ate them on my own. Dried stuffing. Bland chicken. And creamed corn that was baked so long it was almost leather. When I finished, I washed up the dishes and then made my way into the living room.

  Gramps and Grandma were settled onto the vintage clawfoot sofa adorned with elegant pheasants embroidered onto the plush cushions. Sipping red wine from tall wine glasses, adding a touch of sophistication to their evening.

  At the sight of me, Gramps perked up. “The girl of the hour. We were just having a little something to finish off the night.”

  “Dinner was good,” I lied. “Thanks.”

  “I’m glad, dearie. You should never go to bed hungry. All it will do is set you up to feel bad the next day.” Grandma lifted her glass. The overhead light caught on the liquid within. I might not have been old enough to legally drink it, but it’s far from the first time that I’ve seen red wine.

  And that?

  Yeah, that stuff was weird looking.

  It was so dark that it almost looked purple. Grandma asked, “Do you want a taste?”

  “I’m good,” I told her with a tight smile. There was no way that I was drinking…whatever that was.

  Gramps insisted, “You should try it. Nothing wrong with trying it if you’re just at home.”

  He pushed his own glass into my hands. I sniffed it. It didn’t smell like red wine, either. It smelled…like something else. Old pennies, maybe, or rust.

  I held the glass up to my mouth and pretended to drink it, then made a face and passed it back to Gramps. “Thanks but it is so not my thing. And I have to go finish that homework, anyway.”

  Grandma’s smile went thin. “The one that you were working on when you fell asleep?”

  “That’s it.” I smiled with as much teeth as I could muster and made my escape. I thought about the wine all night but couldn’t actually figure out what they might have actually been drinking. Or how I had lost so much time down there in the basement.

  It didn’t matter until the next morning when I realized that I left my backpack downstairs. My prints were in it! Crap on a stick. And my keys, and dad’s keychain, and all of my other stuff. Okay, so…. Espionage time. I could do that.

  It helped that my grandparents didn’t usually get up early. I was able to sneak down the stairs without any issue, and right into the dining room where the basement door stood unlocked. I looked around again, but there was still no sign that either of my grandparents were up.

  I pushed the door open and creeped down the stairs, hunched over with my hands up in front of my chest like and old witch in a horror movie as I tip-toed as quietly as possible.

  No purple light this time. When I got down into the basement, the overhead wasn’t on either. It took a bit of my wandering around blindly to find the pull cord. A quick tug, and yellow light flooded the room. Was it just me, or were there way fewer dolls sitting around?

  Okay, weird.

  Not as weird as the fact that the doll in the crib was no longer wearing her pink ballet outfit. Instead, she was dressed in a pretty white gown, with lace and silk and feathers in her hair. It looked almost like something from the Swan Lake plays.

  She wasn’t tossed under the quilt like I left her either. Instead, she was sitting up in the cradle and staring straight ahead.

  Someone had been down here. Which definitely explained why my backpack was gone. One of my grandparents must have found it last night, after I left them to drink wine. With any luck, it would have been Gramps. He was a bit more relaxed than Grandma, for sure.

  I let out a heavy exhale. “Great. At least the prints were saved on my computer. But…”

  That key chain was my dad’s. There would be no getting it back. And if I wanted a new house key, I was going to have to ask my grandparents for one, admitting that I had lost the original… which they would know, since they have my bag and—ugh!

  It was a mess.

  “Whatever, forever,” I muttered, bracing both hands on the edge of the crib. My eyes were watering, despite the dismissive remark. There was no way to replace my dad’s keychain. It was just…gone now.

  The thought was devastating. Like a punch straight to the throat, or a smack upside the face. I let out a heavy sigh, heat flooding my eyes. A tremble ran through my arms so I curled my hand even more tightly around the edge of the cradles, leaning against it.

  I closed my eyes tightly, trying to stop the tears before they actually sprang into being. I didn’t have a whole lot left from my dad. The fire had pretty much destroyed everything. All of the family photo albums. Everything from my mother. My old art. The only thing that was savable was the stuff that had been in the car or our garage.

  If my dad hadn’t left the keys in the car that night, I wouldn’t have even had the keychain.

  And now it was gone.

  Creak.

  Something moved. I yelped and spun around, a few hot tears rolling down my cheeks as I stared at the far side of the basement where the sound had come from. There was a clown doll sitting on the ground.

  Had it been there before?

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on edge, and a cold chill ran down my spine. I took a step toward the clown, then quickly told myself off. Of course it had been there!

  “Dolls don’t move, Quinn.” I snorted. “That’s ridiculous. I just…missed it on the way down here.”

  Clowns creeped me out. They creep everybody out, right? Of course there had to be a clown down here.

  The upside? At least I had frightened the tears away.

  The downside? When I turned back around, the doll in the crib was looking at me. As in, her head had turned and she was literally staring at me. Those weird gray-green-blue eyes of hers were fixed straight on mine. Her mouth was open, little plastic lips pulled out of their big pouting smile. I could see the enamel of her teeth.

  Fear gripped me, and it gripped me hard.

  “Oh, hell no. No, no, no—”

  I let out a strangled sound, turned, and ran all the way up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind me with a reverberating thump. I leaned against it, palms to the wood, head thunking backward. My eyes closed as I tried to quell my frantic breathing.

  There was no way that had just happened.

  ...Right?

  Mean Girls

  By the time my grandparents get downstairs and we’re all seated at the unnecessarily big dining table, I’ve almost managed to convince myself that I didn’t actually see the doll move. Mostly because that’s insane, right? Dolls can’t move.

  I was just upset, and my emotions had gotten the best of me. I was still upset, honestly, thinking about the lost keychain. Just… Not enough to think that the dolls were moving around.

  “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast,” said Gramps. “Something wrong, champ?”

  I wondered if he used to call my dad champ. I hated it, but didn’t tell him off. Instead, I took a deep breath and I told them both, “I lost the house key.”

  Silence.

  Grandma put her fork down. Yellow egg yolk was running over her plate, spilling into the sausage grease and mixing with the white goop from the uncooked parts of her egg. “What?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said, though that part should’ve been obvious. “I must have dropped it on the way home.”

  They were both just still staring at me. Gramps gave my grandmother an uncertain look, brows raised. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, champ, the hardware store is closed today. I won’t be able to get a new one made up until tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” I exhaled hard, even though I knew that was probably the case.

  Grandma went back to her breakfast. “I’ll have to pick you up this evening, then. You know, Quinn, this is very irresponsible.”

  “Annie,” said Gramps, with a cluck of his tongue.

  “No, I’m not fussing at her for no reason. I know that this might look like a small town to you, Quinn,” said Grandma. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a safe one. If you lost that key, it could be anywhere by now. Anyone could let themselves in.”

  She gave Gramps a pointed look. He picked up his barely golden toast and jabbed it into his egg yolk, letting the bread sop it up. “I can change the locks.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said earnestly. “I’ll be way more careful from now on. I promise.”

  Grandma let out one more heavy sigh, but allowed the subject to drop after that. I shoveled breakfast down as fast as I could, just wanting to be out of the house and away from their disapproving faces—and the dolls—for a little bit.

  The walk to school totally didn’t help my mood anyway. I felt like I was about to melt away into nothing. By the time I got there, my purple curls were clinging in wet tendrils to the nape of my neck like melting candy floss, and sweat gushed down my forehead.

  I made my first stop the bathroom, so I could wash the sweat off of my face and try to fix my hair up some, and then found myself heading to Illustration, the first class of the day. As was par the course, Mr. Carp wasn’t there yet.

  A small crowd of students had formed outside of the door, waiting to be let in. Trevor waved at me. “Hey, Quinn!”

  “Trevor,” I smiled at him—a bit wider than I intended to. “How’s your vampire work coming?”

  “I gave in to peer pressure,” admitted Trevor. “The hero’s got an undercut now. I thought that made her seem more spunky.”

  I snorted. “Is that the word Mr. Carp used?”

  “Yep.” He popped the ‘p’ sound at the end of the word. “How about you? Did you make it less weird?”

  “Nope.” I said, popping the ‘p’ sound the same way he had. “I kept it just the same. I like my story. He doesn't have to understand it.”

  “I mean, he’s the teacher.”

  “Right. And he’s grading me on illustration, not whether he likes the plot.”

  Trevor laughed. “I guess that’s true. Have you seen what Alice is doing?” He rolled his eyes. “Rogue supermodel. I think she just wanted to draw clothes. I think it’s one of the only things she’s actually good at.”

  “Rogue supermodel… Doing what?” I questioned, brows pinching down.

  Trevor shrugged. “She hasn’t gotten that far, she says. It’s a ‘work in progress.’”

  “How can you work on something without knowing the plot?” I shook my head—just a little—in confusion. “I don’t get it.”

  “Does that mean you already know the ending of your story?”

  “I mean, I’ve got an idea for it.” I bounced one shoulder. I could see Mr. Carp coming down the hallway towards us now. “I want the ghost to not be lonely anymore. I just haven’t figured out what that means yet.”

  “Alright, alright, everyone back away from the door.” Mr. Carp approached, waving his hands at us. “I know I’m late, but we can start Illustration class now!”

  There’s no round of cheering like there had been on my first day here. Instead, the door opened, and we all rushed straight in to our desks. I was quick to flip open my computer, double-checking that the files I’d lost in the basement were, in fact, still there.

  They were. Talk about a relief.

  Honestly, the class was fine. Trevor kept looking over at my laptop while I was drawing, and I got the definite feeling that he wanted to ask me something. But then he would look around at the kids sitting near him, and go back to his sketchbook.

  It wasn’t until the class was over and we were heading out into the hallway that Trevor caught me and asked, “Hey, do you think we could hang out some today?”

  I froze in place. “Like, after school?”

  “Yeah, after school,” he echoed. “I thought maybe I could come over for a bit.”

  A surge of happiness rushed through me. I’d never gotten a chance to draw with someone before. Back home, in Maryland, my friends mostly weren’t big into illustration or art or anything like that. And even the few who did like it—well, they didn’t understand what it was I was drawing.

  They just thought my work was weird. Like Mr. Carp did.