The water splayed across Margot’s cheeks. The flush spread across her pale, wan figure.

Her skeletal frame stared out at the dollhouse. A dollhouse with little figurines going about their

extraordinarily happy lives. She glared at them. The feelings of hatred and fear stirred within her. The antagonizing voice of the miniature dolls mocked her. Creaks on the basement stairs

sounded around the room. Margot ran to the corner of the room behind a storage bin, pulling her knobby knees to her chest.

A hum could be heard, a hum that sounded like a feral beast. Mr. Smith, a man of slim

frame and in his mid-thirties strolled down the wooden beams.

“Where is my little Margot?” the man called out. The fumes of whiskey snaked out as he

gave a rotting, toothy grin. “C’mon Margot. We can play with Daddy’s dollhouse if you want.”

A whimper—almost inaudible—whisked its way into Mr. Smith’s ear. He grinned. He

tip-toed towards the sound, his shoes squeaking every step of the way. He loomed over the bin,

towering over the cowering girl. The man let out a laugh that would frighten the souls rotting in

hell. His lanky arms reached down and picked up the girl by her armpits as she kicked and spat

and screeched to no avail.

“What the hell’s gotten into you, Munchkin?”

He carried Margot over to the dollhouse. The iron used to remind her of doors to a fairy

kingdom. All she saw now were arthritic hands opening wide, grabbing for her. Rusted blood

spatter lay in flaking bits on the onyx iron. The water was murky with a clump of muddled hair

sinking to the bottom. Margot’s eyes became bloodshot as she let the tears cascade down the

hollows of her cheeks.

“Now Margot, tell me what you’re going to say to the police again.”

The girl said nothing.

“Margot,” he warned with a slight squeeze to her shoulder.

Again, the girl said nothing.

“Margot,” he said between gritted teeth, squeezing her arm – bruising it.

“You killed mommy.”

The little girl pulled her raggedy teddy to her chest. A roar sounded, so monstrous that

fallen angels would weep at the pure rage of it. A hand came around and cracked the girl across

her face. There was screaming – too much screaming. Visions of Margot’s mother whirled

through her head: the sweet scent of vanilla as she cradled her in her arms while she read her a

bedtime story; the molten chocolate eyes filling with rage as Mr. Smith stumbled through the

door, bottle in hand; the screaming and the sounds of fist meeting flesh; the whimpering; then,

the dollhouse Margot was left with as her father locked the door of the basement.

Except that one night. The night Mr. Smith forgot to lock it and he stumbled downstairs

to do God-knows-what to his darling daughter. Mrs. Smith would have died for her daughter, and Margot remembered the crack her skull made as it slammed into the dollhouse, the blood that pooled around her head. That’s when Margot thought about the strangeness of blood. The black with a film of scarlet encasing it. And Margot screamed.

Mr. Smith picked her up, snarling.

You! Did! This!” He threw her, and she fumbled to keep her stance. Blood dripped from her

cracked lips. She wiped it against the white sleeve, leaving a stain. She glanced to the stairs. The

door was unlocked.

Margot bolted for the steps, the blood drumming too fast in her veins. She heard the

clamor of boxes falling, but she didn’t look back. She passed the cleaning supplies and a long-

forgotten wedding ring, and all she could think of was that dollhouse. She was panting, too weak to hold herself upright. She ran out the front door down the street.

The darkness swallowed her as she ran down the road, footsteps closing in. She ran faster and

faster until her breath dwindled to a desperate pant, tears falling and the wind branding her face with a ‘T’ for traitor.

Her greasy hair whipped back and flowed like the ghost of the girl she was. She would

die running for the justice of her mother. That’s when her vision of the station in front of her was replaced with the black blanket of night’s scorn. She looked into the rabid, beady eyes of her father. He flicked out a knife, and Margo did the only thing she could.

The Chief of Police walked out to the podium, his silver hair gelled back, as he attempted

to address the worried crowd.

“The good people of Mayflower, Alabama. We have found the skeletal remains of an

unidentified male and an unidentified child. A hunter came across them early this morning. We

do not know more at this time. Thank you for your time.”