Last night I dreamt of a great house in the middle of a city. Weeping willows flanked iron gates, and vines crawled and choked every wall and window of the place. It was the color of fresh butter, it’s paint cracking and hiding beneath the savagery of the leaves.
Inside the house were rooms and rooms and rooms. One with a miniature city model, and a working train that wound its way tirelessly, endlessly, through the lilliputian streets. One room devoted to beds and sleeping. One room looked as if the wild world had come in to liberate it of walls and windows. This room held flowers – great yellow roses and tulips and daisies. This room was an ornate parlor. Over here was a library so full of dust that the books were indistinguishable from the shelves. An empty swimming pool in another room. A kitchen full of rusting appliances and cookery.
In the middle of the house was a great room, once simply and tastefully decorated with fine furniture and art, now saw every inch of floor space with little toys.
A menagerie of glass figurines spread themselves over the marble floor, toy cars and complimenting tracks wound intricately through the fragile beasts and found their way to a doll’s house, beautifully furnished, stood four minuscule stories high, and the tiny inhabitants froze in their practice of the piano, of reading the newspaper, of climbing stairs. Stuffed toys, an abundance of marbles, pretty gems and stones, a mixture of trucks and slingshots and balls and bicycles – the room was filled. And in the center of that odd hall, there was a child’s bed, outfitted in white crocheted lace. And in that bed, a head of golden curls on the feather pillow, there was the house’s single human inhabitant.
A little girl.
- Who was she?
- Why was she there?
- What will happen to her now that she’s been discovered?
- Is she supernatural?
- Is there something supernatural about the house?
- What’s with the toys?