The family she babysat for had this cutesy little dollhouse that was an exact replica of their renovated Tudor-style home in the town's oldest area. Every room was perfectly matched to its real sized counterpart, right down to the minute details like clothing left on the floors or what books they have on the shelves. She'd never asked much about it beyond the cursory "how cute, must be a pain to maintain but what a conversation piece".
The family seemed normal enough, dollhouse aside. Fairly well off, two kids who behaved well, good neighbourhood and all the rest. After spending the first night watching the kids and making sure the dollhouse was set to match the rest of their home (one of the conditions they specified she was to do before they got home) they fell into a weekly routine.
Fridays were date night for the couple and payday for their babysitter who relished the £60 they gave her (plus extra to buy or make the kids dinner). She'd arrive at 5:30pm sharp and meet the couple at the front door where pleasantries were exchanged and excitable children said goodbye until the morning.
Tonight she put the children to bed early, hoping to have some wine to herself and grab a taxi back to her place, warm inside and cash in hand. It sounded perfect and she settled onto the plush sofa, wine glass in hand and bottle nearby for refills. She must have dozed as she woke up some time in the wee hours or the morning.
Glancing around she noticed that she hadn't paid any attention to the dollhouse that evening. From when she walked through the door to dinner to games and now to her sitting down, four hours later than arrival, she hadn't so much as glanced at it. Now it was a key part of the agreement she had with the couple that the rooms match the house as closely as possible.
Bringing her glass with her she set about making mental notes of the rooms downstairs and began to match them to the tiny counterpart. As she knelt down to it she noticed that the back door on the dollhouse was wide open and tiny muddy footprints led from the outside, along the hall, up the stairs and into the children's rooms where the doll versions of them had been torn apart and crudely nailed to the walls.
Though she knew it was only a dollhouse (it was only a dollhouse, right?) she still got up to check the back door, spotting muddy footprints as she reached the hallway. They led upstairs. She'd heard nothing this whole time, no sounds of violence, not even felt a breeze from the wide open back door which she promptly shut as quietly as she could.
Her eyes darted all around as she tried to spot the intruder, if it was an intruder and not the children playing some sick kind of joke on her. She saw nothing and heard nothing. Each step she took on the stairs seemed to sound like crashing cymbals and cracking bones against the carpet. She held her breath as she crept towards the children's rooms, hoping to find them alive and coming up with excuses in case they were not.
If she had stayed downstairs with the dollhouse just a little longer she would have seen a broken babydoll crawl out from underneath the bed in the master bedroom and scuttle up the walls to a dark corner right by the door. If she had stayed for a few moments more she would have noticed the blood trail leading right to it instead of discovering it after she'd reached the top of the stairs. She may even have seen it move from the master bedroom to the children's joint ensuite to wait for her to use it to cross between the bedrooms.
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