Chapter One

The Recall Address

The recall notice arrived twenty-two years late.

Celia Harrow found it inside her mailbox on a Thursday afternoon, resting on top of a grocery circular and a water bill.

The envelope was cream-colored and unusually thick. No stamp marked its upper corner. No postal barcode crossed the bottom. Her full name appeared in the center in faded purple ink.

CELIA MARIE HARROW

Not Celia Harrow-Sloan, the name she had used since her marriage.

Not Ms. Harrow, as she had called herself again since the divorce.

Celia Marie Harrow.

The name her mother used when she was angry.

A return address had been printed on the back flap.

MERRIVAULT TOY COMPANY

FAMILY CONTINUITY DIVISION

HOME PLACEMENT SERVICES

Celia stood in the lobby of her apartment building with the envelope between her fingers.

The Merrivault name stirred something unpleasant.

Not a memory.

The absence of one.

She knew the company in the same vague way she knew the names of discontinued cereal brands and Saturday-morning cartoons. Merrivault had made toys. There had been commercials, catalogs, and enormous TOY H-U-S-H stores with purple signs visible from the highway.

Her family had never shopped there.

At least, she did not think they had.

The elevator opened behind her.

Mrs. Pritchard stepped out carrying a canvas grocery bag.

“Anything good?”

Celia turned the envelope facedown.

“Probably a warranty scam.”

“They still send those on paper?”

“Apparently.”

Mrs. Pritchard adjusted the bag against her hip.

“Anything that looks expensive is either a wedding invitation or someone trying to steal your identity.”

“My wedding-invitation years are over.”

“You’re thirty-five.”

“That’s what I said.”

Mrs. Pritchard laughed and continued toward the mailboxes.

Celia entered the elevator.

The envelope seemed heavier by the time she reached the fourth floor.

She carried it into her apartment and placed it on the kitchen counter. For ten minutes, she ignored it.

She changed out of her work clothes. Fed the cat. Rinsed a coffee mug she had left in the sink that morning. Checked the weather forecast. Opened the refrigerator without wanting anything inside it.

The envelope waited.

Her cat jumped onto the counter and sniffed the flap.

“No.”

Celia moved it away from him.

Milo’s back arched.

The reaction was immediate enough to make her step away.

He stared at the envelope, ears flattened. A low growl vibrated inside his chest.

Celia had heard that sound only once before, when a maintenance worker entered the apartment without knocking.

“It’s paper.”

Milo retreated from the counter.

The envelope opened without tearing. The adhesive released as soon as Celia touched the flap, as if it had never been sealed.

A folded letter rested inside.

Something small and metallic fell onto the counter.

A key.

It was the kind made for a child’s diary or an old toy chest: short, silver, and cut with only three teeth. A purple plastic star formed its handle.

Celia picked it up.

The kitchen disappeared.

For one second, she was somewhere dark.

A small hand closed around the key.

Not her adult hand.

A child’s hand.

Purple carpet pressed beneath her knees. Someone breathed on the other side of a wooden door.

A girl whispered, “Don’t let her finish the house.”

The kitchen returned.

Celia dropped the key.

It struck the counter and spun to a stop.

Milo fled into the bedroom.

Celia remained motionless until she could hear the refrigerator again.

The memory had not felt imagined. It possessed weight, temperature, and the intimate certainty of something lived.

But Celia had never owned a key with a purple star.

She unfolded the letter.

The Merrivault logo occupied the top of the page: a purple ring encircling a gold keyhole. Beneath it, cheerful rounded letters announced:

A SPECIAL FRIEND IS READY TO COME HOME.

Celia read the sentence twice.

The rest of the notice used smaller type.

Dear Celia,

Thank you for participating in the Merrivault Home Placement Program. Our records indicate that the companion assigned to your household has remained in continuous placement beyond its intended evaluation period.

For the safety of your family, your memories, and your community, Merrivault Toy Company has initiated a mandatory product recall.

PLACEMENT NUMBER: 04-47-18

ORIGINAL RECIPIENT: CELIA MARIE HARROW

COMPANION LINE: SOMNABELLE

COMPANION NAME: LULLA

PLACEMENT DATE: OCTOBER 23, 2004

PLACEMENT ADDRESS: 18 WRENWOOD COURT

CURRENT STATUS: HOME PLACEMENT CONFIRMED

Do not destroy, discard, donate, sell, bury, burn, disassemble, or relocate your companion.

Do not permit your companion to complete an unfinished game.

Do not sleep in the same room as your companion.

A Family Continuity representative will arrive within forty-eight hours to reconcile the placement.

Until retrieval is complete, please remember:

SHE HAS ALWAYS LIVED WITH YOU.

Celia lowered the letter.

“No,” she said.

The word sounded too small inside the apartment.

She read the name again.

Lulla.

Nothing.

She pictured a doll because the notice identified the line as Somnabelle. The image that came to her was generic: porcelain face, fabric body, painted eyes.

Then a different image pushed through.

Long black hair.

A lavender nightdress.

Silver eyelids that closed from the bottom upward.

Celia shoved the paper across the counter.

“No.”

Her phone rang.

She screamed before recognizing the sound.

MOM appeared on the screen.

Celia stared at the name.

Her mother called every Thursday at five thirty. The timing was ordinary. Predictable.

The phone continued ringing.

Celia answered.

“Hi, Mom.”

“You sound strange.”

“I’m fine.”

“You never say you’re fine unless you’re not.”

Celia looked at the letter.

“Did I have a Somnabelle doll when I was little?”

Silence answered.

Not the distracted pause her mother made while adjusting the television. This silence was complete.

“Mom?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“I received something from Merrivault.”

Glass shattered through the phone.

“Mom?”

“I dropped my water.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

Celia heard her mother breathing.

“What did they send?”

“A recall notice.”

“For what?”

“A doll named Lulla.”

“You never had a doll named Lulla.”

The response came too quickly.

“Okay.”

“You didn’t.”

“I believe you.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because the notice has our old address.”

Her mother stopped breathing.

“Eighteen Wrenwood Court,” Celia continued.

“Throw it away.”

“It says not to.”

“It’s junk mail.”

“It has a key inside.”

Something struck the other end of the call.

This time, it did not sound like a glass.

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“Where is the key?”

“On my counter.”

“Don’t bring it here.”

Celia looked toward the purple star.

“Why would I bring it there?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Then why did you say that?”

“I don’t know. I’m tired.”

“You remember the doll.”

“No.”

“You remember something.”

Her mother’s voice tightened.

“You never had a Somnabelle. We never bought Merrivault toys. Your father hated that store.”

“Why?”

“He thought it was too expensive.”

Celia waited.

Her mother had lied badly for as long as Celia could remember. She added details when the truth would have required none.

“The letter says the doll was placed with me on October twenty-third, 2004.”

“Then the letter is wrong.”

“I was thirteen.”

“I know how old you were.”

“What happened that year?”

“Nothing.”

“Did we still live on Wrenwood Court?”

Another pause.

“Until November.”

Celia had known that. The family moved during the fall of her eighth-grade year. Her parents claimed the house was too expensive after her father lost his job.

Celia remembered packing.

She remembered the moving truck.

She remembered starting at a different school.

She did not remember the house.

When she tried to picture 18 Wrenwood Court, she saw only a purple door standing in darkness.

“Why did we move?” she asked.

“I told you.”

“Dad lost his job.”

“Yes.”

“Dad didn’t lose his job until the next summer.”

Her mother said nothing.

Celia had never noticed the discrepancy before.

She remembered the day her father came home carrying a cardboard box from his office. They had already been living in the apartment on Weston Avenue for eight months.

“Mom?”

“You’re confused.”

“No. I remember his company identification card inside the box. I remember the plant they gave him when he left. It died on the kitchen windowsill.”

“People remember things out of order.”

“Why did we leave Wrenwood Court?”

“I have to go.”

“I’m coming over.”

“Celia, no.”

“I want to talk in person.”

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

The answer came as a whisper.

“Because the bedroom door is open.”

Celia gripped the phone.

“What bedroom?”

Her mother hung up.

Celia called back.

The first attempt rang six times.

The second went directly to voicemail.

She tried a third time.

Someone answered.

“Mom?”

A young girl giggled.

Three musical notes chimed in the background.

Celia stopped breathing.

The sound was delicate and mechanical, like a music box being wound backward.

“Who is this?”

The girl whispered, “You’re late.”

The call ended.

Celia stood alone in the kitchen.

The key was no longer on the counter.

She searched the floor.

It had not fallen.

She moved the letter, the envelope, and the grocery circular she had carried upstairs by mistake.

Nothing.

Milo cried from the bedroom.

Celia found him crouched beneath the bed. His attention was fixed on the closet.

The door stood open by an inch.

Celia kept it closed because the apartment’s uneven floor caused it to drift outward.

She crossed the room and pulled it open.

Coats. Shoes. A plastic container of winter clothes. Two suitcases stacked beneath the shelf.

No key.

Milo refused to emerge.

Celia returned to the kitchen and picked up the recall notice.

The wording had changed.

The placement address remained the same.

The status did not.

CURRENT STATUS: RECIPIENT IN TRANSIT

Celia let the page fall.

“No.”

She photographed the notice with her phone.

In the image, the status read:

CURRENT STATUS: HOME PLACEMENT CONFIRMED

Celia checked the paper.

RECIPIENT IN TRANSIT.

She photographed it again.

HOME PLACEMENT CONFIRMED.

The document and the camera disagreed.

A third chime sounded from somewhere inside the apartment.

Celia took her coat from the hook.

Milo remained beneath the bed.

“I’ll come back.”

The cat hissed at the closet.

Celia left the lights on.

She drove toward her mother’s house.

Rain began before she reached the expressway.

It appeared without warning, striking the windshield in heavy silver drops. Traffic compressed around her. Brake lights stretched into red chains across the wet pavement.

Celia called her mother seven times.

No answer.

She called her older brother.

Eric answered with loud voices behind him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why does something have to be wrong?”

“You’ve sent me four question marks.”

“Have you talked to Mom?”

“This morning.”

“Was she okay?”

“She complained about her knee and told me my children don’t call enough. So, normal.”

“Do you remember Wrenwood Court?”

“Should I?”

“The house we lived in when I was thirteen.”

“We didn’t live on Wrenwood Court.”

“Yes, we did.”

“We lived on Weston.”

“Before Weston.”

“We were in the yellow house.”

Celia tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

“What yellow house?”

“The one near Dad’s job.”

“We moved from Wrenwood Court to Weston Avenue.”

“Celia, I think you’ve got the names mixed up.”

“I have a letter addressed to me at 18 Wrenwood Court.”

Eric became quiet.

“Where did you get it?”

“Why?”

“Just tell me.”

“It was in my mailbox.”

“From who?”

“Merrivault Toy Company.”

The voices behind him disappeared as a door closed.

“What does it say?”

“That a toy I supposedly had is being recalled.”

“What toy?”

“A Somnabelle named Lulla.”

Eric exhaled.

Not in surprise.

In recognition.

“You remember her,” Celia said.

“No.”

“You know the name.”

“I heard you say it.”

“You reacted before I finished.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“The truth.”

“The truth is you had dozens of dolls.”

“Mom says I didn’t have any Merrivault toys.”

“Then you didn’t.”

“That’s not what you just said.”

“Don’t go to the house.”

Celia glanced at the phone mounted beside the dashboard.

“What house?”

Eric did not answer.

“Wrenwood Court or Mom’s?”

“Either.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“Mom said her bedroom door was open. Then someone answered her phone.”

“Someone?”

“A girl.”

“Mom lives alone.”

“I know.”

Eric breathed against the receiver.

“Where are you now?”

“On my way to Mom’s.”

“Turn around.”

“I’m not leaving her there.”

“Call the police.”

“And tell them what? That my mother stopped answering after receiving a call about a doll I may not remember owning?”

“Tell them you think someone is inside.”

“Do you?”

Another long silence.

“Eric?”

“I used to dream about that doll.”

Celia nearly missed her exit.

“What?”

“I didn’t remember the name until you said it.”

“What did you dream?”

“That she lived in the walls.”

A truck changed lanes in front of Celia. She braked hard.

“Why would she be in the walls?”

“Because you put her there.”

“I did what?”

“That’s what you told me.”

“When?”

“We were kids.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I didn’t either.”

“Until now?”

“Until you said her name.”

The three musical notes sounded through the call.

Eric stopped speaking.

“Did you hear that?” Celia asked.

A child laughed near him.

Eric shouted a name Celia did not recognize.

The line disconnected.

She called back.

No answer.

The rain stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Celia left the expressway and entered Bellweather, the suburb where her mother had lived for the past eleven years. The familiar streets should have steadied her.

They did not.

Every dark window resembled a closed eye.

Her mother’s bungalow stood at the end of a cul-de-sac. The porch light burned. The garage door was closed. Her mother’s blue sedan occupied the driveway.

Celia parked at the curb.

She called once more.

A light activated on the second floor.

Her mother’s house did not have a second floor.

Celia stared through the windshield.

The light shone from a narrow window above the roofline, where only the attic should have been. A child’s silhouette passed behind a lavender curtain.

Then the window disappeared.

The roof was solid again.

Celia remained in the car.

Call the police.

Eric’s advice had become reasonable.

She entered the emergency number.

Before she could press the final digit, her mother opened the front door.

“Celia?”

She wore a pale robe and held one side closed at her throat.

Celia left the car.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Why weren’t you answering?”

“I turned my phone off.”

“Someone answered it.”

“No one is here.”

“I heard a child.”

Her mother stepped onto the porch.

“Go home.”

Celia stopped at the walkway.

“You called me today.”

“I call every Thursday.”

“You asked about the key before I told you what it looked like.”

“I asked where it was.”

“You told me not to bring it here.”

“I was upset.”

“Why?”

Her mother’s gaze moved past her.

Celia turned.

A white delivery van had entered the cul-de-sac.

Its headlights remained off.

It traveled slowly past the neighboring houses, pausing at each driveway before continuing.

No company name marked its sides.

The vehicle reached the circular end of the street, turned around, and stopped in front of a storm drain.

Celia could not see the driver.

Her mother came down the porch steps.

“Get inside.”

“You just told me to leave.”

“Now.”

The van’s side door opened.

No one stepped out.

Three musical notes drifted across the street.

Celia’s mother seized her wrist.

They ran into the house.

Her mother closed the door and engaged the dead bolt, security chain, and a second lock Celia had never noticed near the floor.

“What is that van?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

“I haven’t seen one in years.”

Celia stared at her.

“Years?”

Her mother pulled the curtains closed.

The living room looked as it always did. Beige furniture. Family photographs. A television too large for the cabinet supporting it. Ceramic birds lined across the mantel.

One photograph had been turned facedown.

Celia picked it up.

Her mother moved too late to stop her.

The picture showed the Harrow family standing in front of a two-story brick house.

Eighteen Wrenwood Court.

Celia recognized the address before she recognized the building.

Her father stood behind Eric, one hand on his shoulder. Her mother held a cardboard box. Eleven-year-old Eric smiled at the camera.

Thirteen-year-old Celia stood beside him.

A doll occupied her arms.

Lulla was nearly three feet tall.

Her long black hair reached below the hem of her lavender nightdress. A silver crescent covered the center of her chest. Her face was pale and narrow, with closed metallic eyelids and a small purple mouth.

The doll’s head rested against Celia’s shoulder.

Someone had scratched the eyes from Celia’s face.

“Who did this?”

Her mother took the photograph.

“You did.”

Celia looked at the deep marks crossing the glossy paper.

“Why?”

“You said you didn’t want her recognizing you.”

The van’s door slammed outside.

Both women became quiet.

Something rolled across the porch.

A small metal object struck the front door.

The purple-star key slid beneath it.

Celia stepped backward.

Her mother covered her mouth.

“You brought it here.”

“I didn’t.”

“It followed you.”

“What does it open?”

Her mother stared at the key.

“Your room.”

“This isn’t the Wrenwood house.”

“We brought the door.”

Celia waited for the words to make sense.

“What?”

Her mother turned toward the hallway.

At its end stood a purple wooden door.

Celia had visited the bungalow hundreds of times. The hallway led to a linen closet, guest room, bathroom, and her mother’s bedroom.

There had never been a purple door.

Its paint was cracked around a silver keyhole.

Three narrow scratches ran across its lower half.

Celia approached it.

Her mother caught her arm.

“Don’t.”

“What’s behind it?”

“Your bedroom.”

“My bedroom was at Wrenwood Court.”

“Yes.”

“You said you brought the door.”

“We brought everything behind it.”

The statement chilled Celia more than the van.

“Why?”

“Because we couldn’t leave her there.”

“Lulla?”

Her mother shook her head.

“You.”

Someone knocked at the front entrance.

Three measured taps.

A man spoke from the porch.

“Family Continuity.”

Celia’s mother pulled her toward the kitchen.

“Is that Merrivault?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You kept part of the old house behind that door?”

“We thought the room would stay quiet if it remained part of the family residence.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your father.”

“Where did he learn it?”

Another three knocks.

The man repeated himself.

“Family Continuity. We are here to complete the Harrow placement.”

Celia moved toward the front window.

Her mother blocked her.

“Don’t let them see you.”

“They mailed me the notice.”

“They didn’t mail it.”

“Then who did?”

The purple door clicked.

Both women looked toward the hallway.

The keyhole was empty.

The key no longer rested beside the front entrance.

A child began humming behind the door.

Celia knew the melody.

Her body remembered before her mind did.

She had heard it every night for five weeks in 2004. Lulla sat in the corner and played the tune whenever Celia closed her eyes. The song ended only when Celia correctly described something that had happened that day.

At first, the doll asked about school.

Then it asked about her parents.

Then it asked Celia to describe events that had not occurred.

Dad came into my room at midnight.

Mom said Eric was never born.

The neighbors buried someone in the backyard.

Each false memory made the song quieter.

Each true memory made it begin again.

Celia staggered against the wall.

Her mother gripped her shoulders.

“What do you remember?”

“The game.”

“Don’t finish it.”

“The letter said that.”

“Then listen.”

“What happens if I finish?”

Her mother looked toward the door.

“She gets to keep the version you chose.”

The humming stopped.

A girl whispered from the other side.

“Celia?”

Her mother dragged her into the kitchen.

The knocking at the front door became louder.

“Mrs. Harrow,” the man outside called. “The placement has exceeded its authorized term. Open the residence.”

“You said they were coming for the doll,” Celia whispered.

“They aren’t.”

“Then what do they want?”

Her mother opened the basement door.

“You.”

A heavy impact struck the front entrance.

The security chain rattled.

Her mother pushed Celia onto the basement stairs.

“Go.”

“You’re coming.”

“I have to lock the room.”

“From what side?”

Her mother did not answer.

A second impact splintered the doorframe.

The purple door opened six inches.

Darkness filled the space beyond it.

Not the shallow darkness of an unlit closet.

A room extended behind the door.

Purple carpet.

A canopy bed.

Glow-in-the-dark stars across the ceiling.

Celia’s bedroom from 2004 existed inside her mother’s one-story bungalow.

A doll sat at the foot of the bed.

Lulla’s silver eyelids opened from the bottom upward.

There were no eyes beneath them.

Only two polished mirrors.

Adult Celia appeared inside both.

The reflection wore a lavender nightdress.

“Home placement confirmed,” Lulla said.

The front door broke inward.

Two people entered wearing gray coats and smooth white masks. Purple keyholes had been painted where their mouths should have been.

Celia’s mother shoved her down the stairs and slammed the basement door.

The lock engaged above her.

“Mom!”

Footsteps crossed the kitchen.

Celia climbed two steps and struck the door with her shoulder.

It did not move.

Voices remained calm on the other side.

“Family recipient located.”

“Continuity guardian present.”

“Companion awake.”

Her mother shouted.

Furniture overturned.

Celia hit the door again.

“Mom!”

A masked representative said, “Mrs. Harrow, your participation has been appreciated.”

Three musical notes played.

Her mother screamed.

The sound ended too quickly.

Celia stopped striking the door.

Silence filled the kitchen.

Then someone tested the basement knob.

Celia descended.

The basement was unfinished except for a washer, dryer, furnace, and shelves of storage containers. A narrow window opened at ground level behind the furnace.

She moved toward it.

A voice spoke from the top of the stairs.

“Celia Marie Harrow.”

She froze.

The voice belonged to her father.

He had been dead for nine years.

“We found a better way to remember you.”

Celia backed toward the window.

The basement door opened.

Light entered from the kitchen.

A white mask appeared above the stairs.

Celia grabbed a metal laundry pole from beside the washer.

The representative descended.

Its gray coat bore an embroidered Merrivault emblem. The body beneath it was too narrow at the waist and too broad across the shoulders. Each step produced a soft wooden click.

Not a person.

A product wearing a uniform.

Celia swung the pole.

The representative caught it.

Its glove split…

Pa…