Paper Dolls by Anya Allyn Page B

some news footage. I was barely paying attention over the noise of the tourists. Until I caught sight of Aisha standing rigidly—her gaze fixed to the screen.
    Blood slowed in my veins as I read the headline—
Seven missing children found in macabre subterranean dollhouse
.
    The din of the tourists hushed as the newscast showed photos of each of the children. The report then swapped to film of the carousel and the dark corridors, travelling through to the ruined library. The camera lingered on the drawings that were still pinned to the wall and scattered on the floor. A hand scooped up a torn, faded picture of a serpent. Aisha gasped out loud.
    One of the cameramen cursed as he tripped over the oversized figure of Clown.
    Scattered voices echoed through The Atrium as people watched a skeleton of old bones being wrapped and taken from a dark tunnel.
Jessamine’s bones
.
    Cold cement poured down my spine. I hadn't seen any of this. Dr. Alexia had told mom that I shouldn’t watch or read reports of the underground. I wanted to run, but my legs were wooden. I glanced at Aisha. Her hands trembled on the pool cue. We needed to leave without Zach and Emerson realizing why. But the entire atrium had grown deathly quiet.
    Holidaymakers moved out of vacation mode and drew closer to the screen. They had surely seen footage of the underground before. A full month had passed since the rescue. A rolling banner on the bottom of the screen caught my eye—it promised unreleased footage. Were the people were waiting to see that? Was the dollhouse some kind of morbid entertainment to them?
    The show’s presenter interviewed some expert who speculated that Henry Fiveash had imprisoned all the teenagers and dressed them as dolls due to an unspecified mental illness—as well as other wild theories. The camera moved through The Dark Way to the diamonds and gold nuggets, stopping on the rotted and blackened body of the Raggedy Andy doll.
    The camera traveled back along the dark corridors to the kitchen, showing the bare shelves inside the cupboards.
    The show’s presenter announced that the
shocking
new footage
was coming up next.
    The film cut to an outdoor scene, in the forest. A tiny girl in pink track pants and a green jumper waved, turning to point over a high rock ledge. The view moved forward, freezing as the image of a thin, bedraggled teenage girl came into view. The girl stood in the river below, silently pleading for help. Blood seeped from the girl’s torn slip, bruises and cuts darkening her body, doll's makeup smeared on her face. The expression in her huge eyes was the expression of one who’d stared into hell itself.
    I barely recognized that girl.
    Barely recognized myself.
    Aisha eyed me in horror. I hadn't told her any of the details of my escape. I hadn’t wanted to relive it.
    How was there film of that moment…?
    The woman… the woman had been filming her daughter and must have caught me on film as well.
    My name appeared onscreen.
    Cassandra Claiborne, aged 15
.
    I wanted to go home, home, away from here. My fists clenched, nails digging into the skin.
    The tourist in the striped shirt stood, pointing. "Hey, those two girls over there. I'd swear blind they're the girls they just showed on the TV. I never get a face wrong."
    His wife squinted at Aisha and me. “Jeez, you’re right! That’s them. Poor loves!”
    Everyone stared, but there was nowhere to turn my face where someone couldn’t see me.
    The man raised a camera to his face and began snapping photos.
    Zach moved his arm protectively around me. "These are
not
the same girls. Wrong ages, wrong names. So back off!"
    “Hey mate, don’t give me flack,” the man asserted. “Look at them. If it wasn’t them two on the screen, why are they shakin’ like that?”
    Zach and Emerson held Aisha and me close to them and guided us out through the peering crowds of people.
    Mom and the Dumaj's were strolling on the path towards us. Raif walked alongside them.