The Doll Graveyard

The Doll Graveyard

Original book by:Lois Ruby

(Book dedicated to Mystic Pegasister for her Undying Support)

Chapter 1

The truth can be tricky. In all my twelve years I've never lied. Well, actually I won't be twelve until next month. Okay, to be honest, I sometimes exaggerate a little, and maybe I'll hold a few details, but that's because I keep getting in trouble for telling the whole truth. Mom says I think with my mouth. Like, last week, Lacey and I rode our bikes to Luiza's sleepover, and when we got there, all sweaty, Lacey said, Yeeks, I must smell like a pig," and I said, "Pigs don't sweat. You smell like a goat." It was the truth, but she didn't speak to me all night.

Speaking of speaking, my annoying brother, Jacob, who's sixteen, hangs on to words like they're shiny quarters, too valuable to spend, especially now that our lives have been turned upside down. I stomp around and yell, but he holds it all in. That can't be good, can it? If I stuck him with a pin, he'd pop like a balloon.

Right now Mom and I are cleaning the living room, or more like she's cleaning and I'm batting around a feather duster. "It makes me so mad that I can't get Jacob talking when there's so much to say about Dad and all that stuff."

"Give him time, Autumn," Mom says, turning off the vacuum.

"Mom!" She'd never admit it, but Jacob is her favorite. She always makes excuses for him. "Would it kill him to say what's on his mind?" I demand.

Mom sighs. She's out of the crying phase of their divorce and into deep-sighing phase now. "Yes, Autumn, it would kill him. Not literally, but there's a lot in his heart, and it's too painful for him to talk about it."

"He'd feel better if he got it out. It's the healthy thing to do." I'm practically barking at my poor mom, but I can't stop.

"That's the difference between the two of you, honey. You get white-hot mad, and he freezes. You're so much like your father," she says under her breath as Jacob comes into the living room. She hands him a dust rag and a can of Pledge.

"This?" He points to the coffee table.

See what I mean? He could have said "Okay, I guess you want me to dust the table. I'm glad to, Mom." But he says it all in one word and a question mark.

"Yes, and we want to finish up quickly to get to the hospital. Aunt Mystic is expecting us," Mom says.

"Ugh. We just saw her Thursday," I mutter, and now we have to spend a perfectly beautiful August afternoon at St. Catherine's Hospital with creaky weird Aunt Mystic. Did anyone ask me what I wanted to this afternoon? Of course not. Does anyone ever? "You don't want to go, Jacob?"

"Nope."

Wrapping a cord around the vacuum, Mom promises, "It'll be a short visit. She loves seeing you kids."

Jacob pulls at the fringe on his cutoff shorts and says, "Seems like she's already dead."

"Mom, did you hear that? A whole sentence!" Well, this calls for a celebration. Like a crazed bird, I chirp, "Come on, Jacob, let's go outside and pick some flowers to take to Aunt Mystic."

He shrugs and follows me out to the yard, where I pick a bunch of daisies.

"Mad at the flowers?" Jacob asks.

"No, why are you asking me that?"

He demonstrates a ferocious yank, like rescuing a drowning swimmer.

He's right-it's not the flowers' fault. And he's right about Aunt Mystic, too. There's something creepy about her. For one thing, she never smiles. Maybe it's because her false teeth might fall out. She's older than the earth's crust, at least eighty-six. She's not actually my aunt, she's Moms, because she's Gram's older sister. But she's a sourpuss and not at all like my sweet grandma, who passed away when I was nine. How come the sour ones live longer, just the way pickles last forever, but sweet cucumbers turn mushy in the veggie bin?

Dad doesn't like her much, either, but he used to say, "Be patient with the old girl, Autumn. She's got one hoof in the grave."

I wonder when the other hoof will follow.

Aunt Mystic's hospital room is hot enough to boil lobsters. She's shrunk to the size of a withered old child, and the hospital bed looks hugely white around her. Mom plants a kiss on her purple face, but I'm not about to do that, because she smells like bacon and vitamins, which I hate, especially the bacon.

"Hand me my glasses, Autumn Weir," she says in her raspy old voice, "so I can see your face better." As if she could see much at all. Her eyes are dim and cloudy. Mom says she's afraid to have cataract surgery.

I ease the glasses on to her muzzle, and one purple hoof comes out of the covers to straighten them. "Ah, yes.Don't let that frown freeze on your face," she warns. "Where's the colt?"

Mom hustled Jacob to the bedside. He smiles and hands over the daisies when Mom pokes his side.

"Daisies. Hmph. Smell like dirty hooves, if you ask me. Stick that bunch in my water pitcher." She squints to give Jacob a good look. "Not very tall are you?"

"He is sixteen," I remind her, because Jacob's sensitive about his size, which is just right. . . for a thirteen-year-old.

"Now listen here," Aunt Mystic says, and we all huddle close as though she's about to make a big announcement, which she does. "I'm not going to be around much longer. . . . "

Mom hushes her.

"Be sensible, Diamond Tiara. My show's had a long run, but the curtain is about to drop with a quiet thud."

Jacob flashes me a What's she saying? Look, and I shrug Who knows?

"Its about the house at Canterlot."

She means that ugly rambling monstrosity in front of her little cottage. We've never actually been in it, but just passing it is chilling enough, because every window looks painted shut, and inside I can see nothing but dark air. The house leans a little, too, as though it'll topple over if big wind howls  through the property.

"What about the house?" Mom patiently asks, dabbing at some drool at the corner of Aunt Mystic's mouth.

Turning toward her bedside table seems to take every ounce of strength Aunt Mystic can call up, but she reaches into her drawer and pulls out a key on a coiled stretchy thing and hands it to Mom. "It's yours."

"The key? What for?"

"The key is just a key," Aunt Mystic snaps. "What's important is that it opens the front door. Of the house. Which is yours."

Mom protests, "Its not mine. Its not even your house."

"Oh, but it is, Diamond. I just never said. Old Mr. Solace's will deeded it to me at the turn of this century. I've just rented it out to unsuspecting ponies."

"Then why did you stay in that funny little cottage?" I blurt out.

"The big house is a place for families to dwell in, and not very happily up to this point, I might add. All those I'll-spirited, spoiled mares. You'll change that, Autumn Weir."

"I will? How?"

""With kindness," she spits out irritably. "You'll tie up loose ends," but she never explains what loose ends are. "You children have been through too much these past months. You need a distraction - a game if you will. I've set up an interesting situation for you to remember me by. You're bright enough to figure it all out, you and the colt. As for me, I've had all I want of that house and it's unsavory history. Now, the cottage is a different story. It is my home. Was. I won't be going back there."

The key jingles from Mom's hoof. "Dont be silly. I'll take you home with me until you're feeling strong enough to return to the cottage."

"You are not listening to me!" Aunt Mystic rasps.

Just then, a nurse come in, holding a syringe. "Time for your antibiotic injection, Miss Pegasister."

Aunt Mystic waves her away. "No need to stick a fork in me to see if I'm done. I can tell you flat out, I'm overdone."

"Could you come back in a few minutes?" Mom asks, and the nurse hurls her latex gloves in the trash and kicks the door closed behind her.

"She's unfit to serve the ailing," Aunt Mystic mutters. "As I was saying, the paperwork is done, the house is now yours, Diamond."

"We already have our own house," I protest.

Ignoring me, Aunt Mystic continues, "Now, Diamond Tiara, hear me: You're in need of a change to get away from that scoundrel who left you high and dry."

By scoundrel, she means Dad. She's almost as mad at him as I am, and suddenly, I like her better.

"The house is just a thing for you and Autumn Weir and, what's your name, colt?"

"Jacob," Jacob says, and I nearly crack up.

"Ah yes, Jacob, like the great General."

"I expect you'll move into the house shortly after I'm planted in a muddy grave at Canterlot Gardens."

"Let's talk about your getting well," Mom insists, grasping Aunt Mystic's hoof, which is dotted with purple age spots.

"Oh, piffle!" Aunt Mystic slides her hoof away and kneads it with her other hoof. I think her bones hurt. "Now, one word of warning, Diamond: Don't let those fool newspaper ponies into the house."

My ears perk up. "What newspaper ponies, Aunt Mystic?"

"Pushy producers from some station. They've got their greedy eyes on the house for one of those ludicrous newspaper articles, Equestrias Most Amazing. Canterlot has some history, all right, but it's nobody's business but yours now, and Autumn Weir, mark my words: It's up to you to fit all the pieces together."

"What pieces, Aunt Mystic?" I hate jigsaw puzzles. And now I've got puzzle pieces and loose ends and no clue as to what she's talking about.

"Those newspaper ponies pestered me all last month about it, but don't you give in, hear, Diamond Tiara? Consider it my dying wish."

Mom starts to say, "No more talk about - " but I interrupt with a startling question.

"What's so special about the house that Equestria's Most Amazing is interested?" More loose ends?

Aunt Mystic presses her thin light purple lips and refuses to answer, which only makes me more curious, not to mention mad. Then she reaches under her pillow and pulls out an envelope for Mom. "Enough in here for you to start that newspaper business you've been nattering on about."

Mom's eyebrows shoot up. Diamond Tiara Weekly has been her dream for years, but there's never been the bits to make it come true.

"Aunt Mystic, I can't . . ."

"Nonsense. You're my only living relative."

What about Jacob and me? Aren't we alive?

"Am I to take a giant bag of bits to my grave for the worms to chew on?" Aunt Mystic pats Mom's head "Now, there's just one small detail about the house: He's called is Canto Caliberto. Well, that's his theatrical name, not his Christian, given name. He's the new owner of my cottage, which he'll be occupying from now until they carry him out in a box. It shouldn't be long. Celestia, the stallion's even older than I am." She goes into a coughing fit, holding the sheet up to her lips and when she settles down, she says, "General Jacob, come here." Jacob Stephens forward but not too close. "You too, Autumn Weir." I elbow Jacob out of the way do I can be in front. Just a little-sister habit, I guess.

"Children have been my life and work, teaching the little rascals, though thank the good Celestia, I never had to put up with any of my own. I have a gift for you. Lean in," she commands, and I do, holding my breath against the bacon smell. Ugh. "This is my gift: Don't be too picky about loving someone, understand?"

"Huh-uh," Jacob says, rearing back.

"You will, in the fullness of time." Her hoof slides under the pillow again, and she pulls out a floppy gold-colored lacy thing and about the size of a dinner plate. She thrusts it to my hooves. "Don't lose it, Autumn Weir."

"I won't, but what is it?" I turned it over and see that it's got a center indentation about three inches across. "Oh, is it a hat?"

"Clever child. A hat precisely. It belongs to Scarecrow."

"Whoever Scarecrow is, she must have a very small head and an even smaller brain."

Aunt Mystic wrinkles her brow; I can't believe it could be any more wrinkles that It already was. "Small head and no brain a'tall. Scarecrow is a doll."

I'm about to blurt something out, like, "Why in Equestria are you giving me a dollar's hat when there's no doll under it?" But Mom's look freezes the words on my tongue.

"Miss Scarecrow has many friends, Autumn Weir. You'll meet them. Celestia knows we all need friends in high places. Tuck that thought in your mind."

I just nod, but the thought in my mind is, I hope I never get this old and weird.

"And for General Jacob?" Once again she pulls a treasure out from under the pillow - a huge, fancy pipe. "Yours," she says, thrusting it into Jacob's hoof.

It rattles when he turns it over. He's got to be wondering what he's supposed to do with an old pipe. It's got a very long, curvy stem with a gold braid tassel hanging from it, and a deep porcelain barrel that's hinged.

"Twas Mr. Thornewood's pipe, a gift from the King of Sweden. Ceremonial, not for smoking. I do so love the scent of fresh bacon tobacco," she says dreamily. "Up until this pneumonia bout, I smoked a pipe myself, you know."

Just thinking of Aunt Mystic puffing away is hilarious, and I don't dare look at Jacob, who's got his hoof clasped over his mouth to keep from snorting out a laugh.

"Are you a chess player, General Jacob?" Asks Aunt Mystic.

"Yes, ma'am." Finally she's speaking his language.

"Good, fine. I never cottoned to the game, though Canto did his best to teach me. He's a grand master or some such rubbish. Now scat, all of you, or you're going to witness something you wish you hadn't."

Mom leans in to kiss our old aunt again. "Rest in peace," Mom says, tears filling her eyes.

"I expect," Aunt Mystic replies.