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Archive: Toys In The Attic


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Some toys you simply outgrow...but other toys...they might not be done playing with YOU. An aura of forgotten childhood and other, more curious, characteristics. This haunting unisex fragrance evokes the dusty atmosphere of an attic shut away for years untold. What will you encounter? A heart of Egyptian and white musk visited by the resinous specters of frankincense and myrrh, amber and sandalwood, further underscored by a dusty wood accord, black walnut, cassia EO and a whisper of dry vanilla, with a shadowy presence of black currant.

SANDALWOOD ~ Love, exotic, sensual atmospheric; aphrodisiac. Healing, spirituality, exorcism.
MUSK ~ Self confidence and strength, sexual attractant, heightens passions and arousal.
VANILLA ~ Aphrodisiac, inspires happiness, playfulness, sexual arousal, lust, vitalizing.
FRANKINCENSE ~ Purification, consecration, protection, exorcism. Associated with silver and the moon.
MYRRH ~ Stimulating, soothing. Powerful guard against evil.
AMBER ~ Fertility, creativity, love, luck, riches.
CURRANT ~ Aids success in love affairs, and a magical representation of blood.
CINNAMON ~ Sexual stimulation, passion, lust, healing, protection, energy, creativity, psychic powers.
WALNUT ~ Wishes granted, strengthens the heart, enhancement of mental powers. Dark earthly powers.


Created by: Mara Fox

Description: Julie (luna65)

Label art: constructed by Mara 

Autumn-Winter collection, September 2019


Review Thread



My girlfriend, she goes wild for vintage and antique and all that stuff.  Like the house her family had inhabited for generations. She inherited it from her grandparents and was all too happy to take possession of it immediately.


What she thought was fascinating I thought was...decrepit.


Not that it was falling down or anything but the weight of everything in it, it felt like a presence.  Like the things owned the house, not us.  I felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of possessions.  And so we just fitted ourselves into the house along with everything else, it was so weird.  I had the sense of feeling like I really didn’t live there, I was just staying there for some reason.  I’d wake up in the middle of the night, totally disoriented. Where am I, again?


Worse yet, I’d begun to have dreams about the house, but I didn’t recognize anyone in those dreams.


I’d find myself, sitting among all the china and silver at dinner, or in the parlour with the antimacassars and doilies, lots of heavy carved furniture, dust and time...it felt like time-traveling every time I walked through the door.  But I did it for love.  


Even though I felt like she was forgetting about me.  Forgetting I lived here too.


One day we finally found the key to the hallway which led up to the attic.  I wasn’t as creeped out by the attic, or at least so I thought. The basement was dark and vast and who the hell knew what all was down there - so much stuff.  We rummaged through it and she found a coffeecan full of keys on one of the shelves. Eventually one of those keys fit into the lock of a door on the third floor which revealed a very steep and narrow set of wooden stairs.


“Ah ha!” she cried, triumphant.  “Grandma Tansy’s dolls are up there!”


Antique toys, sure, they could be worth a lot of money on the collector’s market.  I gamely put on some ratty jeans and an old t-shirt, a dust mask, and followed her up those stairs to the very top of the house.


Where there was no dust at all.


These kids, in every generation they were spoiled with absolutely beautiful toys: wooden blocks and rocking horses, detailed metal cars and aeroplanes, stuffed bears and velveteen rabbits, and the dolls...so many dolls they could have inhabited their very own neighborhood.


Their glass eyes dispassionate and just the faintest of smiles upon painted porcelain lips.


But she was looking for the doll in her grandmother’s image.  She showed me a photo of the two of them: Tansy and Little Tansy, dated 1910.  They had identical expressions. I think old photos are fascinating but also chilling, the people in them long-dead, consigned to a past which is difficult to imagine even as the record of it is available to view.


But Tansy seemed to look beyond the Daguerreotype to us, now, viewing her severe form, with her dark hair piled high, in starched white linen and lace.  It was eerie, like she was telling us I see you.  And I don’t think she approved at all.  My girl, she was enthralled with all the photos, looking through them night after night, maybe trying to imagine what life was like in this house, all those years ago.


The dolls knew, of course, but would be unlikely to say.


An old house creaks and groans and sighs but some nights there are other sounds.


Up in the attic.


She can’t hear them, I know, or she’s just not listening.  In bed, every night, she’s looking through photos, so many photos.  Of people we will never know but she feels she does, somehow, allowed these posed glimpses in stark black-and-white.


Grandma Tansy is watching us with many eyes from many moments.  We’re sleeping in what was once her bedroom.


She’s in my dreams and she always asks Who are you?


I’ve tried asking what I believe are reasonable questions.


Like, “Why was there no dust in the attic?”


And, “Are we ever going to redecorate and make this place ours?”


Because it’s not.  I am reminded of that in every moment.


She’s disappointed that she couldn’t find Little Tansy, but I did find her, or maybe she found me.  Down in the basement, peeking out from behind a pile of broken toys in a wooden crate. I saw those glittering avid glass eyes and swallowed hard, my breath released in a gasp of recognition.  But she didn’t see, didn’t hear the click of those eyes opening as we looked around at all the junk down there.  The weight of the house above us, a palpable pressure.


I don’t want to tell her.  And I feel like I won’t have to.  One night I’m going to wake up and she’ll be there at the foot of the bed, watching us sleep.


And of all those keys, wouldn’t you know we can’t find one for the basement door?

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