Story 1003: Hollow-Eyed Dolls

The dolls had no eyes. Just hollow sockets—dark as unmarked graves.

Deep within the rotting orphanage of Ashlock Glen, wind whispered through shattered windows. The building leaned like it wanted to fall, but something inside held it up. Kept it breathing. Kept it watching.

Esmé Dreadmoor crept through the vine-choked hallway, her twin-blade glinting in the pale moonlight. Behind her, Talia Grimm clutched her sketchbook tightly. She’d drawn this place before they arrived—down to the cracked door marked “Room 9.” She had never been here. Not in this life.

Inside the room sat the Dollmaker.

A figure stitched from shadows and silence, crouched at a workbench, sewing tiny limbs. Dolls lined the walls, perched on shelves and nailed to doors. Each wore the same expression—blank, staring, open-mouthed. And every one of them was watching.

The Dollmaker turned, face blank porcelain, lips cracked and smiling. “Guests. The Glen hasn’t had living visitors in such a long time.”