Dolls, Dolls, Dolls

Well, this is just peachy, Monkey thought, stranded solo on the second floor like a Hufflepuff lost in the Forbidden Forest. He crouched in a shadowy nook, eyes darting, ears pricked—staking out the staircase like it was the only escape from a troll's den. No matter which way that chain-dragging psycho came, he'd bolt faster than a Firebolt on a Quidditch pitch.

The lights dimmed further, flickering like dying candles in a Hogwarts dungeon, while that creepy Black Friday tune slithered through the air—plucking at his nerves like Peeves strumming a cursed lute. Focus, Monkey! He pinched his arm—sharp pain jolting him awake—then sucked in a deep breath. Med school had taught him the tricks: pain and oxygen, the dynamic duo to tame a racing heart.

Rewinding the chaos in his head, he frowned. That monster's timing—way too slick. It barged in right after Lao Zhao's "eighth person" bombshell—coincidence? Yeah, right. Everyone freaked when Fatty dropped that line. Mistake numero uno: if Brother Feng had scanned us with his phone instead of panicking, we'd have sniffed out the extra creep. Then, when that blood-soaked nutcase charged, we scattered like first-years from a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Mistake two: if we'd held our ground, we'd be sipping butterbeer by now, not playing hide-and-seek with a hammer-wielding lunatic.

He sighed, a wry twist to his lips. Sure, the monster was freaky—chains clanking, blood dripping—but it shouldn't have shattered us like that. It all started with that first runner. One guy bolts, and boom—our brains turn to mush, dominoes toppling. Bet that coward was the eighth. Xiao Hui's scream still echoed in his ears—she'd been second to run, tailing the mystery man. Theory's holding water.

Monkey chuckled, bitter as a potions mishap. Guessing the plot didn't mean he wasn't scared spitless. Alone in this haunted maze, chills crept up his spine like spider legs. The monster and that eighth jerk—they're in cahoots, messing with our heads. Split us up, pick us off—classic villain playbook. Does this Boss guy have to flex such nasty mind games just to spook us?

Brilliant as he was—top marks in anatomy—Monkey's courage rivaled He San's: zilch. Morgue trips? Only with a buddy, or he'd be a gibbering wreck. Gotta warn Brother Feng—fast. He yanked out his phone, hands shaky, but froze. The screen's gleam reflected… what the—? That eyeless ragdoll—on the stairs? I ditched that thing on the third floor!

No flashlight—he'd learned from Brother Feng's blunder. That monster sniffed out light like a niffler sniffing gold. Tilting the screen to the wall, he squinted. There it sprawled—tattered, charred, a grim little sentinel. Someone kicked it down in the panic, right? It was just paper-stuffed—no gears, no remote tricks. Still, its limp sprawl gave him the heebie-jeebies.

Nothing screamed "boo" about it—worn fabric, no frills—but staring at it, Monkey's gut twisted. Is it… alive? Ridiculous, yet he swore he glimpsed a girl's pleading eyes in its blank face—a ghostly flicker, gone in a blink. I'm losing it. "Gotta bounce before this place steals my last marble," he muttered, dialing Brother Feng. A ringtone trilled—from the third floor.

He's still up there? Or did he ditch his phone like Lao Zhao? The sound—cheery yet sinister—amped the creep factor, like a jinxed music box in a Slytherin dorm. Pocketing his phone without hanging up, Monkey crept up the stairs, heart pounding like a Beater's bat. From the landing, he peered down the corridor—Brother Feng's phone glowed, abandoned, buzzing on the blackened floor like a lost lumos.

Brother Feng and Lao Zhao both ditched their phones—great, just great. Monkey stood alone on the third-floor landing, knees wobbling like a first-year facing a boggart. The corridor stretched before him, a shadowy gauntlet—doors creaking open and slamming shut on either side, nudged by an unseen draft. It was like the Room of Requirement had gone rogue, taunting him with every groan.

He fumbled with his phone, scrolling through contacts like a frantic Ravenclaw flipping through Hogwarts: A History for an escape spell. Gotta call someone—anyone! Then—bzzzzt!—his phone jolted, ringing loud enough to wake a troll. "Shi Ling?" he yelped, heart lurching. Why's she calling? Lost too?

Like any self-respecting guy facing a damsel's plea, Monkey puffed up his chest. "Shi Ling! You split from the pack? Where you at? Your hero's coming to the rescue!"

"I'm stuck—third floor, some room! Didn't catch the number—please, hurry! This place is wrong!" Her voice, usually soft as a Hufflepuff's whisper, cracked with panic—tears lurking beneath. Something had rattled her bad.

"Slow down—trapped? These rooms don't even have locks!" Monkey strode down the corridor, ears straining to pinpoint her through the call—like tracking a whimpering mandrake.

"I don't know! Hid in here, and now it won't budge! And—get this—two dolls are just sitting in the middle, side by side!"

"Sitting?!" The word hit like a hex—dolls again! Monkey's skin crawled, memories of that eyeless creep on the stairs flashing back. If I never see another doll, I'll die happy.

"Please, get me out!" Shi Ling's plea spiked shrill, sanity fraying like a torn invisibility cloak.

"Hold tight—I'm coming! Stay clear of those dolls, like He San warned—don't touch a thing! I think they're—" He froze mid-sentence, boots skidding. Half a meter ahead, sprawled across the floor, lay another ragdoll—long-haired, guilt-ridden eyes staring up. Different from the stair creep—older, sadder. His breath hitched. Wait, what? Guilt? How am I reading a doll's face like it's a bloody diary? Fear—or genius craftsmanship? Either way, it felt alive—too human, too real.

No time for doll therapy, Monkey—Shi Ling's the quest! "It's not the stair one," he muttered, steeling himself. "They're not chasing me—just props. Boss's mind games, nothing more." He shook his head like a dog shedding water, rallying his nerve. If that stair doll was stalking me, it'd be behind me, not ahead—right?

To prove it, he spun around, phone clutched like a wand. "See? Nothing—"