The Dream

Step. Step. Footsteps echoed through the vast dark expanse, bouncing off unseen floors and unseen walls—wrought, it seemed, from old wood and deeper shadow.

Lucien walked on, unhurried. He reached a raven-hued door and opened it with a soft creak.

Inside: a room, faintly lit by a lantern suspended from the ceiling, its flame flickering with a life of its own. To his side stood an ornate wooden desk, a parchment resting face-down and a grimore was upon it. An empty ink bottle lay tipped beside it, its contents long dried.

Ahead, a bed—neatly made—stood beside a small table. To the far right, a cupboard door yawned slightly open, revealing nothing but a silent void within.

Light streamed through stained glass set into the walls, its fractured hues spilling across the floor in soft, kaleidoscopic fragments. The orange glow of the lantern flickered faintly against the colored panes, throwing shifting patterns.

The figure took a step toward the desk—but with every step, direction itself began to blur. He veered, unbidden, toward the raven-hued door once more… …and walked out.

He gazed at his back. Behind him, in the far distance, stood a door. He tried to approach it.

Step. Step. His footsteps echoed around the dark hallway.

But halfway there—he paused.

His path veered again, like a thread pulled off course. He turned away from the door, drifting forward instead.

He moved toward another door, this one to his left. He turned the knob.

The room beyond glowed faintly under another dying lantern. Its orange star wavered above, swaying gently as though the air itself breathed.

Copper pans hung in orderly rows across the walls, catching and scattering the fragmented stained-glass light with each slow sway. The reflections danced across their dull, soot-streaked bellies.

The figure stood in the doorway for a moment—watching.

Then slowly, he closed the door… and continued on.

He continued walking straight .

At the end of the hall stood a door, perfectly centered, its shape tall and solemn in the dark.

As Lucien approached, his steps faltered—not from hesitation, but from something deeper. Instinct. Echoes of forgotten choices. Still, he corrected his stride and reached for the handle.

The knob turned without resistance.

Another sanctum.

Like the rooms before, it was lit only by a single lantern suspended above. Its orange halo strained against the obsidian veil, barely illuminating the space.

Paintings hung along the walls, though their subjects were veiled in shadow—smudged silhouettes staring from gilt frames. Vases of dried lavender stood in precise formation along the edges of the room, exuding a scent both sweet and sorrowful.

The furniture was sparse but dignified. At the heart of the chamber stood a round black table, its lacquered surface catching faint glimmers from the lantern. Chairs with carved legs surrounded it, each aligned with meticulous care, their wood matching the deep grain of the table.

Unlike the stained-glass in previous rooms, the far wall held a clear windowpane—a sharp contrast. Through it, silver light from outside poured in, pooling on the floor like moonmilk. It spilled across an enormous woven mat, its pattern faded but familiar—almost familial.

To the right, another door waited. The figure turned to approach it.

A low grumble echoed from deep within the hallway behind him.

He heard it again. That low, crawling sound—like breath dragged across broken glass.

The figure turned back toward the door he'd almost forgotten, his steps hesitant now, less a choice and more a compulsion. He neared it, hand outstretched—when something shifted in the corner of his vision.

From the shadows just beside the doorway… a face began to tilt into view.

It moved slowly. Too slowly. As if the neck had never learned the motion properly.

It was a human face—but only barely. The skin was pale and waxen, stretched too tight. The eyes were glassy and too wide, lips parting into a smile far too slow and too wide, revealing nothing but a dark, endless cavity.

Lucien froze. His breath caught.

Then the figure began to move. Its body was misshapen—its joints wrong. It dragged itself forward, each movement slightly delayed from intention, as if it operated on an unseen marionette's strings. From its crooked scalp spilled a mess of red hair, tangled and wild like a doll left too long in the rain.

Lucien turned and ran.

He yanked the door. It didn't budge.

Behind him—scrape. The sound of nails—or worse—against wood.

He pulled again, and again—until suddenly—

Click.

The door gave way and he stumbled through, tumbling outside.

He landed on cracked stone. The air was cold. Damp.

He rolled to his feet and bolted down the stoop, barely catching sight of the two black cloths fluttering eerily at either side of the walkway—strung between wooden poles, as though freshly hung but absent of any wind.

He ran onto the cobblestone road. His boots splashed into shallow puddles as he kept running, breath hitching, heart pounding—

Around him were empty stalls and shops.

Then suddenly, the cobblestone beneath him twisted. He jerked, almost falling, before it stopped.

He gazed forward.

Before him stood a storefront with cracked frosted windows, warped by age and streaked with fingerprints. Above the door, faded gold letters read:

Dollmaker of Ashwell Street — wigs, eyes, and little dress-ups

It was too quiet here. Too still.

In the display behind the glass sat rows of dolls—their heads tilted slightly to the side. Too lifelike.

Each wore little dresses—hand-stitched velvet and lace—and wigs of glimmering hair. One had red hair.

Another held a tray of eyeballs—perfectly crafted spheres of green, brown, and violet. A tag beneath read: Custom orders welcome.

The wind didn't blow.

A slow creaking sound could be heard from behind the glass. Then suddenly, one of the doll's fingers twitched,the dolls hair a mess of red . Once. Twice. Before suddenly adjusting the body in a sickening crunch and standing up.

Lucien stumbled back—only to find the world had changed.

The cobblestones were gone. The air thicker.

The sky, if it still existed, was veiled behind panes of warped glass and mildewed curtains that swayed though no wind passed through.

He was inside.

The shop's threshold had swallowed him whole.

It smelled of old wood, old time, old breath that had lingered too long.

The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips, revealing faded floral patterns like bruises beneath skin.

Dust floated in the lantern-lit gloom like ash from forgotten fires, swirling slowly in the stale air.

Moonlight filtered through the high, fractured windows, staining the floorboards a faint ivory-blue.

It fell across the ground in scattered shafts—illuminating them.

The dolls.

There were hundreds.

Some small—scattered, broken, slumped against walls like abandoned children.

Others tall, as tall as Lucien himself—life-sized, posed and strung up by silver threads that disappeared into the darkness above.

Their limbs were jointed like marionettes, their heads slightly tilted in that way too lifelike to be innocent.

Some wore cracked porcelain masks—others had none, revealing half-formed faces beneath, like expressions caught mid-carving.

They twitched.

Slowly.

In unison.

Their heads jerked upward—first one, then two, then all—following him.

Their strings creaked softly like teeth grinding bone.

The air was tense, pregnant with a silence that begged to be broken.

And then it was.

A single porcelain foot dragged across the floor, scraping with a sound that pierced Lucien's spine.

He turned to the shop's glass display window.

The doll with red hair—the one he'd seen before—was still there.

Still smiling.

But now… only its head had moved.

Its body remained frozen, stiff and forward-facing, but the head—dear God, the head—had twisted all the way around, its hair cascading like unraveling ribbon.

The mouth opened wider, deeper, revealing rows of white, human-like teeth, but too many.

Lucien's legs screamed to move.

He ran—

Only to stop dead.

The red-haired doll was standing in front of him.

Not walking.

Not appearing.

Inserted.

Like the world had simply placed it there, like a prop repositioned in a play he didn't audition for.

More movement.

All around him, the life-sized dolls turned their heads in brittle, stuttering crunches.

One extended an arm, slowly. Another blinked—no, not blinked. The eyelids slid up and down like sliding doors.

Lucien turned to flee again—

But his feet no longer obeyed.

They hovered. Weightless.

He looked down.

Strings.

Thin silver threads wound around his boots, tightening, winding up his calves like ivy.

He tried to scream—but his jaw cracked. His skin paled, hardened.

Porcelain.

His arms locked into place. His knees would no longer bend.

His soul, too, felt light.

Detached.

Like something was reeling him in—not by muscle, not by bone, but by essence.

Above, he saw no ceiling only a deep darkness.

And it descended.

A figure—a silhouette in layered black robes, face obscured by a lattice of thread and waxen veils.

Its arms were long, fingers bent wrong. In one its hands it held grimoire,in the other it held stringsiIts hands never resting, forever weaving, forever twitching, the cover of the grimore was etched with sigils unknown .

Not a creature. Not a person.

A puppeteer.

Strings led from it fingers to every doll. Every movement it made, they mimicked.

All but one.

The red-haired doll remained unbound. Unstrung.

And then Lucien saw—threads were creeping toward it, slow and silken, reaching like roots of some parasitic god.

And the red-haired doll... smiled.

Its eyes turned to him.

Lucien looked down. The threads were on his chest too now, pulling—changing.

His bones hollowed. His skin cracked. The world lost its weight.

The red-haired doll began to rise, slowly, limbs bending, tilting in unnatural rhythm—

It reached for him.

And all around, the dolls descended.

Lucien couldn't even scream as they fell on him, collapsing like a wave of limbs and hollow laughter.

He felt hands—fabric, wood, porcelain—grabbing him, pressing against him, pinning him down, all smiling.

And through the spaces between their limbs—

He saw it.

Red hair.

Peeking over the crowd.

And that grin.

That same impossible, forever-curved smile.

Watching him sink.

Watching him become just another doll.