The boy didn't run.
He just stood there in the center aisle, arms trembling, the eyeless doll pressed tightly against his chest. Filthy clothes clung to his tiny frame, and his cheeks were smeared with grime so thick it cracked when he blinked. His mouth, bound shut with thick black thread, twitched as if trying to speak. But no sound escaped. Only breath.
And that breath… it smelled like blood.
I didn't move. Neither did he.
The puppet theatre held its breath with us. Every seat empty. Every shadow deeper than it should be. The dolls behind the curtain remained still—no longer twitching, but somehow more menacing now that I was aware they might be aware of me.
"Hey," I whispered, crouching slowly so I didn't spook him. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to talk."
He flinched at the word talk.
His eyes—wide, gray-blue, rimmed red from what looked like weeks without proper sleep—darted toward the stage. Toward the curtain. He shook his head slowly. His tiny fingers clutched the doll harder.
He made a gesture. A subtle tug of invisible thread.
A puppet's motion.
"Someone's controlling you?" I asked softly. "You can't speak?"
He nodded. Twice.
And then he pointed behind me.
I turned around slowly, heart hammering.
The dolls had shifted.
Three of them. They were in different positions than before. One had fallen to its knees. Another's head had tilted, facing the ceiling as if mid-scream. The third had something hanging from its mouth: a strip of torn red cloth.
No… not cloth.
A tongue.
I backed away instinctively, stumbling. When I looked again, the dolls were still.
"I need to leave," I said aloud, mostly to myself. "I need to get out and regroup."
The boy grabbed my arm before I could turn. Surprisingly strong. He shook his head violently, eyes brimming with urgency.
He pointed again—to the far side of the stage.
There, in the wall, I saw it:
A door. Half-hidden behind a rotting prop piano and layers of crumbling curtain.
"You want me to go in there?"
He nodded. His fingers formed a zip-across-the-mouth motion again.
Stay silent.
"Alright," I whispered. "But if something happens… you run."
His eyes said: I don't run anymore.
---
The door groaned open, revealing a narrow hallway lined with decayed posters.
"The Lament of the Silent Child."
"Debut Night: Marybeth Glass Presents Her Final Performance."
"SILENCE IS SACRED."
The phrase was repeated. Everywhere. Scribbled on the walls. Painted above doorways. Burned into the floor.
I crept forward. Dust shifted with every step. The air turned humid and thick, like I was walking into the belly of something that hadn't digested its last meal.
There were rooms here. Dressing rooms. Green rooms. Storage spaces. Each one darker than the last. Mirrors cracked. Furniture upturned. No signs of use, no signs of escape.
And then I found the back room.
It looked like a shrine.
Dozens—maybe hundreds—of dolls lined the walls on crude wooden shelves. But these weren't decorative. These were effigies. Each one handmade, stitched with names etched on tiny scraps of paper stuffed inside them.
The first doll I picked up had:
> ELOISE HART.
Born 1994. Missing since 2003.
Another:
> CALEB STONE.
Missing 1981. Never found.
A third:
> GRAYWICK GIRL – UNKNOWN.
I turned slowly.
A table sat at the center of the room. Surgical tools. Thread. Old scalpels, dulled and caked in rust. Dried blood smeared across the wood. And on the far end of the table—
A row of tongues preserved in formaldehyde jars.
I stumbled backward and nearly knocked over a cabinet. Inside were VHS tapes. Dozens. Each labeled with a name and a date. Some handwritten. Some with titles like "Rehearsal", "Debut", and "Encore."
One of them read:
> ROWAN VEX.
(Today's date.)
I dropped it. I hadn't even touched it. It had just been there.
How the hell did they know I was coming?
And then I heard the music.
Not beautiful music. Not background music. Children's music.
A slow, broken lullaby echoing from somewhere behind the walls:
> "She sings to the still, she stitches the tongue, She plays with the dolls when the silence is sung…"
The lights flickered. The dolls turned.
And I felt the strings.
---
It was subtle at first. Like a muscle twitch. My fingers jerked. My elbow bent involuntarily. I slapped my own arm and stumbled back.
Panic.
A thread. Thin, red, nearly invisible, was looped around my wrist.
Another wrapped my neck. I tried to scream but caught myself.
Because I remembered the boy's eyes.
Don't scream.
I tore at the threads. They didn't break. They sank into my skin, wriggling like parasites, like they'd been waiting for the vibration of voice to latch on.
I ran.
Back down the hallway. Past the whispers in the mirrors. Past the door that wasn't there when I entered. My lungs burned. Threads still tugged at my legs, but I reached the stage again.
The boy was gone.
The theatre was full.
Every seat now held a person.
But they weren't alive.
Bodies. Propped up. Rotted. Mouths open, tongues missing. Hands stitched to the armrests like they were watching a show that had never ended.
And on the stage:
A doll. As tall as a woman. Porcelain face cracked, eyes glossy with black oil. Dressed in red tulle.
Her lips moved.
> "Welcome back to Graywick."
I didn't scream.
But I wanted to.