I ran.
There was no heroism in it—no cinematic final stand. I turned and ran because something with my voice had promised to take my scream, and every instinct I had screamed go. I clawed at the smooth wall behind me, found no door, no break. But when I blinked—just once—
The hallway was back.
The phonograph continued its crackling sermon behind me as I fled, its words slurring into static like a broken lullaby.
> "You came here to remember… now you'll remember silence…"
I didn't look back.
The hallway twisted, longer than before. The portraits along the walls now had mouths sewn shut. Not painted shut—stitched, with real thread, bleeding from canvas. Every frame exhaled a soft whisper as I passed, like sighs from locked coffins.
And the voice—my voice, still echoing—wasn't fading.
It was following me.
---
When I finally burst into the main floor of the library, light hit me like salvation. I collapsed onto the dusty rug, coughing and shaking. I could feel it—something still in my throat, like words that didn't belong to me were trying to form.
I spat. Red flecks. No blood. Not mine.
> "You're late to rehearsal."
The voice was above me.
I looked up.
The boy. The same one from the theatre. Standing at the top of the staircase.
His lips still sewn.
But I'd heard him. Clear as a bell.
My mouth went dry. "How…?"
He pointed to his doll. The eyeless one. Its mouth was open now. And inside its stitched grin… a tongue. Wet. Pink. Pulsing.
Not a doll's part.
A real one.
It moved as he thought. And I heard him speak—not from his body, but from it.
> "You're too loud. They'll come."
I staggered to my feet, eyes burning. "Who are you?"
> "A boy who forgot his name. Like the rest."
He descended slowly. The floorboards didn't creak. The library didn't breathe.
> "They take your name first. Then your voice. Then your face. If you scream, they make a doll."
My mind reeled. "What do they want?"
The boy paused. Looked behind me.
> "Not what. Who."
I turned slowly. Every nerve on fire.
There, in the reading corner of the library—where just moments ago sat dust and empty shelves—was a new display.
A stage.
Curtains drawn. A single spotlight. And in it:
Me.
No, not me. A doll. In my clothes. With my face. It stood motionless at center stage, head cocked at an unnatural angle, jaw slack.
And when the spotlight clicked brighter, its lips moved.
> "I told you… I'll take your scream."
---
I backed away. The boy pulled my sleeve.
> "You can't let her finish the act. If she says your name three times, it becomes hers."
"She?" I whispered. "Who is she?"
The boy's eyes darkened.
> "Marybeth Glass. The woman who died with her scream. The puppeteer of silence."
The name struck like a hammer to my chest.
Marybeth Glass.
It was in the paintings. On the shrine in the theatre. On the last poster in the hallway.
She hadn't died. Not really.
She'd become something else.
A collector of names. A seamstress of screams. A puppetmaster of the forgotten.
And now she had mine.
---
The stage flickered. The doll moved again, its head turning toward me with mechanical cracks.
> "Ro…"
I stepped back.
> "Row…"
"Stop it," I hissed. "Stop saying my name."
The doll's eyes widened. Its mouth split unnaturally wide.
> "ROWAN."
The third call.
The lights in the library exploded.
And I felt something tear inside me.
Not my skin.
Not my mind.
My voice.
I opened my mouth to scream, and nothing came out.
Not a sound.
Not a whisper.
The doll grinned.
And somewhere deep in the building, I heard an audience clapping.