“You’re at a haunted fair. Get used to the creepiness,” I retort. When they just stare at me, seemingly at a loss for words, I give them a wide toothy smile and continue walking. They’ll probably stay away from the dollhouse now, but that’s okay. My dollhouse is meant to trap the bad people in the world.
I prance off, getting sucked into the crowd. I feel their lingering, nasty glares and it hurts my feelings. I freeze again, mid-step, remembering my cotton candy is stuck in the mud. Tears spring to my eyes and I frown deeply. I really liked that cotton candy. It was a pretty pink color, just like my pretty pink knife and pretty pink dollhouse.
I’m not happy. I’m not happy at all.
Stomping through the crowd, I no longer care to be polite. The daisy and poppy girls ruined my whole day. They really, really hurt my feelings. Anger begins to curdle in my stomach, replacing the hurt with rage.
“This is why you don’t have friends, Sibel. You’re a freak and everyone can see it. God has seen the illness in your brain and made sure everyone else can see it, too.”
Fuck what God thinks. I had said it then, too, and Daddy forced my hand on a hot stove for it. The scar from that isn’t physical, but I feel it in my sick brain.
The potent fury rises, building in my chest and climbing to my throat. My hand trembles with the need to curl a knife in my fist and plunge it deep into someone’s throat. I long to hear the gurgling as they choke on their blood. Their dull eyes, wide with fear. I can almost see their lives flashing in their dilated irises.
I ache for it.
Curling my fist tight to abate the shaking, I focus on the smell.
My fiery eyes search the crowd, the rotten odor growing stronger as I plunge through people. One girl pushes me after I shove past her. I stumble, righting myself just before my face plants into the ground.
I’m so angry, and it’s starting to make people notice me. I don’t want Management to catch wind of the angry doll pushing people around. It’s just… I just wanted this to be a good day!
Huffing and storming off before I do something silly like kill someone in cold blood, I rush back towards my dollhouse. My anger is overwhelming me, and I can no longer concentrate.
Killing someone without a good reason would be a sin. Most people don’t have the guts to do what I do, serve this world the way I do. But to kill an innocent person? I don’t even want to consider it.
I storm back into the house. Dusk is approaching, which means staff will start trickling in my dollhouse, preparing for when the doors open. I need to hide. I turn towards the small door hidden in the corner of the room, hidden behind a life-sized doll. With the house being cast in darkness and flickering lights, no one has noticed it thus far. I make sure to cut out the doors in the walls in precise locations, as to not draw the eye.
Quickly climbing in, I shut the door gently behind me. It’s eerie inside the walls, but I’ve grown accustomed to them. Haunted houses aren’t built like normal housing. They’re not meant to sustain life, and long ago, I discovered that they create large gaps in between the walls when building them. They do this on purpose so they can hide the wiring and mechanisms but make it accessible if something breaks. In all my time here, I’ve only had one electrician come in my space to fix a power outage in one of the rooms.
When I pick a new haunted house, I puncture holes in the walls to access my own tunnel system, and then carefully place peepholes in every room and hallway for when it’s time to cast my judgement. In the end, this is where I end up spending the majority of my time during operating hours.
I don’t mind the seclusion. It gives me time to myself, to relax and focus on all the ways I’m going to fuck my henchmen in the demon’s blood that dare enter my house.
I slide my pretty knife out of my white nightgown, just to bring me some type of peace in the midst of the raging storm in my head. My dresses are gaudy and frilly, but I love dressing up in them. Plenty of doll costumes are provided to the staff, all I need to do is take what I want and leave the rest for them to pick through.
Wooden beams cut through my pathway. There are dim LED strips that line the bottom of the walls, lighting the path for any electricians who need to walk through here. It provides the perfect amount of lighting without being bright enough to cast any of my shadows through the cracks in the walls.
In every nook and cranny in the tunnels, spiders spin their webs. I wouldn’t dare swipe them down. I love spiders. I love what they stand for. Predators—no matter who or what you are. They’re viewed as dangerous and something to be feared.
I’d want to be a spider. I’d love for my house to symbolize them one year so I can dress up as a spider queen and sink my teeth into a sinner’s throat. My anger abates as I fantasize, and the juncture between my thighs grows slick.
I quietly make way through the hallways, climbing up the stairs they put inside the walls. The haunted house will be opening within the hour. Already I can hear other employees showing up, most already adorned in their full costumes, giggling about all the things they’re going to do to scare people.
In the walls, I hear all kinds of conversations I’m not supposed to be privy to. Most of the time, I don’t bother listening. I’m not concerned with
