Page 11 of Dollface

“She’s bat shit crazy is what she is.” I let out a giggle, which seems to startle him. “What?” I giggle lightly again as he stares at me in bewilderment.

“What are you doing?” His entire body is tense and on edge.

“Laughing?” I say slowly as he shakes his head.

“Well... stop. I don't like it. It makes me uncomfortable.” He shudders at the idea.

“Laughing makes you uncomfortable? Well, geez, I bet the kids just love yo— oh... Right.”Good one, Blue. I can’t see his glare, but I can feel it burning the side of my face. I bite my lip nervously before continuing with my non-stop questioning. “You hate her? The Creator?” I already know the answer; no oneloves or even likes the creator, but none of us are brave enough to outright admit our hatred for her.

He laughs. “Of course. I wish her the slowest of deaths.” I gasp at his words while stepping back, almost tripping myself.

“What if she hears you?” I hiss, looking around the tree line, waiting to feel her sudden presence as I slightly hunch over in fear.

“She knows better than to come here,” he snarks. “She comes here, and she’s... well... ” His voice trails off as a devious smirk forms on his mask. “She won't, as she’s just like me.”

“Like you?” I ask, mesmerized by his bold statement.

“Oh, dollface, did you really think she started making her creatures as you are now? Button eyed dolls with dull skin and no use?” I flinch at the cruelty in his words. “No, she’s learned, honed her skill and craft over the centuries, almost perfecting it. See, I was her first creation, made in her image.”

“In her image? You mean... You’ve seen her?” I’m in shock. No one in Dreadmoor has seen her true form, only the façade in which she presents herself. She’s a shadow, an evil force so powerful, she needs no shape.

“No more questions,” he warns as he starts walking.

“But I just?—”

“Dollface,” he taunts slowly, and I’m reminded of my dream, causing me to subconsciously squeeze my thighs together. “That is enough,” he replies slowly.

“Fine,” I reply. “But, just one last question and I’ll go.” To my surprise, he sighs, stopping as he stands in front of me, crossing his arms, waiting. “Do you really not have a name?” It’s a sad thought, really, being unnamed. Even though my name is odd and picked in a moment of haste with no care, it’s mine. Everyone deserves to have a name.

“You think I’m just hiding my name from you for fun?” He snickers, apparently amused. I’ll take amusement over annoyance or the anger he’s shown.

“Well, no. I just feel weird not having a name to refer to you by. What does Havoc call you?” I ask softly.

“Boss man. Bug, which I have no idea why. Or Sir.” He looks me up and down. “Do you want to call me Sir, dollface?” His voice is low and husky as he speaks and I feel my knees knock together as I swallow hard.

“N-no. I want to call you by your name,” I huff out, uncomfortable with what my treacherous body is doing to me. I don’t even know what he looks like! It’s completely unfair that he has this ability to instantly pull me. Is that a power our creator gave to him? Persuasion? Illusion? These are all things she’s known for in my world. Here in Nightmare, is this his sandbox? Does he control what I see? How I feel? He must be doing something to have this kind of power over me. He’s the Boogeyman, after all. Or at least, that’s what everyone else called him.

“So pick one.” His voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I notice him looking over me again.Why does he keep doing that?

“You want me to name you?” I nearly laugh at the asinine suggestion. I don’t even know him. How could I possibly name him?

“I wouldn’t say you’re naming me. I’m not your child or pet. But you’re your own being; you can decide what you would like to call me.”

“And what? You’re just going to answer to it?” He shrugs, leaning his back against the trunk of the tree.

“Guess that’ll depend on if I like it or not.”

I stand, watching as he fumbles with his mask, obviously uncomfortable beneath it. Havoc continues to sing and twirl off in the distance, completely unaware of our presence.

“Why don’t you just take it off?” I ask.

“What?” He freezes, gripping the hem of the mask.

“The mask,” I gesture to the fabric with my finger. “Why don’t you just take it off? It’s obviously bothering you. It can’t be easy to breathe under there.” I step toward him, my hand reaching out for it. “Take it off,”

“What the hell—” He shouts, grabbing my wrist as my fingers brush the thick brim. I gasp, frightened and slightly excited by his grip. The burlap gloves are rough but warm, causing my skin to prickle in response.

“Why won’t you take it off?” I ask in a shy, whispered voice. He yanks my arm down as my body lunges into his, tripping on my platforms. I fall forward, slamming into him. He tilts his head, his breathing loud and heavy as I feel something push against my hip. My hand moves, accidentally touching it as my body reacts, pushing away as I step back. “I-I should go,” I stammer out, quickly rushing away, flustered and overcome by the heavy energy that hangs in the air.

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