Page 5 of Dollface

“Who the fuck are you?” A muffled bark causes me to jump and nearly wet myself as I’m ripped from my thoughts.So it is a person, or a male at least. I struggle to answer, to find my words and make my mouth work. This seems to irritate him, because, deciding my time to respond is up, he reaches his burlap-covered hand out, roughly grabbing me by the neck, pinning me to a nearby tree, his free hand piercing the dead bark, his knife inches from my face. “Answer m—” He stops, his entire demeanor and voice changing from aggressive to something less as his hold remains the same around my throat. “Holy shit.” I hear his breath hitch, my fingers clawing at his wrist as I desperately try to free myself and get a look at him, any part of him through the holes of his mask. “Your eyes,” he marvels, his free hand moving to my face. I feel the rough texture of the glove covering his hand as it glides sweetly across my cheek, causing me to shiver. “You’re fromthere.Dreadmoor.” He pauses for a moment before whispering in an odd tone, “You’re one ofhers.”

I nod softly, trembling with fear and anxiety as I finally muster my words. “I am.” I stare into the two black abysses of his mask, straining to catch even a glimpse of him. “W-who are y-you? How d-do you know about Dreadmoor? Of the Creator?” The energy in him shifts at my words as he releases my neck. My body falls to the ground while he slowly backs away, shaking his head.

“Wait,” I call out to his retreating figure while wobbling to my feet, my body sore and tired from the attack. “W-where are you going?” He continues to ignore me. “Wait. Please! Don’t leave me here alone! What if that thing comes back?” I desperately cry out, anxiety ripping through my nerves as a distant shriek echoes in the night.What if that skeleton man comes back? Or something worse?I can’t do this. I can’t be left alone again. “Please!” I scream at him.

He stops and turns back to look at me, the burrowing eye holes staring into my soul. Hope blooms in my chest as I think he’s going to change his mind and stay here with me. Instead, I hear an odd, high-pitched humming from behind. I turn and look to see his bloody blade still embedded in the tree trunk. The knife sways, vibrating through the dead tree, trying to break free. Reaching for the handle, I still its movement with my hand, wrapping my fingers around the leather as I grunt, yanking it free. I turn, looking back to speak and return his knife, but as I stare ahead to where he was standing, I find... no one.

He left me.

Brushing myself off, I squeeze his knife in my hand, angry and frustrated that he left me out here alone and defenseless.Well, not entirely defenseless.With the blade securely in my hand, I waste no time marching my way back to the safety of my home, my steps quiet yet quick. My body remains on edge the entire time back as I feel as though something or someone is watching me.It’s just my imagination,I repeat to myself over and over.It must be. I’m full of anxiety from the attack, and every noise makes me jumpy right now.It’s just my nerves. Everything is fine. I’m fine.

Once inside my deliciously macabre home, I slam the door shut, locking it the best I can before running straight up the stairs to my room. As I close the door and lean against the chipped back, a wave of instant relief hits me upon seeing Mr. Whiskers sitting perfectly atop my journal, nestled along the layers of furs. I found the old leather notebook yesterday in one of the other rooms while exploring, the discovery truly a gift as I always wanted the chance to write my little poems and feelings down. And now, given a way to do that here, it was a very emotional moment for me. I feel more at home and at peace in Nightmare than I ever did in Dreadmoor. Add in today’s unlucky experiences, and I’m an emotional wreck.

“Mr. Whiskers,” I cry, flopping onto the bed, placing my floppy little friend on my stomach, running my fingers over his patchy fur. “It was terrible out there. This creepy skeleton-like man attacked me, him and his ghostly friend, and I think—” My words trail off as I stop as I realize what I was about to confess. “I think I met the Boogeyman. There were these two men, or creatures, who attacked me. I think he was one of them, and the other must've been his minion.” I shiver at the thought of their hands on my body, moving along my skin. Being locked away, I’ve never been intimate, not even a kiss, and to know that was almost stolen from me...

Stop thinking about it, Blue. You’re home. You’re safe.

Blinking away the anxiety and heartache lingering in my mind, I continue to talk to Mr. Whiskers about my encounter. He’s always such a great listener; never once has there been judgment, I’ll admit, I’ve revealed some things to him that would cause even me to think twice, but he just listens and lets me speak my mind. I know how this appears on the outside: a sheltered woman giving life and a personality to a clearly dead thing, but everyone has an imaginary friend at some point in their life. I once remember finding a small child in Dreadmoor. I could hear her talking and talking for hours, never missing a beat. My curiosity overtook one night as I snuck out of my own prison to observe her. We creations weren't allowed to interact with the others, but I needed to know who she was always telling her stories to and rambling on with, but as I peeked through the crack of her weathered door, I found no one there with the girl. She was alone, speaking to the darkness across from her and her single flickering candle. I continued to observe her for days, realizing she was interacting with her imaginary friend—at least that’s what my Creator called it. However, the night that poor girl met her unfortunate fate, I’ll never forget a tiny mirror in her little prison fell and shattered, and for some reason, I alwaysthought that was her friend. Afterall, we’re all simply vessels for energy, right? Who’s to say that you can’t be so lonely, so desperate for companionship that you could transfer some of your energy, creating the illusion of a “friend”?

“There was this other man. He wore this heavy mask,” I whisper while looking up to the ceiling, my heartbeat quickening. “I know nothing about him, but he knows me. Well, correction: he knows of my world, Dreadmoor, and the Creator. He saved me.” A small smile pulls at the corner of my lips as I think about his touch, the way it ran across my face so delicately as he stared into my soul.What I wouldn’t give to feel it without those gloves...

I shake my head, pushing such strange thoughts away as I realize I’m still holding his knife tightly in my grasp. I stare into my reflection, the moonlight bouncing from my dual, grey-toned button eyes. An urge overcomes me as I bring the leather-bound handle to my nose and inhale. The scent is so unique, the oils on the leather consuming me, but there’s also a warm, spicy scent that enters through my nose and hits me in my belly button, making me blush.

“I want to find him, to thank him properly for saving me from the Boogeyman.” I give Mr. Whiskers a final scratch on the head, flicking away a couple of stray pieces of fur that fall off him before gently laying the knife on the small nightstand and settling in along the furs. Rolling onto my side, I glance out the bedroom window and see a shadowy figure move across the dead branches of the overhanging tree.It’s just my imagination. You’re safe here, Blue.I yawn, brushing the fear aside.

Closing my eyes, I hold Mr. Whiskers close as I quickly fall into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 3

The BOOGEYMAN

“Fucking hell, if you don’t stop that, I’m going to reach inside your mouth, rip out your tongue, and force you to choke on it.”

With a frustrated grunt, I grab a nearby rock and hurl it in Havoc's direction, effectively silencing her incessant kissing noises. It seems like every waking moment the past few days has been spent with her making these obnoxious sounds, and I’m beyond fed up with it. The disrespect these assholes show me on a regular basis is enough to make me want to commit murder, but ever since meeting that new doll, they’ve become unbearable, especially Havoc. I can’t blame her, though; I’m not the same either. I am a man consumed, possessed. I can’t think, can’t focus—nothing.

Damn this creation. It's not easy to throw me off balance, or at least, I've never been thrown off like this before. But when I touched her cheek, the flush that crept up my neck to my face was undeniable. I have never been so thankful to have my burlap mask concealing it or the thick, itchy attire to keep myself hidden beneath. The doll is extraordinary and surprisingly pleasing to look at, her blue and yellow colored hair perfectly split and glowing in the blacklight of the moon. She’s not thefirst doll I’ve felt an attraction to, but this is different, an all-consuming need to have eyes on her. Why? I don’t know. She’s not entertaining, and she hums... a lot. I don’t like it. What does she have to be humming about?

She’s an odd creation, unlike any I’ve encountered before. Something about her draws me in, but at the same time, I have to fight back and resist whatever strange sexual pull she has on me. While dolls can and are created here in Nightmare, her button eyes are the signature of a Dreadmoor doll, reminding me of who andwhatshe is, but most importantly, who she serves. One of the Spinster’s retched creations. That fact alone should’ve been enough reason to hunt her down and end her, but for some fucking reason, my feet stay firmly planted as I continue to stare.

The sheer fact that I’m unable to perform the task I’ve been performing for centuries over a breathy voice and mismatched eyes is making me question myself. I should’ve killed her the moment I saw her in the woods. Now, I’m fucked, and instead of trying to win the Spinster’s game and escape, I’m fucking following this doll.Stalking her.Obsessed with the gnawing need of knowing more.

I followed her home that night I saved her and discovered she’s holing up in the old taxidermy building that’s been abandoned for as long as I can remember. It’s an interesting choice, to say the least, an old Victorian mansion field with dead things stuffed and sewn together. She must’ve felt at home there amongst the other critter creations.

That very same night, I climbed the trees outside the home, searching every glass paned window until I eventually found her. I could barely make out her form through the glass, but her gray-blue skin seemed to almost glow in the bright looming moonlight that peeked through the thick glass and highlighted her form. That should not be something I find smile-worthy, yetas I stared through her window, my cheeks became sore. It’s fucking pathetic. Maybe I do deserve the shit I'm getting from Havoc.

I shouldn’t be watching or stalking her like this. I shouldn’t bethisinterested in this damn doll, but I am... and I have been since Havoc started rambling on and on about finding a dolly with skin the color of her name with hair as yellow as ripe bananas mixed with plump, juicy blueberries. At first, I assumed it was just utter nonsense, as per usual, but after that night, I realized there was more to her words.

Often, I attribute Havoc’s usual and nonsensical chatter to the button eye she sewed into her socket some years ago. It’s the only plausible theory I’ve come up with that explains the odd workings of her psychotic brain. But that day, in between her whines and moans, she mentioned something that caught my attention:Stingy Jack.The name lingered in the air, causing my blood to turn hot and my heart rate to spike.

Stingy Jack is the embodiment of Nightmare, a merciless, self-made ruler who wields his power like a god, crushing anyone who dares to defy him. I've learned this the hard way, having been banished to the desolate outskirts deep within the haunted woods for refusing to bow down to him at the threat of being hunted and returned to the Spinster herself. Fucking prick.

In my earlier days here, I tried to stay on his good side, use his influence to outsmart that old Spinster, but apparently, being a man with many interests—including a certain red-haired doll—I had found myself on his bad side, having slept with the wrong woman. I only found out she was his after the fact. We were caught, my head buried between her legs as she cried out for me, coming all over my face as Stingy Jack watched, sickened by the sight. Who was I to know the pieced together woman was his?She never mentioned him, and I’m not known for my lengthy conversations.

After nearly escaping my death, I’ve remained clear of Stingy Jack and all dwellings within his little town, including that red-haired doll. I might be stronger than him, but he has a number of followers, each instructed to kill on site if I’m spotted. It’s a never-ending threat, one I don’t want to face. Yes, even I, the elusive Boogeyman and a ruthless monster from Dreadmoor, am scared of losing to Stingy Jack.

“Life would be infinitely better with more blood orgies,” Havoc states with such a level of seriousness, it’s startling. I glance back at her in shock as she runs a small blade across her open palm and watches her own blood drip onto the ground.

“Why are you even here, Havoc?” I recoil under my mask as the woman stares blankly at me, her gaze piercing through the fabric as she licks the fresh droplets from her hand.

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