The Ink In-Between: An Anthology (Dark Edition)

The Doll Maker

PROMPT: Write in the genre opposite to the one you're most comfortable with (ex. psychological thriller).

CW(s): strong language, heavy objectification, psychological abuse, implied domestic violence and death.

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"Ah, look who's finally decided to join us."

It's with some effort that Thuli opens her eyes. Everything weighs down on her, and her body doesn't feel like her own as she wills it to move. But, somehow, she manages to tilt her head up and blink her surroundings into focus, the rest of her senses slowly returning to her.

Her nails scrape against a smooth surface. Armrests. Varnished wood. She's on a chair.

There's a table in front of her, small and very old-looking, like something you'd see in an antique shop. In fact, everything on it seems to have stepped out of another time period, from the white doily to the porcelain tea pot and the intricately designed cups.

"Care for some tea? Rose was kind enough to brew some for us. Do you enjoy Rooibos?"

Rose... why is that name so familiar? ... Rose ... Rose!

It's with a violent jolt that Thuli snaps her gaze up and whips her head around, trying to spot the other woman somewhere in the darkness of what looks like a windowless, candle-lit dressing room.

Only to have a hundred glassy, unblinking eyes staring right back at her.

Dolls. Life-like, real-sized wooden puppets hung up on the walls and from the ceiling by their strings, covering every inch of it, from top to bottom.

The more she looks at them, the more she notices the details, the human hair, the blemished skin, the cracked lips and the blood-shot eyes. She feels like throwing up. But she can't seem to look away, because they won't either, holding her own gaze captive.

"You remember my dolls, of course. They certainly remember you."

There's an ear-grating, rhythmic scrapping sound that pulls at Thuli, breaking her out of that stupor. When she finally looks at the man on the other side of the table, he's stirring the tea in his cup in languid motions, a wide smile stretching at his pale, paper thin lips, one that struggles to inject any warmth into the two small, impenetrable eyes looking down at her.

"Van Rooyen..." the name leaves her lips as a hoarse whisper.

"Please, call me Edward. I think we're far past formalities at this point, my dear Thulisile. Or do you prefer Thuli?"

"We're not ... friends," she manages to push out through gritted teeth, a familiar spark of anger flickering inside her. "It's detective Ngoyi for you. And you're ... you're our prime suspect ... you..."

Those lips touch the brim of the cup, the smile around it stretching wider. "Am I now? And what crime exactly am I being accused of?"

Thuli blinks, struggling to call forth the thoughts and memories she needs, even though she can feel them right there, fluttering just inches away from her reach. "People have been going missing... thirteen of them have-"

"Thirteen? Are you sure?"

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