Dolly House

It started with a text. No name. No warning. Just rage. But behind it? A missing woman, a house of dolls, and a man who thinks he’s God.

“Hey, freak! Why are you messing with my wife?” That was it. No hello. No name. Just fury bleeding through the screen.

I blinked, confused. My heart stuttered, not out of fear yet, just confusion.

“Sir, I’ve never even spoken to your wife,” I replied.

Then instinct took over. I tapped the profile.

A woman’s face filled the screen. Ella Martin. But this wasn’t a selfie. Her face was posed, lit like a professional shoot, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes looked… trapped. It wasn’t a photo. It was a cry for help.

I remembered seeing her. Two days ago. Outside the SaveSmart. She was barefoot, in a thin summer dress, trembling. The man with her wrapped an arm around her waist and said, “She’s just sick. Overheated.” But her eyes… they never moved.

A cashier remembered them. Said they drove north. Said the man creeped him out. “Something off about his teeth,” he muttered. “Too white. Too straight. Like they weren’t his.”

I followed. A few hours north. Fog settled over the trees like a warning. Birds stopped singing. My GPS went silent.

Then, at the end of a gravel road: a house. Victorian style. Lavender shutters. White picket fence. Perfect. Too perfect.

And around the yard? Dolls. Life-size. Porcelain faces. Positioned like statues. Some smiled. Some looked shocked. Their eyes followed me. Or maybe I imagined it.

I parked behind the trees and approached on foot.

He answered with a smile. “She’s not well,” he said, before I even spoke. “I gave her medication.” His voice was sugar. His eyes? Ice.

“I’d like to see her.”

He chuckled. “Mind your business, or you’ll be next.” Then—slam.

But he left it unlocked.

The house reeked of baby powder and roses. Fake roses. Too many. Every surface sparkled. A phonograph played an old lullaby in slow motion. Somewhere, a cuckoo clock ticked too loud, like it wanted to scream.

Then I saw it. The room. Pastel walls. Tea sets. Dresses hung like trophies. And dolls. Hundreds of them.

No. Not dolls. Women.

Real women. Frozen. Posed. Eyes open. Barely breathing. Dressed like Barbies. One had blood on her heel. Another blinked. Just once.

In the middle of it all—Melanie King. She was alive. Barely. Tied to a makeup chair. Eyes darting, screaming without sound. I froze. I knew her from the missing persons posters. Gone six months ago.

And then the door slammed behind me. Locks clicked.

A voice cooed. “Dolly? Are you ready to play?”

He stepped out in a white lab coat. Grinning.

“You again. How lucky. I’ve never had a Ken.”

He wheeled Melanie toward a surgical table.

“What color dress, my darling?” he asked, brushing her hair with a silver comb.

She answered, her voice weak: “Pink. Delicate… like my skin.”

He beamed.

I crept behind him. In one motion, I plunged the sedative from a nearby tray into his shoulder.

Nothing. He laughed.

“You think I don’t build immunity to my own cocktail?”

He turned, eyes wild, knife in hand.

“You’re not my type,” he hissed, lunging.

I dodged. Knocked over the steel tray. Melanie kicked it, scattering tools across the room.

Bone saw. Scalpel. Syringe.

I grabbed the saw and swung. Caught his arm. He roared.

I rolled Melanie’s chair back, frantically untying her.

She whispered, “Buttons. The dolls. Press them.”

I ran. Pressed one.

“Daddy, let’s play!” a voice echoed.

Pressed another.

“We want to play forever!”

Mechanical. Twisted. Echoing through the room like a demonic chorus.

He shrieked, covering his ears.

Melanie was up. She grabbed the scalpel, ran toward him—

But he vanished. Trapdoor. Gone.

We searched the house. Found files. Journals. Dates. Names. Photos of the women—before and after. A list of candidates. Dozens not yet taken.

The cops arrived an hour later. Seven women, alive. In shock. Paralyzed from prolonged sedation.

The original Ella Martin? Dead. Name reused on every new victim.

But Melanie survived. She testified. Described everything: the drugs, the forced dress-up, the conditioning.

He was never found.

They called him The Dollmaker.

Two weeks later. A new text. Same number.

“You played well, Ken. But the game’s not over.”

Attached: a photo. Melanie. Sleeping in her hospital bed.

And in the reflection of the TV screen behind her?

A shape. Grinning.

Now, I don’t sleep. I watch her room from across the hospital. I’ve stopped going home.

He’s still out there. And Melanie isn’t safe.

Neither am I.

A week passes. I try to return to normal. I fail. Every noise makes me jump. I start seeing faces in reflections. My hands shake when I hold my phone.

Then a package arrives at my door. No return address. Just a pink ribbon and a note:

“A new dolly joins the collection soon.”

Inside: a Barbie. Her face hand-painted. Her eyes? Identical to Melanie’s.

The Dollmaker was watching.

I meet with Detective Harris. He believes me—barely. But there’s no real lead. No fingerprints. No footage. Just whispers.

“I think he’s stalking hospitals,” I say.

“You think he’s prepping a new victim?”

“No. I think he’s watching me. Because I ruined his playset.”

I sneak back to the house. It’s been boarded up by the cops. But I find the trapdoor. Descend.

A hidden basement. Filled with tools. Drawings. Prototype dolls. And a giant map.

At the center? My name. Connected by red strings to photos. Of Melanie. Of my apartment. My workplace. My mom’s house.

He’s not hunting a new victim. He’s hunting me.

Upstairs, the floor creaks.

Someone else is here.

I hide beneath a worktable.

Footsteps.

He hums. The lullaby.

Then, silence.

A soft thud outside the door.

I crawl out. Slowly.

A box.

Inside? My photo. Glued to a Ken doll.

TO BE CONTINUED