After weeks of research, scouting, planning and training; you were finally able to break into the witch's house. You weren't here to rob her, mind -- no one would dare invoke the wrath of a witch. Instead, you were after something more important. Something that is valuable to you, and you alone.
The job itself was easy. In and out. You didn't even encounter any of the dolls. Creeping along the passageways, slinking into hiding-spots any time the soft porcelain footsteps began to echo closer to you... you were like a ghost in your stealth.
Soon enough, you find yourself in a seemingly neglected corner of the witch's library. Dusty tomes, cobwebs; the heavy smell of musty paper. No one, nothing -- human nor doll -- seems to have been in here for ages. And it is here that you find it; a thick, heavy, leather-bound book; the spine of which reads "Doll Lore", in golden filigree. You take it and run. You sprint. A vault out the nearest window, silent as a shadow, and you're out free. You run further -- for about two miles, you run at a steady pace so as to not tire yourself out, in case you were followed.
When you're certain you're safe, when the blood stops pounding in your head, and the adrenaline high slowly comes down... you open the book you cradled in your arm for miles. This is it. The secrets of the dolls you see, day in and day out. The tiny little machines that fascinated you so. What are they? What is their purpose? Is there a way to...
...This is a photo album. It's filled with dozens of polaroids on every page. Pictures of the witch holding her dolls; her seemingly expressionless features still warm with joy as the dolls gather in cheer around her -- "Successful Incantation". A photo of dolls gathered around the fireplace, one of them seated on a large chair, reading out of a large storybook -- "Winter Warmth". A single photo of each and every individual doll that seems to occupy the witch's manor. "Tulip". "Maple". "Autumn". "Sapphire". "Dahlia". "Marigold". And so on.
"Come to learn about the dolls, have you?"
You leap a solid three feet into the air. The raspy, exhausted; yet unmistakable voice of the witch fills you with terror, yet renders you utterly unable to move. Bound by the shackle of her word, your legs are frozen numb. A surprisingly soft, well-manicured hand plucks the book from your own.
"Since you took the time to navigate my home to steal from me, I take it you will have no opposition to visiting me for teatime? The dolls you seem so taken with will be glad to warm a cup for each of us."
Your voice catches in your throat. You want to run. You want to get as far away as possible, but even the act of speaking feels insurmountable.
"Come."
Immediately, your mind clears into the only action allowed. You begin following the witch towards the soft, warm glow of her home. A strange peace -- whether the chemical release of dopamine, or something deeper -- fills your heart and warms your limbs as they follow the witch's taller silhouette in front of you.
