Page 8 of Dolls of Ruin

“I’ll take this one,” he said, cutting me off. His eyes locked on the golden doll near the center of the group.

I followed his gaze to Wealth, his gold sheen catching the light. I hadn’t even finished cleaning them all yet, and the thought of selling him felt… wrong.

I hesitated. “I mean, sure, if you’re okay with breaking up the group.”

The man didn’t answer. His wallet was already out, his fingers shaking slightly as he pulled out a handful of bills. “How much?”

“Uh, two hundred?” I said, throwing out a number. It was more than fair, but the way he handed me the cash made me feel like I’d undercharged.

He cradled the doll in both hands, his grip so tight I was worried the porcelain would crack.

“This one’s special,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

I forced a smile. “Take good care of him.”

The bell jingled again as the customer left, and I stood there, staring at the empty space where Wealth had been.

I shivered, glancing at the heater in the back. Was it just the draft from the door, or was the damn thing on the fritz again? Shaking my head, I turned back to the bench, determined to finish up and go home. The last thing I needed was to deal with heating issues on top of everything else.

The remaining dolls stared back at me, their presence heavier now that Wealth was gone. One in particular caught my eye—broad-shouldered and imposing, his ruby-red eyes gleamed faintly under the overhead light. His entire posture radiated authority, the kind that made you feel like he was silently judging you for wasting time.

I picked up the spray bottle, aiming it at his shoulders as though I were actually dealing with a stern, impatient CEO. “Alright, alright, you’re next. No need to glare.”

Another doll sitting just to his left seemed to lean forward slightly, his jagged grin catching the light. His dark porcelain was streaked with crimson scars, sharp and deliberate, like wounds frozen in time. His whole energy was coiled, almost buzzing, as if he were daring me to say the wrong thing.

“You’ll get your turn, too,” I muttered, glancing at him as I wiped the counter. “Don’t bite.”

My eyes flicked to the next doll—sleek and polished, with a crimson-painted grin that screamed smug satisfaction. His pale porcelain shimmered faintly under the lights, the curves of his suit giving him an air of indulgence, like he belonged in some velvet-draped lounge where the drinks cost more than my entire rent.

“Yeah,” I murmured, brushing a stray bit of dust from his lapel. “Indulgence. That fits you. You look like the kind of guy who’d tell me to throw caution—and my savings account—to the wind.”

The doll almost seemed to smirk at that, his painted grin catching the light as I set him carefully back in line. The others watched me silently, their intensity undiminished.

I took a step back, eyeing the three of them together. “Okay, let’s not get dramatic. It’s just one of you that’s gone. The rest of you are safe for now.”

The shop was quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heater and the rhythmic swish of the cloth in my hand as I prepared to move on.

The cloth slipped from my hand, landing on the floor with a soft thud. I frowned, glancing at the counter where I could’ve sworn I’d left it earlier.

Behind me, a shelf creaked.

I spun around, heart in my throat, but the shop was still. Too still.

I shook my head, muttering to myself. “It’s just old wood. Expanding or whatever. Nothing creepy about it.”

Still, I grabbed my phone and checked the time. Closing couldn’t come fast enough.

By the time I locked the door, the sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the street.

I paused outside, glancing through the glass at the darkened shop. The dolls stared back, their expressions frozen as always, but the space where the golden doll had sat felt… heavier.

“They’re just dolls,” I whispered, trying to convince myself. “Get a grip, Claire.”

As I turned to walk down the street, I spotted the man from earlier. He hadn’t gone far—just a few steps away, standing under the awning of a closed boutique across the road. Wealth was still cradled in his arms, his grip impossibly tight, and his posture was unnervingly stiff, like he’d forgotten how to move naturally.

For a second, I thought he was looking at me, but his gaze was locked on the shop window.

I shivered, a cold prickle running down my spine. My footsteps faltered, the urge to call out to him warring with the instinct to walk faster.

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