Chapter 31
I’m back in the attic of the Tin Heart toy shop, the air thick with the scent of old dust and something metallic, like dried blood and ozone. The space feels smaller now, charged with a heavy, humming energy that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
We’re seated in a wide circle on the floor, the rough wood scraping against my legs.
I’m perched on a moth-eaten velvet cushion, a deep crimson that looks almost black in the dim light.
Rhys is beside me, his massive frame taking up twice the space of anyone else, his hand gripping mine with a possessive, grounding strength.
Opposite us, the Six Who Speak As One are draped across mismatched antique chairs and low stools, their presence an oppressive weight that fills every corner of the room.
Between us, the floor is a chaotic masterpiece of occult shit.
A massive circle is drawn in salt and crushed obsidian, etched with jagged runes that seem to pulse with a faint, sickly violet light.
Scattered within the perimeter are blackened candles dripping wax like frozen tears, bundles of dried sage and nightshade, and several bowls of thick, dark liquid—blood and something else that smells like a fucking graveyard.
A single, ancient grimoire lies open in the center, its vellum pages yellowed and curling.
The Six begin the spell. Their voices merge into one, a discordant, droning chant that doesn't sound human. It’s a vibration that rattles my teeth and makes the floorboards shudder. The candles flare up, the flames leaping high and turning a ghostly blue.
Then, it happens.
Next to the wooden box where the twins' remains are kept, the air begins to fracture.
It looks like a corrupted video file—static and jagged lines tearing through the reality of the room.
A figure flickers, glitching in and out of existence, a strobe light of horror.
Then, with a sudden, sharp snap, the glitches vanish, and they are there.
"Ophelia..."
My heart fucking skips a beat. I gasp, my grip on Rhys’s hand slipping as I instinctively recoil before the longing hits me. I pull away from him, my boots clicking softly on the wood as I step closer.
I stop dead, my breath hitching in my throat.
Cordelia and Rosalind.
They look exactly as they did that night—twelve years old and absolutely butchered.
Their dresses are soaked in deep, crusty crimson, clinging to their small frames.
Jagged, gaping butcher’s knife wounds carve across their chests and stomachs, the edges of the skin raw and torn.
Their pale skin is translucent, almost blue, and their eyes are wide, haunting voids of grief and confusion.
"I'm here," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I'm right here."
I swallow hard, looking at the gore that defined their end. "He's gone. Papa... he's dead. He paid for every fucking thing he did to you. He's rotting in hell where he belongs."
Cordelia speaks first, her voice a hollow echo that sounds like wind through a tomb. "We felt it... the scream of his soul as it broke."
Rosalind tilts her head, a small, sad smile touching her blood-stained lips. "The darkness felt lighter when he stopped breathing."
I feel a tear slide down my cheek. I reach out, though I dare not touch the raw wounds. "If I bury you... if I give you a proper resting place like I did for Mum... will you find peace? You can be with her. You can finally stop hurting."
They look at each other, and for the first time, they speak in a chilling unison, their voices overlapping. "No."
I blink, confused. "What? Why? You can be free."
"We don't want to leave," Rosalind whispers, her ghostly eyes locking onto mine. "We're still twelve, Lia. We're just little girls. And mummy said we should stay with you and keep you safe. You need us more. She will be alright."
“Mummy wants us to stay with you. She says your heart is still bleeding.”
"You're our sister," Cordelia adds, her voice trembling. "Staying with you... it's the only thing that feels natural. We're dead, and our lives were stolen from us by that person we called Papa. We don't want a grave. We want you."
I stare at them, my mind racing. "But how? You can't just... stay like this. You're ghosts. You're glitches in the air."
"The dolls," Rosalind says, glancing at the porcelain figures scattered around the attic. "We want to get into dolls."
I recoil slightly, the sheer weirdness of it hitting me. "Dolls? You want to live in toys?"
I turn back to the coven, my voice desperate. "Is that even possible? Can they actually do that?"
The Six shift, their collective voice humming with a dark, knowing resonance. "It can be done. The spirits can be tethered to a physical vessel, provided the vessel is crafted with intent. They can remain with you, anchored to this world, for as long as you draw breath."
"What's the catch?" I snap. "There's always a catch."
"The anchor," the coven responds. "They will need the ashes of their own bodies. The remains must stay in the vessels to maintain the bond. Without the ash, the tether snaps, and they vanish into the void."
I look back at my sisters. They look so small, so broken, and so desperately lonely. The thought of them drifting away into some grey afterlife, alone and scarred, is more than I can bear. I can't lose them again. Not when I finally got them back.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and nod firmly.
"Fine. Do it," I say, my voice regaining its strength. "I'll do it. I'll make them new porcelain dolls—the most beautiful ones in the world. That look like you, like the one we made when we were together. I'll craft them myself. Just... don't let them go.”
I’m hunched over the workbench in the back of the shop, the air thick with the smell of turpentine, porcelain slip, and the faint, lingering scent of the occult shit we pulled in the attic. My fingers are stained with paint and clay, shaking just a tiny bit, but I don't stop. I can't fucking stop.
I’m crafting two new dolls. Not just any dolls—these are vessels. They have to be perfect. They have to be exactly like the one I keep at Rhys’s place, the one that looks like a mirror image of us.
I start with the porcelain, molding the heads with a precision that borders on obsession.
I smooth out the cheeks, carving the delicate line of the jaw and the small, pouty lips of a twelve-year-old.
Every curve of the face is a memory I’ve had to dig out of the darkest corners of my mind.
I’m not just making toys; I’m building a home for Cordelia and Rosalind.
"You're doing brilliant, love," Rhys’s voice rumbles behind me.
I don't even have to look to know he's there. He’s a constant, heavy presence at my shoulder, his warmth radiating through my clothes.
He hasn't left my side for a fucking second. He’s like a shadow, possessive and grounding, his eyes probably tracking every movement of my hands with that intense, psychotic devotion of his.
Knowing he's watching makes me more focused, more desperate to get this right.
I move on to the hair, meticulously rooting strands of deepest black silk into the porcelain scalps. I brush it carefully, making sure it falls just right—long, dark, and haunting. Then comes the hardest part: the eyes.
I pick up the ice-blue glass spheres. They’re cold and piercing, exactly the shade of my own. As I set them into the sockets, I feel a shiver run down my spine. For a split second, it feels like the dolls are looking back at me, waiting. I blink, and the feeling vanishes, but the intensity remains.
"Almost there, Ophelia," Rhys whispers, his hand coming up to rest on the small of my back, his thumb rubbing a slow, possessive circle through the fabric of my shirt.
I ignore the heat of his touch for a moment, focusing on the fine details.
I paint the tiny fingernails, the soft flush of the cheeks, and the delicate lines of their small hands.
I’m careful—fucking surgical—with every stroke of the brush.
I can't mess this up. If the vessel isn't right, if the intent isn't pure, I might lose them again, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.
The process is grueling. My back aches, and my eyes are stinging from the strain, but I refuse to take a break. I work through the night, the only sound in the shop being the ticking of the old clocks and the steady rhythm of Rhys’s breathing behind me.
Finally, I step back.
There they are. Two porcelain girls with ink-black hair and frozen, ice-blue stares. They look identical to me, yet distinct enough to be them. They look innocent, untouched by the butcher's knife and the blood that defined their end.
I look at them and feel a surge of fierce, protective love mixed with a dark, twisted satisfaction. They aren't going to be rotting in the ground or glitching in a dusty attic. They’re going to be here, with me.
"They're perfect," Rhys murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the side of my neck, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make me gasp. "Just like you, my little doll."
I lean back into him, staring at the empty eyes of my sisters. "Now we just need the ashes," I whisper, my voice raspy. "Now we bring them home.”
The air in the shop is thick, tasting of ozone and old dust. The coven is gathered around the workbench, their faces obscured by veils, looking like a bunch of fucking vultures waiting for a carcass.
In the center of the circle sit the two porcelain dolls I’ve spent days obsessing over, their ice-blue eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Beside them are the two urns—heavy, cold things holding everything that’s left of Cordelia and Rosalind.
"Begin," the lead witch rasps, her voice sounding like gravel grinding together.
The ritual starts with a low, rhythmic chanting that vibrates in my fucking teeth.
They light black candles that bleed thick, acrid smoke, swirling around us in patterns that don't make a lick of sense. I’m standing there, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, Rhys’s hand a heavy, grounding weight on my shoulder.
He’s not scared; he’s fascinated. I can feel the predatory hum of his energy, his obsession fueling the air around us.
One of the witches steps forward, her movements jerky and unnatural. She unscrews the lid of the first urn. The ashes are a pale, ghostly grey. With a silver funnel and a steady hand, she begins to pour the remains of Cordelia into the hollow cavity of the first doll’s chest.
Sshhh.
The sound of the ashes sliding into the porcelain is the only thing I can hear over the chanting. It feels like I’m watching a reverse burial. Instead of putting them in the dirt to rot, we’re stuffing them into art. We're giving them a shell.
Then comes Rosalind. The second urn is opened, and the same process repeats.
The ashes fill the second doll, filling the void where a heart should be.
As the last of the grey dust disappears into the porcelain, the chanting reaches a fucking crescendo, a wall of sound that feels like it's going to burst my eardrums.
"Bind the spirit to the clay! Bind the blood to the bone! Wake from the silence!"
Suddenly, a violent gust of wind rips through the closed shop, knocking over a few tins of paint and sending papers flying.
I look up and see them—the ghosts of my sisters.
They’re glitching, their forms flickering like a broken film strip, covered in the horrific wounds the butcher’s knife left behind.
They look terrified, then confused, then... peaceful.
And then, in a blink, they’re gone.
The silence that follows is deafening. It’s a heavy, oppressive quiet that makes my ears ring. I hold my breath, my lungs burning, staring at the two dolls on the table. They look the same as they did five minutes ago—still, cold, lifeless.
Please, I pray to whatever dark god is listening. Please work.
Then, it happens.
Slowly—so slowly it’s almost imperceptible—the first doll’s head tilts. Just a fraction. A tiny, porcelain creak echoes in the silence as her head turns slightly toward me. Her ice-blue eyes aren't blank anymore; there's a spark there, a recognition.
Beside her, the second doll doesn't move her head, but her glass eyes shift. They slide to the side, tracking Rhys with an intensity that mirrors his own.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, a sob nearly breaking through. It worked. Those little shits are actually in there.
Later that night, the house is quiet, bathed in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamps.
I carefully place the two new dolls on the vanity, lining them up next to the old doll I’ve had for a while at Rhys's.
Three identical faces. Three pairs of ice-blue eyes.
A little family of porcelain nightmares.
I'll figure out where I can put them later where they won't see us having sex. It's inappropriate for child ghosts to witness that.
I look at them and smile, a genuine, twisted feeling of contentment settling in my gut. And in years, the hole in my chest doesn't feel quite so empty.
I turn to Rhys. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette dark and imposing. Shadow is there too, a flickering, oppressive presence hovering just behind him, watching us with that silent, void-like curiosity.
"Rhys?" I whisper, glancing back at the dolls. "Are you... you know, actually okay with this? Having haunted dolls in your home? Most blokes would be fucking losing it."
Rhys lets out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates through the room. He walks toward me, his movements fluid and predatory, and wraps his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me flush against his hard chest. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath hot.
"Love, look at me," he murmurs, his voice dripping with that psychotic devotion. "I live with a shadow, I spend my nights in a torture chamber, and I’m utterly obsessed with a girl who talks to ghosts. You think a couple of haunted dolls are going to spook me?"
He nips at my earlobe, his grip tightening possessively.
"I don't give a toss if the house is full of spirits, as long as you're the one ruling over them. If they're a part of you, Ophelia, then I fucking love them. Besides..." he adds, his voice dropping to a husky, dangerous velvet, "...the more madness in the house, the more it feels like home.”