Bianca
That night, I tossed and turned, jerking awake, gasping for air. A heavy weight was on my chest, and it pinned me to the bed. Unable to move, I glanced around the room, only to see it wasn't my bedroom. The weight eased, and I slithered off the bed, landing on the floor.
I sat on the worn rug that had seen better days, touching my body, trying to figure out if this was a dream or if I’d finally lost my marbles. My red and black pyjamas were the same ones I put on before climbing into bed last night.
Suddenly, I heard raised voices arguing.
I glanced at the space beneath the bed and considered hiding like the coward I was.
It was a depressing thought because I used to do this when my parents fought.
When the screaming accusations and dull thuds became overwhelming, I would drag my bedding to sleep beneath my bed.
Why was I having a depressing dream?
I stood up and walked to the window, ignoring the two men arguing. My jaw dropped when I looked at the bleak sight below. It looked like a scene created for Jack the Ripper.
A door slammed on the ground floor, and I heard someone coming up the stairs. I crawled under the bed just as the door creaked open.
“I will show them. I will show them all,” a man muttered before he slammed the bedroom door shut.
I glared at the top of the bed, which restricted my view to a pair of black polished shoes. This was easier when I was a child. He placed a circular metal cage on the floor, and the crow squawked. The man took his time doing something on the floor.
I inched closer but could not see his face from his crouched position.
The candles came next, but when he took the bird from the cage, I watched the black wings flap wildly.
The knife followed, and blood dripped through his fingers as I placed a hand over my mouth.
With a weak squawk and a final flutter of the bird’s wings, he began to smear the blood onto the floor.
“I, William Montague, sell my soul to you, my Lord,” he said before he began to chant. “Accept my sacrifice.”
Bianca, you're the chosen one, my darling. Through you, all my dreams will come true.
The guttural voice whispered into my ear, and I screamed.
My eyes snapped open. When I wiped my forehead, it was damp with sweat. I sat in bed and looked around the dark room before reaching for the lamp. Angelica sat on the nightstand, but that couldn't be possible.
I left her in the study.
Her hand.
The missing hand was back, but it held long strands of hair. I reached for my head, but there was no pain. The red curls in her hand were mine.
I ran to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, forcing myself awake.
The cooling water against my heated face and the laboured breathing calmed my erratic heartbeat.
I blindly grabbed a towel to dry my face, and when I glanced in the mirror, I saw my tousled hair.
It caused a shiver to run down my spine.
Hair was often used in black magic.
I dried my face and marched into the bedroom, hesitating to switch the light on, but when I glanced at the bedside table, Angelica was gone.
After stumbling back a few steps, I swivelled around and bolted down the hall to the study.
I fumbled around the wall until I found the light switch.
The doll sat on my desk with no hair and no hand.
Was it part of the dream? No, I was in my bedroom.
I glared at the doll but sat on my chair to switch on my laptop. It quickly loaded, and I searched for William Montague, London. When nothing turned up, I put the approximate year in and got a few hits.
Dollmaker—shop burnt down—several bodies discovered in the apartment above the shop, including various animals. An up-and-coming Dollmaker was taking the industry by storm with his realistic-looking china dolls—a visionary.
1887.
I scanned the article before I searched through the images.
There, I found a black-and-white photo of the man.
He wore all black, with a tall top hat. His piercing eyes stared back at me.
His nose was sharp, his lips pinched, but it was the dead look in his eyes that disturbed me the most. I gulped and reached for my bottle of water.
The eyes continued to stare at me until I snapped the laptop shut. I took a few gulps of water, glancing at Angelica. It was late, and I was tired, but I would read the book on Victorian occult practices in the morning.
William Montague was forty when he died, eight years older than I, but at that time, the average lifespan for men was mid-to-late forties.
The man never married and had no children.
After his death, no more dolls were produced.
I couldn't help but wonder if Angelica was a rare find.
The hunt always paired well with profit.
I shook my head.
If I had any sense, I would stick her on eBay and be done with it.
◆◆◆
“Bianca,” the persistent voice whispered in my ear.
Cold lips brushed against my neck.
“You would make a magnificent doll. All these luscious red locks, pale skin with a hint of freckles. Wake up, my darling girl.”
I blinked to see William Montague, not in black and white but in high-definition 4k colour.
“Open,” he said, brushing his thumb across my lips.
To my horror. My lips had parted for him. Not by choice but by design—like a doll’s hinged jaw. I screamed, but the sound was muffled as if stuffed with cotton.
He pulled my lips up and inspected my mouth. His thumb pressed down on my canine, testing its sharpness. When I tried to bite, my jaw locked open—not by his hand, but by some unseen force.
“No rot,” he murmured as if inspecting livestock. “And the tongue—”
His finger slid in, pressing down until I gagged.
“Ah, still soft. That will change,” he said, delight lighting his sky-blue eyes.
A slow smile spread across his face, and the thin lips became a straight line. He pushed another finger in my mouth. The two cold fingers slid up and down my tongue before he pushed them past my throat, curling them until I gagged.
He pulled them out with a flash of his teeth while I stared at his dark brown hair falling over his forehead. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my thin cotton shorts.
“You're my new doll, Bianca. A doll must serve her master,” he murmured as his fingers pushed through my hair. “An heir for my line. A second chance.”
I panted through my open mouth. Panic ensued, as I couldn't move, but I could feel too much. The cold weight of his palm on my belly, the creak of my own joints stiffening. When I looked down, my thighs gleamed under the moonlight—not with sweat, but with a porcelain sheen.
His cold lips pressed against mine, blocking my view. I tried to shake my head, but it lay useless against my pillow. His fingers parted me, and he pushed them inside my pussy. His cold tongue ground against mine while his fingers pumped in and out of my pussy.
“Most women break during this part,” he mused, fingers crooking deeper. “But you? You'll hold your shape. Your screams will be glazed into something beautiful.”
His other hand cupped my breast, squeezing until I felt something inside crack. “There. Now the hollowing begins.”
The scent of smoke filled the room, and to my dismay, I felt myself grow wet.
He groaned against my open mouth. The tortured sound echoed around me while I struggled to breathe.
His weight shifted from my side until he lay on top of me.
When I tried to protest, no sound came out.
Helpless, while he pulled his fingers out of me.
“You're the one I've been waiting for. The one my dark Lord promised me,” he said, kissing my cheek. “The womb that is ready for my masterpiece.”
I closed my eyes when I felt his cock between my legs. The icy-cold tip parted me, pushing into my pussy, and stretching me open. It scraped inside me—not his dick, but something hard and curved was testing the walls of my uterus like a sculptor hollowing clay.
My eyes snapped open to see the dark smoke billow around us.
It coiled around my wrists, pinning them to the bed—not with force, but by fusing my skin to the sheets, stitching me in place.
His cold, wet lips captured my nipple as he began to thrust himself inside of me.
The sound of him slurping over my breast as the bed creaked beneath me made me blink rapidly.
He built up a steady rhythm as he toyed with me. Fingers pinched my breast, and I felt him pull my legs wide open. He slammed into me, driving deep until I heard a clinking sound, but the sound of my groaning bed made me doubt myself.
His thick cock hammered away, pressing my hips into the bed with each downward thrust until I began to clench around him. His laughter was one of triumph, but I couldn't think clearly. All that mattered was the need to cum. It had been weeks since I last used my vibrator.
“That’s right, become my vessel, sweet Bianca. Take my seed,” he growled before a sinister smile appeared. “Become mine.”
I strained against the black smoke holding me down as he continued to slip in and out of my swollen, wet flesh.
“That’s it. It feels good, doesn't it, love?”
My body quivered as I erupted, gasping for air and clenching around his hard length.
It didn't deter him as I panted through the blistering ecstasy.
He became incensed and drove himself deep until I felt something cold inside of me.
It was his cum. Between his intermittent gasps of pleasure, I heard a cracking sound—one that came from inside of me.
My eyelids sagged with fatigue, and everything turned dark. The last thing I felt was a cold hand pressing on my belly.