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SYSTEM INITIATED:
Simulation 5:
Subject: Trey O'Malley.
Simulation loading... traumatic sequence initiated.
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Trey opens his eyes to a dim, dusty attic. Muffled voices float from below — the warmth of a family gathering. The wooden floorboards creak beneath his feet as he steps forward, the scent of aged wood and forgotten belongings thick in the air.
His eyes fall on a wooden chest, partially open. Curiosity tugs at him. As he kneels and lifts the lid, a collection of dolls lies within — all with stitched mouths, eyes made of dull black buttons. Their lifeless stares pin him down, a shiver running through his spine. One doll, larger than the others, sits at the center — its head slightly tilted, as if watching him.
**Flashback:**
A little boy's voice, muffled sobs. The attic was his prison — a punishment. When he spoke out of turn or questioned too much, his mother would lock him there. She always brought the dolls with their stitched mouths, pressing them to his face. "Learn to be silent," she whispered, her voice syrupy and suffocating.
One day, his curiosity broke through. He cut the stitches off a doll's mouth, its fabric lips gaping open. When his mother found out, her fury was biblical. She screamed that he had cursed the doll, that its tongue would bring misfortune. She took a needle and thread, pressing it to his own lips. The punctures stung, his blood soaking the string as she stitched him closed.
*"Now you'll be good, my quiet little doll."*
**Back to the present:**
Trey's chest tightens as he stares at the doll. He backs away, bumping into a vanity mirror. In his reflection, his mouth is stitched shut — thick, uneven threads crossing his lips. Panic floods his veins. He claws at the stitches, nails scraping his skin. The muffled voices downstairs grow louder — laughter, joy, everything he was denied.
He turns to the window, desperate for air. It's nailed shut. He tries to scream, but his voice is trapped, tangled in the threads. He hammers on the glass, the nails biting into his knuckles, but no one hears him. The attic door creaks open slowly. Shadows creep in — long, elongated arms, the dolls' hollow eyes glimmering with a twisted life. They crawl toward him, their button eyes blinking, their stitched mouths mocking his own.
The largest doll from the chest — the one with the tilted head — stands at the threshold. Its stitched mouth parts, the threads tearing with a slow, agonizing sound. A voice, his mother's voice, emerges from its mouth.
*"Quiet now, my little doll."*
The dolls close in, their tiny hands grasping his legs, pulling him down. Their needle-sharp fingers press into his skin, tracing his mouth. They begin stitching him tighter, sealing him shut. Trey thrashes, but the threads dig deeper, cutting through his cheeks. The attic suffocates him — too much dust, too many voices, too many dolls. His reflection in the vanity mirror is no longer his own but a doll with hollow eyes, eternally silenced.
His vision darkens. The last thing he sees is the attic door creaking shut, sealing him away.
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*"Simulation Over. Resetting memory module. Preparing next sequence."*
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