Page 35 of Cracked Doll

Suddenly, all six women speak. Their voices don't sound like six separate people; they merge into a singular, haunting drone—a layered, choral resonance that vibrates in my very bones. Their voices layered and strange, overlapping just enough to sound like an echo arriving before its cause. "Who's there?"

‎I stiffen. I know this is a game, a test of nerves. I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice from trembling, channeling a confidence I don't actually feel.

I steady my voice as best I can. "As I believe people so proudly boast of your clairvoyance,” I say, my voice echoing in the hollow space, “your query suggests you're either lying, or merely playing coy."

The silence that follows is absolute. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, one of the women strikes a match. She touches it to a single wick.

It touches it to a single candle — and the instant the flame catches, every other candle around the table ignites at once, a dozen small fires blooming in perfect unison. I gasp despite myself.

I look around just to confirm this. That the moment that first flame flickers to life, a ripple of fire erupts. Every other candle on the table and every torch along the walls ignites simultaneously, as if the fire had been waiting for a signal.

‎I stumble back a step. "What in the world...?"

‎The light reveals them fully—the pale, ghostly women under their veils, their black dresses absorbing the red glow of the room, pooling around them like spilled ink.

"We see your aura," one begins, her voice a thin whisper.

‎"It's displaced," says another.

"Fractured," a third murmurs.

‎Then, in a terrifying, synchronized harmony, they command: "Your palm. Bring it here.”

I move myself into the red-laced chair they gesture toward. My legs feel like lead, but I move, sinking into the chair. I slowly extend my hand, offering my palm to the woman closest to me.‎

The nearest takes it, turning it gently in the candlelight.

Silence descends. It stretches for an eternity, the only sound the crackle of the candles. Suddenly, all six women gasp in unison, a sharp intake of breath that sounds like a collective shock.

"Your destiny," one says, "was interrupted seven years ago."

Another, her voice rasping, like sandpaper on stone: "Then set to a mirror of your own reflection."

And a third, with a voice so cold it makes the hair on my neck stand up, finishes, "There is but one mortal with such an unfortunate, curious fate.”

They remove their veils in perfect unison.

‎I freeze. They all have the same eyes. A piercing, unnatural green, laced with streaks of oppressive grey. A green so pale it's laced through with grey, unsettling in a way I can't fully name. I can't look them in the eye—I can't do it—so my gaze darts frantically to the rest of their faces. Their skin is a deathly, translucent pale, paler than even mine, making their lips look like fresh smears of fresh blood. All of them have raven black hair. And when they speak, they reveal teeth that are sharp, jagged, and predatory—like a shark's.

"You are Ophelia Sorrell," they say together. "We are delighted you accepted our invitation."

"We have waited," one continues.

"For this moment," says another.

"We have been tasked," a third adds.

"To change your fate," says a fourth.

"And seal it for good," the last finishes.

I stare fixedly at the table, unable to look at any of them properly.

I'm spinning. I can't read their expressions, so I keep my eyes locked on the scarred wooden table, my heart hammering against my ribs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the woman in the middle reach for a long, black pipe. She places it in her mouth and inhales deeply, the embers glowing a fierce orange.

‎A moment later, the woman at the far end of the table exhales a thick, swirling cloud of smoke. But she didn't smoke it. She exhaled the smoke that the other woman inhaled.‎

‎I recoil, a look of pure disgust and horror crossing my face. The intimacy of the act, the supernatural link between them, makes my stomach churn.