💥 My Short Stories 💥

The Dollhouse (Horror)

Timothy sat on a three-legged stool splayed out, supporting his thin, malnourished body. His eyes darted wildly across his subject's face in contempt at her beauty. She was indeed his favourite model to work on. Wasn't she perfect?

His foot tapped rapidly on the stool's crossbar, clanging as his heel hit the metal; the annoyance of the sound would usually distract a model from her pose, but not her. She held perfectly still, unfazed and unmoved by his disgruntled sighs or bizarre tics he makes with his face in concentration. Something was off with her appearance. It was eating away at him.

He stood up and made his way to his supply station to look for the exact bronzer in mind. Leaving the artistic colouration of white, yellow, magenta and red impressed into the stool with many colours dribbled down the legs as it seeped over the edge. All dried and stained from last month's works/masterpieces. Appearing vintage like the sitter that it holds up and supports on a daily. There it is! Timothy had found the remedy of arrowroot, beetroot and cocoa powder with his own secret ingredient binding the mixture together.

"Ah yes" he said whilst applying his plant-based bronzer that he made himself to her Sienna-warmed skin. Carefully amplifying her natural tear dropped bone-structure whilst trying not to take-away the ocean-filled blue contacts that were concealed in her eyes. It can force even the prettiest woman to conceal their inner beauty from the likes of men to appear more appealing. And that is what he did. With subtle changes here and there; he had made her. He had transformed her into a magnificent butterfly that she was basically a perfect doll. She didn't dispute any changes because he was the artist after all and her a mere model.

Beauty is within the eye of the beholder; and she is his...

He looks towards his collection of previous works; all picture-perfect, all exquisite and all his. Timothy recollects the time spent with every model that walks through his door, each full of wonder, youth and life. Oh, to see the life distilled in their eyes forever would be a wish to grand too come true. They portrayed something different that he finds collectable in this world and so now he draws inspiration from one to the other; to make the perfect compilation.

Bing! Bing!

"Dammit!" The bell had disturbed his precious contouring, creating an error when he jumped at the sudden noise and with that he snaps the brush in half. She did not flinch. He ran a rag over his face to collect the sweat upon his forehead and tossed it to the side; uncaring at its placement. "Bloody, bloody door—" he sauntered over towards it, "—t-that bloody door" he muttered to himself as he pulled the latch off.

The door opens. Creak...

There stood a striking young woman with ebony complexation; she's rare like freshly cut obsidian; in an instance, he wanted her. He must have her. The sunlight glosses over her elegance. Those who had thought they've seen the wonders of the world. Had yet to see her.

Her intelligent eyes look over at him. After taking in his short, scrawny stature with wildly unkempt wispy curled dark-hair. Her eyebrows furrowed, "Sorry, I must have the wrong address" she says as she swears she saw a flea jump out of his bushy mane of a beard. His clothes were unclean and in places had holes or patches sewn in. If she was to take a guess; She would say the guy usually sleeps on the streets and this was not his studio. The clean exterior of the property contradicts the man standing with a slouch in his stance before her.

"Y-you, you come mod..." he mumbled. He had one or two teeth in his mouth, which made his speech difficult to decipher. "Mod-el" he managed to finish with an almost toothy-grin that bore his only incisors.

"Yes! I saw the advert in the paper." It excited her at the prospect of modelling and not having to work at the run-down dinner two-blocks away. She had become fed up with the off-handed sexual comments from the greasy men ('Customers' her boss reminds her constantly) there.

"Let-Let me show y-you some of mm-y work!" He pulls her off the street into the building. Looks left, then right before closing the door. The door locked before he navigates her to his current prize and possession.

He appeared keen and eccentric in this moment as he lightly grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards the doorway with a plastic sheet entryway. Excited to show his masterpiece like a child showing their first-painting from nursery or introducing you to their first friend.

"Can't y-you see she's beaut-ii...full!" he exclaimed with passion clear in his voice. He stood before his work in complete awe.

"aaaaaaaah!" she screamed as she saw the decomposing body posed in the chair, limp and empty facial expression. A group of maggots fell out the side of her face just under her cheekbone that jutted out; on full display. She had smelt nothing like it before. So rotten, cruel or horrifying as the stench pulling at her gut. It was ready to hurl. Her eyes widened at the sight of make-up that lingered on her skin; parts yet to fall off her body. It was as if he was trying to preserve her beauty.

"Shhhh... y-you'll disturb all mm-y d... d-dolls—" it pissed him off; no one screams at her. Treasured her, complimented her, not disregarded or treated like that. Honestly people. "—I can make you pretty too!"

She had no time to run. He already had a knife. Delicately welded by his experienced hand. This was light work. After all these years, he had practiced often enough and could kill in his sleep.

Never seen again. They only saw her in the pile of missing people's flyers scattered around town. Discarded. Forgotten.

But to him, she was forever a doll in his doll-house. 

It had always been Timothy and his dolls.