The mild chatter from students creates a low hum that resonates around you, each individual discuss uniting to form an inaudible whole.

Two desks in front of you, Lisa, and her clique gossip about the latest news from the weekend. Her blonde hair bobbing with each bit she drops.

Behind, a group of boys are busy doing whatever dumb stuff boys did back there.

To your left, Asher's glasses reflect pages of the Harry Potter book in his lap, and Lily is on your right, engrossed in her homework.

And you? Yes, you're also in class but you can't contain the excitement. Your white sneakers tap restlessly against the tiled floors as you eagerly watch the hands of the gray round clock. In a few minutes, the bell would go off, and you would finally be on your way home to play with your doll house.

Your fingers occasionally twitch involuntarily, as if playing with invisible strings, and sometimes, you catch yourself staring at your classmates, a fleeting thought crossing your mind about how they would look, if you were playing with them in your dollhouse.

This period is basically free, because the Algebra teacher—Miss Shapens called in sick, and the school couldn't find a substitute in time, so everyone was basically doing whatever they wanted.

“Assyria!” Lisa suddenly calls, interrupting your thoughts.

You sorrowfully tear your eyes away from the clock to bear them down on her.

“What happened to your face?” She asks in her plastic voice.

A hush falls over the nearby students, all ears pricked for the drama.

“Assyria's fine, Lisa. You must have heard all about it already.” Lily answers, without looking up.

Lisa's clique starts to snicker, exchanging knowing glances.

“Like I was talking to you, dweeb,” Lisa replies, her voice dripping with disdain.

Lily finally looks up, her gaze steady.

"Ignore her, Assyria. She’s not worth your time," she says softly, offering you a small, reassuring smile. and you smile at her slightly, touching the bruise unconsciously.

Of course, you ignore her. You're not even mad. After all, you know a new doll would soon be on its way.

Besides, the bruise is nothing really, you know that, even as you reach up to feel your forehead. Lisa's words just made you conscious of it again.

As the bell rings, signaling the end of the school day, your mind drifts to the waiting dollhouse. The excitement that had your feet tapping in class now propels you homeward.

In the busy hallway, the neat rows of lockers gleam under the fluorescent lights, each one a silent witness to the day's mundane chatter.

The afternoon sun shines brightly as you make your way out of school, your books hugged tightly to your chest.

A sparkling smile is plastered to your face as you walk past the meticulously arranged blocks of identical pink bungalows with trim bushes, and white picket fences.

As you walk home, you notice a neighbor's cat staring at you intently, its eyes reflecting something you can't quite place.

The sun-dappled sidewalks of your quaint neighborhood seem almost too perfect, as if painted by an artist with an eye for utopia.

Apart from the harmonious chirping of birds in trees, the town basks in a soundless serenity, as if frozen in calm, and perfection with no sign of disorder.

Just the way you like it…

***

It's dark outside, while you wash your dinner plate in the old dishwasher, and set it to dry, wiping your hands on the back of your pants as you leave the kitchen for the sitting room. It's the last night of the weekend, you sigh at the thought, and glance at the full moon, through a French window, wishing it could go on for as long as possible while you play with your dolls.

Speaking of which, you start to smile as you happily prance to the stairs. The floorboards creak in response, and the sounds echo throughout the empty house.

You get to the large wooden stairs, and stoop, then flip the latch open.

The blast of cold air, and dense perfume hits as you go down the creaky wooden stairs.

The basement air is thick with the scent of old wood and the sharp tang of metal, and blood. The creak of floorboards under your feet echoes like distant whispers, and the cold air raises goosebumps on your skin.

The gagged murmurs, and struggles bring joy to your ears as you come into view of your doll house.

A life-size replica of the pink house block sits in the middle of the massive basement, unroofed, with individual marionettes extending into it.

The dolls start crying out for help in tears, with gagged or muffled pleas, and this delights an even brighter smile from you.

To the left, are freezers containing old, and broken doll parts, and to the right are fresh dolls you got, ready to be inserted in their dollhouses, to replace the dolls you broke previously.

You approach them, their horror stricken faces giving you ecstatic pleasure, and stooping, you take the gag off your latest acquisition.

“A-assyria, it's me, Ms. Shapens,” she pleads tearfully while you frame her face with one hand, smiling.

“I'm sorry I detained you. I-I promise to never do-” she starts to cough, because you're squeezing her cheeks so hard your thumb, and index might bore through on either side.

“I tell my dolls what to say!” You suddenly yell, and she’s nodding continuously, weeping, and whimpering.

Then you shove her head away, get into the makeshift elevator, and go up to the podium.

From there you can see all the dolls in the houses, with the marionette strings passed through their bodies to enable manipulation.

There are five houses, and each has at least two dolls.

You turn, and face the new acquisitions.

“My great grandfather who founded this town ran out of business when your people accused him of making ‘diabolical dollies.’ When you all lied that his creations were possessed. Heartbroken, he, and my Nana made this dollhouse for the real ‘diabolical dollies.’ You,” she pointed at them all, “And your families. Since then it's been passed down, and down, and down to me, by her,” you point at one of the dolls in one of the houses.”

She's whimpering, gagged, and pleading. But it's not that the pleas fall on deaf ears. No, they sound like Mozart in your ears.

“Welcome, my new dolls, to your home. For as long as you can last, anyway.” You add the last part, and throw your head back, cackling madly.

“Stop!”

You gasp, glancing around, heart pounding.

“Get out of my head!” I yell, tears streaming down my face.

She sounds just like you. But she is not you.

“Shut up, liar!” I scream, clutching my head. “I am Assyria. Not you. Stop lying to me. Stop making me see things that are not there. Stop putting stories in my head. Just stop!” I fall to my knees, sobbing, desperation clawing at my chest. “Please.”

You are Assyria, not her. And this is your story. You're up here to start the mechanism to insert these new dolls.

“Which dolls?” I whisper, backing away, trembling.

The puppets you've been playing with.

“You're a liar!” I yell, staggering backward, eyes wide with horror.

You don't want to leave. What you want is to pull the lever, to start playing with your puppets.

“No, no, no, that's not me. And there are no puppets here,” I whisper, my voice cracking as tears escape uncontrollably.

Yes. That is you. And, yes, there are puppets here.

“No!” I scream aggressively, losing my balance and falling off the podium, crashing to the ground.

The impact sends pain shooting through your body. That’s gonna leave a bruise on you.

***

You check the time as you approach the pretty little house with a white picket fence smelling of fresh paint, and the small hedge looks trim.

“4 P.M.”

You ring the doorbell, and wait, glancing around the otherwise empty street.

Few minutes later, she opens up the door, dressed in an apron over a flowery dress, with oven mitts in her hand.

You can already perceive the rolls, and the aroma is wonderful.

“Good evening, Ms. Shapens,” you smile, pulling the straps of your school bag.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course, Assyria,” she replies, and steps to the side for you.

You slip your hand in your pocket as you walk past her, and pull out a small perfume bottle, which you silently spray around as you walk in.

Ms. Shapens steps in, and immediately perceives it.

“Quite a mature fragrance for a young lady,” she comments, but you don't return the smile as you approach her.

“I am the puppet master,” you whisper.

“I am the puppet,” she replies.

You smile.

“After I leave, put all your things in order, call the school, and leave a sick note. Then write a suicide letter, leave it on your dining table, lock up, and go to the Koontz Manor. Make sure no one sees you go in. There's a trap door by the stairs. Open it, go in, and close it behind you. Then go down into the basement, put on a gag, and chain yourself. If anyone asks, you never saw me.”

She nods, and then you turn to leave.

“Can I have some rolls?” You ask.

“Of course,” she smiles.

Then you take one from the tray, hesitate, then take all. After all, she wouldn't need them anymore. With one last smile, you leave to prepare things for her arrival.

***

You check the time as you rush down the empty, squeaky school hallway.

“I'm so late,” you breathe, just as you get to class.

You step in, and everyone looks up. Ms. Shapens is already teaching simultaneous equations.

“Why are you late, Ms. Koontz?” She asks, stepping away from the green board.

“I overslept,” you reply, meeting her gaze.

“I see someone decided to start their weekend early,” she remarks.

“You're gonna be spending that time in detention.”

You nod, and smile slightly, moving to your seat.

“Sorry about that,” Lily whispers, and you give her a little smile.

Of course, you don't mind. You're not even mad. After all, a new doll would soon be on its way.

***

“I think I have a problem,” I whisper to my tiny barbie mannequin doll.

“I often find myself staring at my reflection, wondering why the girl in the mirror looks so different from the one in my mind,” I sigh, and look down to make sure the blanket covers my feet. I had just felt a sudden chill down there. 

I realize the blanket is covering me completely, and lie back down to continue. 

“This voice comes into my head, and starts talking about things that didn't happen, and I start seeing things that are not there, and it scares me, because I'm losing my mind,” my voice falters, and I wipe my eyes, fighting a losing battle against the tears.

“Please pray for me, so I don't lose control,” I sniff, and then chuckle, realizing how stupid that is.

Then a voice calls to you,

“It’s not yet the weekend, time for bed!”

And you fall into a deep sleep.

“Help,” my mouth forms the word, but I'm already gone.