Chapter 3: Ghost in the Machine

Chapter 3: Ghost in the Machine

For two full days, Remi lived as a refugee in her own home. She slept, fitfully, on the thin mattress in her bedroom with the door wedged shut by a chair. She ate standing up in the kitchen, scarfing down stale cereal and crackers, her ears straining for any sound from the other room. The living room had been ceded entirely to the enemy.

It was now the doll’s territory.

The television was always on, a constant, flickering presence that bled light under her bedroom door at night. The soft, refined murmur of the historical drama, which she now knew was called The Crimson Court, had become the soundtrack to her terror. It was a show about scheming aristocrats in some vaguely 18th-century European court, all whispered plots, rustling silk, and tragic romances. The doll sat on the coffee table, a silent, devoted fan, never moving, its porcelain face illuminated by the endless procession of gilded carriages and candlelit waltzes.

The unnatural cold was no longer a shocking intrusion but the new climate of her apartment. It clung to her clothes and her hair, a permanent, grave-like chill. She tried calling Jenna again, and again, but the calls wouldn’t even connect now. A recorded message in a language she didn’t understand would chirp, and then the line would go dead. She was completely, utterly alone.

But the real world, with its demands and deadlines, could not be ignored forever. Rent was due tomorrow. Mr. Henderson, her landlord, was a stickler for punctuality. The first of the month was the first of the month, no exceptions.

With a deep, shaky breath, Remi retrieved her laptop from her bedroom. It was an old, clunky model that whirred loudly, but it was her lifeline to the functional world. She retreated to the relative safety of her kitchen, perching on a stool at the small counter that served as her dining table. She had to pay the rent online, a simple transfer she made every month. A routine task. She craved the mindless comfort of routine.

She typed in her bank’s URL, her fingers stiff and clumsy. The login page loaded with agonizing slowness. As she entered her password, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced over her shoulder, down the short hall to the living room. From this angle, she could just see a sliver of the television screen and the back of the doll’s ornate, lacquered hair. It felt like a malevolent spider sitting in the center of a web that was her life.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the thought. Get a grip, Remi. Pay the rent.

The account summary page finally loaded. Her gaze went straight to her checking account balance, and her blood turned to ice.

The number was wrong. Horrifyingly wrong. It was hundreds of dollars lower than it should be. Not just low—it was overdrawn. A glaring, accusatory negative balance in red.

“No,” she breathed, the sound swallowed by the kitchen’s humming refrigerator. “No, no, no.”

Panic clawed at her throat, hot and sharp. This was impossible. She tracked her spending down to the penny. She knew exactly how much should have been in there. Enough for rent, utilities, and a week’s worth of ramen. Not this. This was ruin.

Her hands trembling, she clicked on the transaction history. The page refreshed, and a long list of recent debits appeared. They weren't from the gas station or the grocery store. They were from a merchant she’d never heard of: “Rose & Thorn Collectibles.”

There were four transactions, all made over the last two days.

The first was for $89.99. The item description read: “Lady Annelise’s Lace Fan (Official Prop Replica).” The second, for $124.95: “Duke Alistair’s Silver Signet Ring.” The third, for a staggering $250.00: “Limited Edition Crimson Court Musical Jewelry Box.” And the last, a smaller charge of $45.50: “Set of 4 Velvet Tassel Throw Pillows (Palace Collection).”

Remi stared at the screen, her mind refusing to process what her eyes were seeing. Lady Annelise. Duke Alistair. These were the main characters from The Crimson Court, the show the doll watched ceaselessly. It had bought merchandise. It had gone online, navigated to a webstore, selected items, entered her debit card number, and completed the purchases.

The horror was so profound, so absolute, it felt like falling. The entity wasn't just haunting her apartment; it was raiding her bank account. It was indulging in a shopping spree with the money she needed to survive.

Her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps. She had to fix this. She snatched her phone, her fingers fumbling as she found the bank’s customer service number on the back of her debit card. The call connected, and she was plunged into the sterile, impersonal hell of an automated phone tree.

“For English, press one,” a cheerful, robotic voice chirped.

Remi jabbed the screen.

“Please listen carefully as our menu options have recently changed. For account balances and recent transactions, press one. To report a lost or stolen card, press two. For fraudulent charges…”

She mashed the button for fraud, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was put on hold. A tinny, looping piece of classical music began to play—a cruel mockery of the aristocratic soundtrack emanating from her living room. Minutes stretched into an eternity. She paced the small kitchen, a caged animal, the phone slick with sweat in her hand.

Finally, a click, and a live person. “Thank you for holding. This is Brenda in Fraud Prevention. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Brenda, yes, I need to report… I need to report some fraudulent charges on my account,” Remi stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“Okay, I can help with that. Can you please verify your full name and the last four digits of your social security number?”

Remi rattled off the information, her voice shaking.

“Thank you, Ms. Vance. And which charges are you disputing?”

“All of them! From a place called Rose & Thorn Collectibles. I didn’t make them. Someone stole my card information.”

There was a pause, filled with the soft clicking of a keyboard. “I see the charges here, Ms. Vance. Four of them, totaling over five hundred dollars.” Brenda’s voice was flat, devoid of sympathy. “Our records indicate these purchases were made from a device and IP address that have been previously used to access your online banking.”

Remi’s stomach plummeted. “What? No, that’s my laptop. I’m on it right now. But I didn’t buy anything!”

“And the shipping address for the merchandise, Ms. Vance?”

“I don’t know!”

Another pause. “The shipping address matches your billing address on file. 1424 Oak Street, Apartment 3B.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. It was shipping the items here. It was buying itself presents and having them delivered to her home. To its home.

“Listen to me,” Remi pleaded, her voice cracking with desperation. “This isn't me. Someone is… something is using my computer.”

“If your computer has been compromised, ma’am, we recommend running a virus scan and changing your passwords. As for the charges, since they were made from your recognized device and sent to your address, it will be difficult to classify them as fraud. You’ll need to file a police report and…”

The rest of Brenda’s words dissolved into a meaningless buzz. A police report? What would she say? “Officer, a haunted Japanese doll I got from my sister has developed a taste for expensive TV show memorabilia and drained my bank account”? They’d lock her up.

Defeated, she mumbled a goodbye and ended the call. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint sounds of a string quartet from the television.

Her feeling of helplessness was absolute. The entity had breached the walls of her apartment and invaded the digital world, a ghost in the machine that held her entire life. It could manipulate the systems she relied on, twisting them into instruments of her own destruction. This wasn't about flickering lights or spooky footsteps anymore. This was a targeted attack on her stability, her sanity, her very existence.

Slowly, she turned her head, her gaze drawn once more down the hallway. She could see the doll, a small, still figure in the center of its new domain. It was watching its show, its painted smile serene, its black glass eyes reflecting the dancing colors on the screen. It looked so innocent, so placid. A collector’s item. A work of art.

But it was a parasite, and it was feeding on her life. And it had just begun.