Chapter 7: Digital Prison

Chapter 7: Digital Prison

There was no ceremony to bringing it back inside. When the impossible reality of the doll sitting on her doorstep had fully sunk in, a chilling, dead-calm resignation had settled over Remi. She had simply unlocked the lobby door, picked up the cold, silent figure, and carried it back up the three flights of stairs to Apartment 3B. The act felt less like a choice and more like a surrender. What was the point in fighting a tide that could cross the city in the blink of an eye?

She had placed it back in its spot on the coffee table. Within minutes, as if sensing its throne had been restored, the television had flickered to life. The Crimson Court resumed, the sound of harpsichords and rustling silk once again filling the unnaturally cold air. The two red words, MY TURN, still screamed from the wall, a permanent testament to her failed rebellion. The doll sat, its smile unchanging, its victory absolute.

Remi retreated to her bedroom, the flimsy door her only shield. She knew physical distance was meaningless now. The dumpster had proven that. The curse wasn't in her apartment; it was in her. A parasite latched onto her soul. But if she couldn't escape it, maybe she could understand it. Knowledge was a weapon, wasn't it? Her last resort.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her old, whirring laptop perched on her knees. The internet. A window to the entire world's repository of information. Somewhere out there, someone had to know something about dolls that came back.

Her hands trembled as she opened the browser. The Wi-Fi signal, usually spotty, was five full bars. Of course it was. It wanted her to look. It wanted to play.

She typed her first, simple query into the search bar: “Vintage Japanese geisha doll.”

The results page loaded instantly. A cascade of images and links to auction sites, collector forums, and museum archives. For a moment, a sliver of hope cut through her dread. This was normal. This was manageable. She clicked on the image tab, hoping to find a doll that looked like hers, something that might give her a name, a manufacturer, a place to start.

The screen filled with hundreds of pictures. Dolls in vibrant red kimonos, dolls with intricate hairstyles, dolls holding fans and parasols. She scrolled down, her eyes scanning the grid for that familiar pale face and decaying cherry blossoms.

And then she saw it. Tucked between a photo of a modern kokeshi and an antique ichimatsu, was Kiko. Her doll. The photo was crisp, high-resolution, far clearer than her own terrified gaze had ever allowed. She could see the faint cracks near the porcelain hairline, the subtle, hand-painted blush on its cheeks.

Her finger hovered over the trackpad, and she clicked on the image. It expanded, filling her screen. And as she stared at it, the image changed. The serene, red smile seemed to twitch at the corners, stretching a millimeter wider. She blinked, shaking her head. A trick of her tired eyes. She looked again. The smile was definitely wider now, a subtle but undeniable contortion into a mocking smirk.

A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She slammed her finger on the escape key, and the image shrank back to a thumbnail. But as she looked at the grid again, she saw another one. And another. The doll’s face was beginning to replace the others, overwriting them one by one, like a virus. Soon, the entire page was a horrifying mosaic of the same pale, smiling face, each one slightly different—one smirking, another seemingly scowling, another with eyes that looked blacker, deeper, hungrier.

She gasped and clicked the back button, returning to the main search results. She would try text only. No more images. She scanned the blue links, forcing herself to read the snippets of text underneath.

“...the doll is said to bring great fortune to whoever holds it, a comfort in lonely times...”

“...these dolls are often passed down through generations, becoming vessels for family memories...”

“...it stays with you forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and…”

The text on the screen began to corrupt, the last few words repeating in an endless, looping string. Remi’s breath hitched. She tried to scroll down, but the page was frozen. Then, from her laptop’s tinny speakers, a faint melody began to play. The elegant, haunting theme music from The Crimson Court.

Panic seized her. She tried to close the browser window, but the cursor wouldn’t respond. It was frozen in the center of the screen. She jabbed at the power button, holding it down, but the computer ignored her, the music swelling in volume.

The browser window suddenly closed on its own, replaced by a blank, white word processing document. The cursor appeared, a single, black, blinking line at the top of the page. It pulsed once. Twice.

And then, it began to type.

S T A Y

The letters appeared one by one, with deliberate, mechanical clicks that she could hear over the music. Remi stared, mesmerized with horror.

M I N E

The cursor moved to a new line.

D O N T L E A V E A G A I N

The words were a direct response to her trip to the dumpster. It knew. It was scolding her.

P L A Y W I T H M E

“No,” Remi whimpered, shoving the laptop off her lap. It clattered onto the floor, but the screen remained on, the words glowing in the dim light of her bedroom. The music from the speakers grew louder, more distorted, the delicate harpsichord notes twisting into a discordant, metallic shriek.

Then the screen flickered. The word processor vanished, and the entire screen was filled with a single, massive, pixelated image of the doll’s face. It was a distorted, close-up view, its black glass eyes like twin abysses, its red smile a grotesque, jagged gash across the screen. It was a digital prison, and she was the only inmate.

That was the final straw. Her last gateway to the world had been slammed shut, turned into another tool for her tormentor. There was only one option left. One person. Even if the call didn't go through, she had to try.

With a sob, she scrambled for her phone on the nightstand. She found Jenna’s contact, her thumb shaking so violently she could barely press the call icon. She held the phone to her ear, expecting the same bizarre, foreign recording as before.

It rang once.

It rang twice.

A click. "Remi! Hey, stranger! My phone's been acting weird in Bali, I swear this thing has a mind of its own. What's up?"

Jenna’s voice, so full of life and sunshine and blissful ignorance, was like a punch to the gut. Remi couldn't form a sentence. All that came out was a dry, ragged gasp, the sound of a soul being scraped raw.

"Remi? You there? Hello?" Jenna’s breezy tone faltered, replaced by a flicker of concern.

"Jenna," Remi finally managed to whisper, and her own voice was alien to her, a shattered, raw-nerved rasp. "Jenna, you have to help me."

"Whoa, slow down. You sound awful. Are you sick?"

"It’s the doll," Remi choked out, tears finally breaking free and streaming down her face. She was barely coherent, the words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. "The doll you gave me. It came back. I threw it away, Jenna, I drove it across town and threw it in a dumpster and it was waiting for me on the doorstep when I got home."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. "Remi, what are you talking about? That's impossible. Someone is messing with you. It's a prank."

"It's not a prank!" Remi shrieked, her voice cracking with hysteria. "It's writing on my walls! It's in my computer! It's watching me! It wants… it wants its turn!"

She was sobbing uncontrollably now, the phone slick in her hand. The sheer, undiluted terror in her voice, the sound of a mind at the absolute edge of its endurance, finally sliced through Jenna's skepticism. The casual traveler vanished, replaced by the older sister.

"Okay," Jenna said, her voice suddenly sharp, sober, and stripped of all its earlier carelessness. "Okay, Remi. Listen to me. Where are you?"

"I'm in my bedroom. The door is shut."

"Stay there. Lock it. Don't go near that… that thing. Do you hear me?"

"Jenna…"

"I hear you," Jenna said, her voice tight with a new, dawning fear. "I really hear you. I'm coming home. I'll get the next flight out of here. Just… just hold on. I'm coming."

The line went dead. Remi lowered the phone, her body still wracked with sobs. Jenna was coming. Help was coming. But as she glanced at the laptop on the floor, its screen still filled with that monstrous, smiling face, a new, colder dread settled in. She had invited someone else into her prison. And she had no idea if the warden would let them leave.