Emma Gold sat at her small desk, surrounded by hundreds of papers and photographs chronicling countless mysterious crimes she had reported over the years. In a low voice, she read again the paper that contained a fragment of Carrowford's lost article. The text was baffling—each word seemed to melt whenever she tried to read it aloud. The article's title alone was chilling: "How to Craft the Perfect Crime."
Emma was an accomplished journalist, but she was certain this article was more than just an exposé. There was something sinister in every sentence. How could words simply vanish as if they were never printed? This wasn't just a trick of ink—it was something deeper, more haunting.
And the moment she tried to read the next part aloud, the words disappeared completely. Even the lines she had just spoken dissolved into nothing, as if they had never existed. Though she didn't fully understand what was happening, a strange feeling crawled up her spine. She knew she was close to solving the mystery—but it was a dark solution, full of peril.
She stared at the page in her hands for a long time, her eyes scanning the now-blank lines. Then suddenly, she noticed something odd on her desk. A small doll had appeared there, as if it had been placed deliberately—like a prop on a stage. It was a journalist doll, wearing vintage clothes and clutching an old theater ticket. The ticket resembled the kind used in Carrowford's infamous stage productions.
Did this mean someone had been watching her? Emma's gaze locked onto the ticket, which bore a date so old it seemed beyond time—its place and time refusing to acknowledge any known calendar.
Suddenly, she remembered something else. There had been symbols in Carrowford's article—encrypted in the silent language used by deaf actors. Could that be the key? Had Carrowford created a new method of storytelling, one that wasn't written but signed? The doll on her desk wasn't just a clue—it was a cipher. But Emma would need intense focus to decode its meaning.
She felt it in her bones—this case was unlike any other. Its threads stretched across time and space, woven with mystery and dread, making her realize she stood on the edge of a terrifying revelation.
Emma returned to the back room of the printing house, where wooden shelves lined the walls, and old, yellowed pages rustled under the weight of silence. Thick ink bottles gave off their sharp scent, and the only light came from a flickering lantern above, casting trembling shadows—including that of the doll now resting on her desk.
She opened her notebook, where she'd logged the events of the day, word by word. But one line stood out—one she hadn't written: "The curtain won't fall until the final act."
Her eyes slowly rose to the doll. Had it written that? She searched for fingerprints, but the ink was still fresh, almost wet. The faded ticket next to it changed under the lantern's flame—revealing fine threads etched like a map of a stage: the platform, the seats, the curtain. And at the center… a black circle with the words: "The Journalist's Chair... the show begins with you."
She touched the paper. It felt… warm. Alive.
Emma pulled out a small booklet from her drawer—an old guide to sign language for actors she'd once acquired from a forgotten theater. She began to move her hands carefully, silently re-reading Carrowford's article. With each motion, faint words began to reappear on the page—ghostly ink responding not to speech, but to rhythm.
Suddenly, the doll moved. Its mouth opened slowly and whispered in a breath drawn from the very walls: "If you write the full story… your memory won't belong to you."
Emma froze, staring at the paper, then the ticket, then the doll—which hadn't been there yesterday. She didn't need anyone to explain further. She understood now:
A new theater was opening—and she was its lead actress, whether she wanted it or not.
She sat in her wooden chair, fingers trembling over the paper, its words glowing and fading like breath. She tried to write—anything—but her mind was sluggish, drenched in fog. She felt something watching her—not from the window, but from the lines themselves.
Everything around her looked normal. Ink, quill, lantern glow. But a creeping chill wrapped around her bare feet, as if the floor was being pulled out from beneath her.
She whispered to herself: "This isn't journalism… this is a trap."
Then she turned to the doll, still staring with a cracked smile, its expression like the broken face of a clown. For a moment, she could have sworn—its eyes blinked.
Emma gasped and leaned back slowly, heart pounding in her throat. Every instinct screamed: Run. Don't write. Get out.
But she didn't move.
Because the most terrifying truth had already taken root:
F
ear… had written its first line inside her.