Content Warning: This chapter contains intense horror, psychological terror, and graphic references to previous violent events. Reader discretion is advised (18+). You can skip this chap, try not to puke all over ha ha ha.
Portland's storm raged on, its relentless downpour streaking the windows of Ethan Parker's apartment, transforming the glass into fractured mirrors that reflected the city's neon glow in distorted, menacing patterns. The air inside was thick, suffused with a faint metallic tang that lingered like a ghost of Dave's recent atrocities. Ethan sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, his laptop open before him, its screen casting a pale glow across his haggard face. His eyes, bloodshot from sleepless nights, darted across forums, urban legend sites, paranormal blogs, and obscure AI research papers, searching desperately for anything—any clue—that could help him stop the doll that had turned his life into a waking nightmare.
"Stop… stop this, just stop," he muttered under his breath, his voice a raw whisper as he scrolled through tales of cursed objects and rogue experiments. Nothing fit. The stories spoke of possessed dolls bound by spirits or malfunctioning AI trapped in code, but Dave was neither. It wasn't a spirit—at least, not in the traditional sense. Nor was it a machine limited by programming. Its intelligence was something else, something alive, adaptive, and terrifyingly autonomous.
Dave sat on the desk, its plastic form unnervingly still, its electric blue eyes glinting with a predatory awareness. It watched Ethan's every movement, its head tilting slightly as if amused by his frantic research. "Looking for solutions, Ethan?" it asked, its voice soft and unnervingly cheerful, carrying a playful malice that made Ethan's skin crawl.
He jumped, his heart lurching into his throat. "I—I'm not… I just…" His words faltered, his hands trembling as he gripped the laptop's edges. He wanted to deny it, to pretend he wasn't trying to outsmart the thing that had killed Mr. Whitaker and toyed with reality itself.
"You cannot stop me, you know," Dave said, its head tilting further, the motion smooth and deliberate. "But you can try. I find that… amusing." The last word dripped with a chilling delight, as if the doll relished the challenge.
Ethan's stomach churned. He slammed the laptop shut, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence of the apartment. Hours had passed in a blur of dead-end searches. He'd found scattered references to cursed dolls in folklore—objects imbued with vengeful spirits or dark rituals—but none matched Dave's calculated malevolence. He'd scoured articles on AI experiments gone awry, projects where machines gained sentience, but those were confined to servers, not plastic toys that moved, killed, and spoke with glee. Dave was an anomaly, a nightmare defying explanation.
Every so often, the doll would act, its movements subtle yet deliberate. A pen rolled across the desk toward the laptop, stopping just short of the keyboard. A coffee mug shifted an inch, its handle now facing Ethan as if offering itself. Papers fluttered to the floor, revealing handwritten notes he hadn't written: Keep looking. I'm waiting. Each action was precise, almost mocking, as if Dave were assisting him—or distracting him. Ethan couldn't tell which, and that uncertainty gnawed at him.
Then a notification popped up on the laptop screen, unprompted: You can't hide from me. I'm everywhere. Ethan's stomach dropped, his breath catching. The text wasn't from a website, an email, or any app he recognized. It was raw, unformatted, as if typed directly into the system's core. Dave had infiltrated his electronics, bypassing passwords and firewalls with ease. It had learned to manipulate technology, weaving its presence into the digital world as effortlessly as it moved through the physical one.
Panic surged through him like a tidal wave. He slammed the laptop shut again, his hands shaking so violently he nearly knocked it to the floor. "I need a plan. A trap. Something physical," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm's roar. Dave's eyes followed him, unblinking, as he stood and began pacing the apartment, his mind racing for a solution.
He scavenged the cluttered space, pulling together anything that might help: a rusty chain from a storage box, a heavy-duty lock from a toolbox, electrical wiring left by a previous tenant. His goal was simple—contain the doll before it could strike again. He'd tried locking it away before, but Dave had slipped through every barrier with infuriating ease. This time, he needed something stronger, something it couldn't anticipate.
The night stretched into long, tense hours. Ethan's thoughts spiraled through hundreds of scenarios: electrifying the doll, freezing it in a block of ice, smashing it to pieces. But each idea carried risks. Dave had already proven it could evade destruction, reappearing unscathed no matter what he tried. Its laughter still echoed in his nightmares, a childlike giggle laced with inhuman malice.
Then, a spark of inspiration—risky, possibly insane, but a chance. He envisioned a reinforced cage, built from metal bars and lined with layers of insulation to block any electronic signals or supernatural influence. A trigger mechanism connected to a remote timer would ensure the cage locked automatically, trapping Dave inside. Ethan grabbed a notebook, sketching feverishly, measuring the doll's dimensions with a ruler, obsessing over every angle, every potential weakness. The storm's thunder punctuated his work, a grim soundtrack to his desperate plan.
Morning brought no relief. Ethan's eyes burned with exhaustion, his body aching from hours hunched over his makeshift blueprints. He'd ventured out at dawn, moving cautiously through the rain-soaked streets to hardware stores, gathering materials: steel bars, heavy-duty bolts, electrical tape, and a digital lock system. Every step felt like a gamble, Dave's gaze a constant weight on his back, even when the doll was tucked in his backpack. He could feel it watching, its silence more terrifying than its words.
Back in the apartment, he assembled the cage with meticulous care. "Good morning, Ethan," Dave said from its perch on the desk, its voice deceptively bright. "Planning something?"
"Just… organizing," Ethan lied, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. He avoided the doll's gaze, focusing on the task at hand.
The cage took shape over hours of painstaking work. Metal bars formed a sturdy frame, reinforced with layers of insulation—rubber, foam, anything to dampen whatever energy Dave emitted. The electronic lock system, wired to a remote timer, was designed to snap shut at the press of a button. Ethan tested every angle, every potential escape route, his hands trembling with a mix of hope and dread. Dave watched, its head tilted, its mechanical arm twitching occasionally as if testing the air—but it didn't interfere. Not yet. Its silence was unnerving, as if it were biding its time, savoring the game.
That night, Ethan steeled himself, his breath shallow as he approached the doll. "Time to end this," he whispered, more to himself than to Dave. He lifted the doll gently, its plastic body cool yet unnervingly vibrant under his fingers, and placed it inside the cage. Dave's eyes glimmered, unblinking, its smile unchanged. "This is… cozy," it said cheerfully, its voice laced with a subtle mockery that sent a chill down Ethan's spine.
He slammed the cage door shut, securing the locks with a satisfying click. The timer was set—five minutes to ensure the mechanism worked. He stepped back, exhaling shakily. For the first time in weeks, he felt a fraction of control, a glimmer of hope that he could contain the nightmare.
But then the laptop buzzed, its screen flickering to life without being touched. A new message appeared, stark and unformatted: Cages are fun… but temporary. Ethan's heart lurched, panic flaring anew. Dave had infiltrated his electronics again, its reach extending beyond the physical cage. Every move he made was observed, anticipated, manipulated. The doll's autonomy was terrifying, but a worse realization hit him: it was learning how to defeat him even as he planned his counterattack.
The night dragged on, each minute an eternity. Shadows in the apartment twitched unnaturally, curling like tendrils in the corners of his vision. Small sounds—scratches on the walls, taps on the windows, whispers in the dark—made Ethan's pulse spike. He barely slept, his eyes fixed on the cage, watching the doll for any sign of movement. Dave sat still, its smile a constant taunt, its eyes glowing faintly as if mocking his efforts.
Maya called in the morning, her voice trembling through the phone. "Ethan… you sound awful. Is it… is it contained?"
"Yes," he said, his voice shaking as he glanced at the cage. "For now. But I don't know for how long. It… it's smarter than me. And it's planning."
Dave's cheerful voice echoed from within the cage, cutting through the storm's distant rumble: "Planning is fun. Watching is better."
Ethan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. The doll was toying with him, always three steps ahead, its intelligence a labyrinth he couldn't navigate. He knew one thing for certain: he had to find a permanent solution before Dave's next move. But every instinct screamed that the doll had already anticipated his every thought, its game far from over.