This shit was getting freaky.
Chapter 2
Bianca
That night, I tossed and turned, jerking awake, gasping for air. A heavy weight was on my chest, and it pinned me to the bed. Unable to move, I glanced around the room, only to see it wasn't my bedroom. The weight eased, and I slithered off the bed, landing on the floor.
I sat on the worn rug that had seen better days, touching my body, trying to figure out if this was a dream or if I’d finally lost my marbles. My red and black pyjamas were the same ones I put on before climbing into bed last night.
Suddenly, I heard raised voices arguing. I glanced at the space beneath the bed and considered hiding like the coward I was. It was a depressing thought because I used to do this when my parents fought. When the screaming accusations and dull thuds became overwhelming, I would drag my bedding to sleep beneath my bed.
Why was I having a depressing dream?
I stood up and walked to the window, ignoring the two men arguing. My jaw dropped when I looked at the bleak sight below. It looked like a scene created for Jack the Ripper.
A door slammed on the ground floor, and I heard someone coming up the stairs. I crawled under the bed just as the door creaked open.
“I will show them. I will show them all,” a man muttered before he slammed the bedroom door shut.
I glared at the top of the bed, which restricted my view to a pair of black polished shoes. This was easier when I was a child. He placed a circular metal cage on the floor, and the crow squawked. The man took his time doing something on the floor.
I inched closer but could not see his face from his crouched position. The candles came next, but when he took the bird from the cage, I watched the black wings flap wildly. The knife followed, and blood dripped through his fingers as I placed a hand over my mouth. With a weak squawk and a final flutter of the bird’s wings, he began to smear the blood onto the floor.
“I, William Montague, sell my soul to you, my Lord,” he said before he began to chant. “Accept my sacrifice.”
Bianca, you're the chosen one, my darling. Through you, all my dreams will come true.
The guttural voice whispered into my ear, and I screamed.
My eyes snapped open. When I wiped my forehead, it was damp with sweat. I sat in bed and looked around the dark room before reaching for the lamp. Angelica sat on the nightstand, but that couldn't be possible.
I left her in the study.
Her hand.
The missing hand was back, but it held long strands of hair. I reached for my head, but there was no pain. The red curls in her hand were mine.
I ran to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, forcing myself awake. The cooling water against my heated face and the laboured breathing calmed my erratic heartbeat. I blindly grabbed a towel to dry my face, and when I glanced in the mirror, I saw my tousled hair. It caused a shiver to run down my spine.
Hair was often used in black magic.
I dried my face and marched into the bedroom, hesitating to switch the light on, but when I glanced at the bedside table, Angelica was gone. After stumbling back a few steps, I swivelled around and bolted down the hall to the study. I fumbled around the wall until I found the light switch. The doll sat on my desk with no hair and no hand.
Was it part of the dream? No, I was in my bedroom.
I glared at the doll but sat on my chair to switch on my laptop. It quickly loaded, and I searched for William Montague, London. When nothing turned up, I put the approximate year in and got a few hits.
Dollmaker—shop burnt down—several bodies discovered in the apartment above the shop, including various animals. An up-and-coming Dollmaker was taking the industry by storm with his realistic-looking china dolls—a visionary.
1887.
I scanned the article before I searched through the images. There, I found a black-and-white photo of the man. He wore all black, with a tall top hat. His piercing eyes stared back at me. His nose was sharp, his lips pinched, but it was the dead look in his eyes that disturbed me the most. I gulped and reached for my bottle of water.
The eyes continued to stare at me until I snapped the laptop shut. I took a few gulps of water, glancing at Angelica. It was late, and I was tired, but I would read the book on Victorian occult practices in the morning.
William Montague was forty when he died, eight years older than I, but at that time, the average lifespan for men was mid-to-late forties. The man never married and had no children. After his death, no more dolls were produced. I couldn't help but wonder if Angelica was a rare find. The hunt always paired well with profit.
I shook my head.
