Page 19

C hapter 19

Naya

“Holy shit,” the dark timbres of Grey’s voice washes over me as he hauls himself over the debris that was once the staircase.

Holy shit, indeed.

He braces himself, leaning against the dirt-streaked stone walls that had been hidden beneath the floorboards. Standing amidst ruins, he glances at the looming, metallic door—the bane of this place’s existence, and the source of every nightmare at Grimhill Manor.

I suck in a sharp breath, nerves coiling tight inside me like a nest of thorns.

“Are you ready?” he asks, making sure I’m alright.

“No, but if it means we get the slightest inkling of what’s going on, then I have to be.”

Without another word, he offers his hand, and I lower to my knees before jumping down the hole into the darkness below. Grey’s hand wraps around my waist to steady me, my eyes meeting his in a wondrous concoction—a blend of longing and something darker, full of lingering lust that both heats something deep within but also makes me wary.

His eyes speak volumes; a seductive touch trailing over my body like calloused fingers—a touch oh so burning and fierce, yet dangerous.

He releases me and turns to the heavy metal door. With a grunt, he pushes against it with his shoulder, and to my surprise, it opens with a creak that rattles my bone. A sound that seems to echo through the labyrinth of memories this place holds over me.

“Please! Don’t take me there!” the girl cries, heart breaking at the sight of the door before her.

“Shut the fuck up or you will end up buried alive. Do you get that, sweet Naya?”

The door opens with a sound that pierces through her body like a gunshot, and the scream tearing from her is worse than when she saw her mother all bloodied after she’d killed her.

I shudder through the memory, staring at the basement before me. I remember it as clearly as if I’d seen it yesterday. The memory of it is etched on my mind like a permanent scar—the walls, the smell of something rotten, mold, and the oppressive air. The need to hide from it pushes into my mind with a nauseating urgency. Shivers wrack my body, dancing like the devil’s death down my spine from moments I never want to experience again.

This basement was a bunker, safe and secure from outside forces above the earth, but it was also a torture chamber where the doll master punished the disobedient dolls.

Not surprisingly, the basement has been spared, its stone walls as intact as they were the last time I was here. The air is thick with the faint smell of soot, a lingering reminder of the flames that ravaged the manor.

By some miracle, the walls are only blackened in some places from where the fire must have heated the surface, turning it a darker color. Yet it still stands firm—a stark contrast to the remaining manor.

The floor is damp and cold, a mix of packed earth and concrete, with ash and debris from above having settled in patches. The terror claws at my throat in a suffocating grip, feeling as though skeletal fingers are encircling my neck, tightening with every breath, wanting to devour me.

As always, a pervasive sense of dread fills this place, as if something evil and horrific lurks deep within the walls, waiting to come forth.

“Do you feel that?” I ask Grey breathlessly.

Grey looks at me, a burdened expression on his face, as if he, too, can feel whatever horrors stains these walls.

He stays silent for a while until he nods solemnly. “We need to start looking. We shouldn’t be here by nightfall.”

Agreed—Grimhill Manor always was eerie in the middle of the night. I imagine it to be even more so when the house is a fallen building, not existing, yet its horror still lingering.

The basement is rather big, with metal shelves hanging on the walls on the other side, and a large desk pushed up against the far corner. It’s partially covered in soot, and the chair before it looks as if it’s seen better days.

I gulp harshly as I see the mattress leaning against the wall, more dirtied and full of dust than the last time I saw it. Closing my eyes, I brace myself for the memories.

“If someone disobeyed, they were sometimes forced to stay down here for days without food or water, sleeping on that mattress until they were welcomed back to civilization again.”

That hardened look crosses Grey’s expression again, and I know it’s hard for him to hear what horrors occurred here. Even the strongest souls would find it difficult.

I move toward one of the shelves, seeing a collection of old, leather-bound books with spines nearly falling off. What’s even worse is the collection of jars filled with a mysterious substance stacked beside them. They weren’t there the last time I was forced into this basement.

Slimy and green, it looks like something taken right out of a Frankenstein scene. I bite back my disgust, wondering why the fuck Frederick had anything like that.

“Do you see this?”

Grey comes closer, approaching the substances. “What the hell is that?” His tone drops an octave, tinged with revulsion.

He picks up one of the jars, inspecting the liquid closer in the dim sunlight filtering through the crack in the metal door. It sloshes around as he lifts it up, clinging to the sides of the glass as if it’s aware of us.

“It looks like some kind of chemical,” he observes.

“Why would Frederick keep something like that?”

The answer settles deep within me like a serrated blade; that perhaps Fredrick didn’t just orchestrate the monthly, deadly games for the children, but he also experimented on them.

Suddenly, the lukewarm weather outside and the unsettling woods seem to grow even more sinister, as if a chilling arctic wind has sailed in from the ocean to break into the basement, seeping through the walls with an icy dread.

I leave Grey to observe the jars and approach the desk, noticing the stacks of papers on it. Frederick never had any important documents visible when the children were around—he must have been here on the same day he met his ultimate fate at the hands of an unknown man.

Leather-bound journals stacked haphazardly catch my eye, and while some texts are unreadable, most aren’t. The handwriting is scrawly and erratic, revealing a truth more disturbing than I could ever imagine. Dread slithers through me like a snake as I pick up one of the journals, its pages nearly falling down from their weary age. I inspect them, feeling their light weight in my hand, yet something settles deep in me as I open the first journal, scanning my eyes over the first passage.

Observation 101.

“Augustus—a child of seven years old—reacted nonsensically after observing him in isolation for forty-eight hours. Observation remains to be funded.”

Nausea gathers deep in my core as I look at Grey, horror twisting my expression. “Our suspicions were right. He did experiments on children, watching their behaviors for some sick and twisted satisfaction.”

I flip the page and read an entry aloud. “I wonder how long he can endure if I leave him chained to this room for hours. No one would miss him, anyway. The doctorate at the institution will examine him when he arrives late next week.”

Confused, I stare at the letters, wondering who he is talking about. I never noticed anyone coming here that didn’t work here, but surely it must have been during one of the monthly games when none of the staff or guards were permitted. That would have drawn less suspicion.

Grey grabs another journal from the cluttered desk, his expression grim as he flips through the pages, looking for anything of value. While he scans the journals in his hands, I focus on the ones I’m holding.

Observation 157.

Resilience. Obedience. Response to fear. A fascination at observing these children act in a house of dolls. My dolls. And no one will take them from me unless I allow them to.

Observation 379.

2021.

Traits desirable—obedience, resilience, recklessness. How are their reactions to the enhancement program?

“Grey,” I warn, and he leans in to look over my shoulder, his breath tickling my ear. “This entry talks about Dankworth Institute’s program.”

“Let me see,” he demands, and I give him the journal, a piece of paper falling off in the process.

I pick it up as Grey starts reading the entry aloud.

“The meeting with the doctorate went exceptionally well. His funds, along with my inheritance, allow me to continue this business, keeping it private from authorities’ eyes who believe it is a mere orphanage in the middle of nowhere. They always leave me alone, and now even more thanks to Emilio Ricci. In return, I will provide him with my utmost candidates. They depart next week.”

Bile surges up my throat, leaving a sour, acrid taste that lingers unpleasantly on my tongue. A shiver of icy dread sweeps over me, making me shudder and igniting a primal need to escape this enclosed space.

I look down at the note I picked up from the ground, my eyes widening when I see the words written upon it. Or rather, the names.

Multiple unknown names which I do not recognize, only heard in passing when I lived at the manor.

And at the bottom, my name. Lily Blight—NAYA.

My skin cracks apart, as if my soul is tearing its way free, crushing me beneath these enclosing walls.

“I was a part of those candidates.”

This time, I fall to my knees, trying to keep the tide of vomit from pouring out of me. I’m panting by the time Grey lays his hand on mine, coming to sit down on his knees along with me as he takes me in his hold.

“I was a part of those desirable candidates he sent to Dankworth Institute. I mean, I suspected it was something like this all along. But reading it makes it so much fucking worse.”

I close my eyes, breathing through my nose while trying to figure out what the fuck I’m feeling.

“Fuck,” he curses.

I’m spiraling out of control, my breaths coming in short, ragged bursts that make each inhale feel like shards of glass slicing me open. I’m at a loss of control as panic consumes me. I clutch a nearby shelf, desperately trying to anchor myself when it feels as if the world is hunting me down, wanting to drown me with all its might.

“Naya!” A voice sounds far away, and though I know it’s Grey’s, I can no longer discern where he is in the midst of the darkness taking over.

I try to respond, but it’s as if it’s impossible. My throat is parched, and no sound escapes it.

“Little doll!” His voice is more insistent now, but I can’t speak—can’t fucking breathe from the panic clogging my entire being.

I cannot breathe. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to—

Something hard clamps around my throat, constricting my breaths even more, but it’s the controlled way in which it holds me that brings me back to the present, allowing me to see Grey. He towers above me, the dim light casting shadows across his face and those sharp cheekbones. Leaning down so he’s eye to eye with me, his hair falls over his brow that partially obscures his intense gaze. His hand steadily grips me, and his eyes cut through me like the best sort of punishment.

“Calm down,” he commands, and as if in shock, I do as he says, letting him bring me back to the present with the loss of air caused by him.

He holds his hand there, doesn’t let go of the grip, and I only look at him. Confused, bewildered, wondering what the fuck is going on with me.

“You’re safe now, do you hear me?” When I don’t respond, he clamps around my throat again. “Do you fucking hear me?”

“Yes,” I manage to whisper.

He releases the grip, but he doesn’t remove his hand. “Good girl.”

Something heated fills my core. Then, he takes his hand around my neck, gently massaging his way from my shoulders to my scalp, and I cannot help but let out a moan of relief at the sensation, the muscles in my neck tense.

My heart is a wild beat underneath my ribcage as I desperately fight to calm down, needing to stay focused. I can’t get lost within the demons haunting my mind.

“Are you my good little doll?” he whispers into my mouth, his breath warm against my skin and sends a delicious tremor through me. His hand roams over me with a deliberate touch, as if assessing every part of me.

As he brushes his lips against my skin, my breaths grow shallow, but not from panic this time.

His fingers press and probe around my neck tenderly whilst his voice whispers sweet nothings into my ear, and I realize it’s all an act to distract me.

He works his fingers carefully, nibbling my earlobe at the same time, causing me to clench my thighs from the heat in my core.

“My beautiful little doll,” he whispers, continuing to probe around my neck.

And then, I know it’s a distraction. But why?

“What are you doing?” I ask him, voice strained.

At first, he says nothing, his fingers methodically exploring the base of my neck. He pauses when he finds a specific sore spot, his fingers lingering on an unnaturally ragged area between my scalp and neck. The pain is sharp as he pinches the skin between two fingers, making me wince. Panic wells up inside me, an overwhelming urge to scratch and smooth out the unevenness.

I need to fucking itch it, smooth it out and—

“Something’s not right,” Grey murmurs quietly.

Then, it feels as if something lurks beneath my skin, my heart racing faster as the realization dawns, eyes growing wide with palpable fear. “Grey, what did you read in that journal?”

When he doesn’t reply, I repeat my question, my voice harder than I intended.

As he continues to touch the spot, it feels disorienting, like a worm writhing just beneath the surface, ready to strike when I’m least expecting it. Grey suddenly recoils, taking two steps back.

“What is it?” My voice rises, panic lacing my words. “What is it?”

“There’s something in your fucking neck!” he shouts, fear gripping its hold of him.

Eyes widening, my mouth opens and closes as I struggle to find words. My hands fly to my neck, feeling the spot where he had been kneading a particularly hard muscle knot, and I feel something foreign lodged under my skin. I rush to the bathroom—a sad excuse for one—inside the basement, letting the sunlight illuminate the space as I tear off my shirt to see in the mirror.

Uneven skin—scratch it, itch it, cut it out!

Grey follows, gently moving my hair aside to get a better look. In the mirror, I see it—a tiny, rectangular shape beneath my skin that I hadn’t noticed before. Nausea churns in my stomach.

“Don’t freak out,” he says, and I give him a glare that suggests he better shut up.

“Grey. What did you read in the passage?” I ask again, knowing I don’t truly wish to know.

“They did something to all people they sent to Dankworth Institute,” he begins by saying, swallowing harshly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the motion.

I wait for him to finish with bated breath, staring into his eyes through the mirror’s reflection, and my entire skin itches. The voices in my head scream to get rid of whatever’s embedded there. The obsessive compulsion to tear apart the skin is slowly suffocating me.

“This thing inside you… We have to get it out. It’s a tracking chip.”