Play of Shadows

2.16: Needle's Ear

Their search came up empty. "Perhaps we were dropped in different locations," Michael hypothesized.

Ann opened her mouth to offer her thoughts, but caught herself in time. Michael was not looking for Frances' feedback - in fact, the man was still talking, running through scenarios as he built a gameplan all on his lonesome. Ann smiled bitterly. This, too, was disconcertingly familiar.

Ann would have pushed back, but Frances had never cared much about any plans they set up. He'd space out and nod his head and then do his thing anyway. It used to drive Michael bonkers.

"Did you hear what I said?" Michael broke in on cue.

Ann must have looked as dazed as she felt, because Michael frowned and called out Frances' name next. That was enough to dispel the strange sense of déjà vu.

"Yeah, sure. Let's go," Ann said.

Michael looked as dubious as his stitched face would allow. It was a little funny, Ann supposed. Not in the haha sort of way, but one had to appreciate life's curveballs. They always landed so damn well.

The plan was apparently twofold. Step one was getting out of the crafts basket, which involved building a ramp from a pile of yarn and using more of the same as an escape rope. The dark refused to lift, so when they grappled down the side of the basket - Ann first, because that was the kind of thing Frances would do - they did so entirely blind.

It took them some time to reach solid ground. When Ann landed, the old floorboards creaked softly under her tiny weight.

There was a click. Light bloomed directly above them, painting a spotlight on the knitting basket. Ann's button eyes rolled up in time to see a hand reach out from the dark. It was pale and a bit thin but oddly elegant for a disembodied arm.

It was also holding a pair of thin scissors.

Snip, and the loose thread that doubled as the dolls' climbing gear was no more. Michael was still some distance away from the floor and his tumble down was anything but gentle. Thankfully, their soft bodies were impact-resistant.

The scissors kept on moving, cutting through the bundles of yarn and stabbing into the basket at random. Ann looked at where Michael lay in a heap, playing at an inanimate object, then up at the flashing scissors. She made a snap decision and pulled the man away from the table and the light by one of his plush legs, dragging them both further into the dark.

The scissors closed. The arm moved, as if whoever it belonged to was walking around the table. There were no footsteps, only a heavy creaking sound.

"Good children put their dolls away," a woman said softly.

The words rang eerily hollow, like a grandfather clock striking an hour in the dead of night. But that was not what had Ann's hair standing on end.

Wasn't that her own voice?

The creaking noise grew as the woman with the scissors passed by. Had Michael remained where he had fallen, he would have certainly been spotted.

The woman seemed to give up. The creaking sound retreated and the light dimmed until it faded completely. Before Ann could breathe a sigh of relief, the familiar voice returned, singing softly in the dark.

Ten little dolls

Strung on a line.

Stitch by stitch they come together,

Stitch by stitch they come apart.

Now, nine remain.

The song ended abruptly, as if cut with a blade. The creaking sound also disappeared.