The rain hasn’t stopped since the machines took control.

Nobody knows why they let the dolls loose. Some say they were leftovers from abandoned factories. Others whisper the dolls weren’t made by human hands at all—that they were born from the machines themselves, something darker and older than any algorithm. Whatever the truth, the dolls came with the rain. And they don’t stop.

I learned the rules the hard way.

Rule one: If you see a doll, never turn your back on it.

I broke that rule a week ago.

I had been scavenging for supplies in an abandoned neighbourhood. The rain poured in heavy sheets, making everything slippery and slow. Most of the houses had been stripped clean, but I found a pantry half-full of canned food—beans, soup, even a tin of peaches. A miracle.

I should’ve left right away. I knew the longer you stayed in one place, the more likely they’d find you. But I was tired—so tired—and the house felt safe. Warm, even. I let my guard down.

That’s when I heard it.

A faint, dry creak from the hallway. Like something small shifting its weight. I froze, heart hammering in my chest.

I turned.

It stood at the edge of the hallway—small, pale, and still. Its porcelain face was smooth except for a thin crack running down from one black, glass eye. It wore a faded blue dress, the lace frayed around the edges.

I told myself it was nothing. Just an old toy, left behind.

But when I turned back to my bag, it moved.

Closer.

The second rule: They only move when you’re not watching.

I snatched my things and bolted. My boots splashed through the flooded streets, but I knew better than to look back. If you do, they find you faster.

I thought I’d lost it—until three nights later.

I had holed up in an old mechanic’s shop, barricading the doors with rusted metal. Rain pounded against the roof, and the air was thick with the smell of oil and mold. I should’ve felt safe.

I woke up in the middle of the night. The air felt… wrong. Heavy, like the world was holding its breath. And in the corner, I saw it.

The doll.

It stood just inside the door. The same crack down its face. The same empty, glassy eyes. I didn’t know how it got in.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then—it smiled.

A slow, unnatural stretch of its painted lips, as if something inside it was learning how.

I don’t remember falling asleep. But when I woke, it was gone.

Rule three: If a doll smiles, it’s already too late.

Since then, they’ve been everywhere. Watching from broken windows. Perched on rooftops, their tiny hands dangling over the edge. They never rush. Never panic. They just… wait.

I don’t know what they want.

Some say the machines use them to track us, sending them out like hunters. Others think the dolls are something else entirely—something the machines can’t even control.

All I know is this: if a doll finds you, it doesn’t stop.

It’s been following me for days. I see it at the edge of my vision—a pale blur in the rain. I tried to destroy it once. Smashed it with a tire iron until its head cracked open. But when I woke up the next morning, it was whole again. Closer.

I’ve been running ever since.

Tonight, I found shelter in an old school. Most of the windows are broken, and the rain seeps through the ceiling in slow, heavy drips. But the doors lock. That’s something.

I sit at a desk in the middle of the classroom, my knife in one hand and a flashlight in the other. My stomach growls, but I don’t dare eat. Not yet.

A sound breaks the silence—a soft, distant click. Like tiny porcelain feet against tile.

I shine the flashlight toward the door. Nothing.

But when I turn back, the doll is sitting on the teacher’s desk. Its cracked face is inches from mine.

Its head tilts slowly, as if considering me.

I should run. I know that. But my legs won’t move.

It lifts one hand—so delicate, so small—and points.

Behind me.

The rain hasn’t stopped since the machines took control. And neither have the dolls.

I turn, heart pounding, and freeze.

The second doll is already here. Taller than the first, dressed in a tattered red gown. Its face is worse—half its porcelain is missing, revealing something darker underneath. Something that shouldn’t move.

Its hand curls into a fist. And then, with a dry, grinding sound, it knocks—a slow, deliberate rap against the wood of the desk.

I understand now.

They’re not just watching anymore.

They’re calling the others.

I don’t think there’s anywhere left to run. But if someone finds this—if anyone is left—remember the rules:

Don’t turn your back.

Don’t blink.

And if a doll knocks—never, ever answer.

Pookiepie

@Pookiepie

Hogwarts

Fragile Innocence

Pookiepie