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A haunting melody drifted across a sky speckled with stars, the soft notes carrying on a wind that seemed to hum with a strange, secret magic. Out of the darkness, something stirred—a small, motionless figure drifting slowly through the air. It was a doll: its button eyes dark and sightless, limbs limp, and tiny dress fluttering as if caught in an unseen current.
As the doll floated closer, the night seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Then, the figure was pulled through an open window and into a tiny, dimly lit sewing room. A pair of hands—slender and glinting with a cold metallic sheen—reached out to catch it. The fingers were made entirely of sewing needles, tapering to razor-sharp points that gleamed in the flickering green light.
Without hesitation, the Needle-Hands placed the doll on a wooden sewing table and opened a large, ornate sewing kit beside it. Shadows danced across the walls as the hands worked with eerie precision, snipping away the doll’s old-fashioned clothes, severing stitches with one swift motion. The button eyes were plucked from the cloth face and discarded, bouncing off the table with a soft clatter. Even the thick yarn braids were unspooled, leaving the doll’s head bare.
With a flick, the fabric body was turned inside out, the skin shifting from a rich nut-brown to a pale, ghostly pink. Then came the sawdust—fine and dry—spooned carefully into the hollow mouth, each grain filling the doll’s empty shell with a new, unspoken purpose.
Next, the Needle-Hands bent low, their metal fingers tracing delicate patterns across the cloth. Eyes, nose, mouth—stitched with precision and care, until a small, doll-like face emerged. A mop of blue yarn hair followed, each strand punched in with deliberate force, creating a tangled halo around the tiny head.
Finally, the Needle-Hands paused. With a slow, deliberate movement, they reached into the button drawer—a space filled with glistening eyes of every shape and color. After a moment’s consideration, they plucked a fresh pair: two perfect, gleaming black buttons. The new eyes were sewn in place, shimmering with a life that the old ones had never possessed.
The transformation was complete. The doll—now dressed in a bright yellow raincoat—was lifted once more, cradled in the Needle-Hands’ grasp. Its face, smooth and expressionless, seemed to glimmer faintly in the greenish light. Then, as if drawn by an invisible string, it was carried back to the window. With a gentle push, the Needle-Hands let go.
The doll drifted through the night once more, its button eyes wide and unblinking, as it sailed toward a waiting house painted in the same pale pink as its new skin—a place where shadows gathered, and secrets lurked just behind the walls.
It floated on, the haunting lullaby swelling once more, as if whispering a warning.
Or a welcome.
As Akiko looked up at their new home in Ashland, Oregon, she let out a long sigh. The Pink Palace stood at the end of a gravel drive, its faded pink walls and pointed turrets looming like something pulled straight out of an old storybook. The house was tall and crooked, surrounded by dark woods and tangled weeds. It looked both too big and too empty, as if it had been waiting a long time for someone—anyone—to move in.
“Are you sure this is it?” she asked again, her tone a mix of skepticism and defiance.
The man beside her, tall and neatly dressed in a sharp suit, glanced down with an indulgent smile. Mori’s gaze was warm, almost fatherly, but not quite—there was a distance in his eyes, a coolness that never seemed to fully fade. “Quite sure, Yosano-kun. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little old house?”
Akiko’s frown deepened, her arms folding across her chest. “I’m not scared,” she insisted, her voice firm. “It’s just… weird.”
But before Mori could respond, a strange sight caught her attention. High above them, on the sloped roof of the house, a figure was moving. Akiko blinked, squinting against the pale morning light. A man—thin and wiry—was balanced precariously on the rooftop, going through a series of exaggerated calisthenics. He stretched and bent with unnatural grace, limbs folding at odd angles as if he were made of rubber.
“Raz, dva, tri, chetyre…” His voice, low and steady, drifted down to them as he counted in Russian, each word precise and clipped. He swung his legs into a handstand, balancing effortlessly on the very edge of the roof as if gravity were just a suggestion.
Akiko stared, eyes wide. “Mori, i-is that normal?” she asked, unable to tear her gaze away.
Mori glanced into the rearview mirror, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “No need to worry, Yosano-kun. That’s just one of our colorful neighbors.” His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of something else—something almost amused.
“Colorful?” Akiko echoed, a mix of disbelief and irritation creeping into her voice. “He looks crazy.”
Mori just smiled. “All the better for the neighborhood, don’t you think?”
Before Akiko could respond, a loud beep cut through the air, making her jump. She turned just in time to see a tired, old moving truck wheezing its way up the gravel driveway, its rusty frame rattling and swaying like it might fall apart at any moment. The vehicle struggled to make it up the hill, dodging potholes and mud puddles with surprising agility. Its arrival sent a cloud of dust billowing into the air, coating the shrubs and bushes in a fine layer of grit.
Behind it, a battered VW Beetle appeared, roaring up the road as if in a desperate race. Its roof was piled high with mismatched suitcases, all tied together with fraying ropes that looked like they’d give way any second. Without so much as a pause, the car shot past the moving truck, honking furiously as it swerved around the house and disappeared from sight.
“Mer-sa-vech!” The man on the roof—now perched on one leg like some demented bird—shouted angrily, shaking a fist in the direction the Beetle had vanished. His words tumbled out in a rapid stream of curses, the Russian syllables harsh and jagged. Then, with a sharp huff, he dropped back into a low crouch and scuttled along the edge of the roof, his movements quick and unnervingly smooth.
“What was that?” Akiko asked, her gaze darting between the man on the roof and the spot where the car had disappeared.
“Nothing to worry about, dear,” Mori replied, his voice soothing. “Like I said, just the neighbors.”
Akiko narrowed her eyes, but before she could say more, the moving truck finally came to a shuddering halt. The door creaked open, and the three movers stepped out, each one casting wary glances at the house.
The first was a tall man, broad-shouldered and solidly built, his hair pulled back into a tight bun. His name tag read “Kunikida,” and his expression was stern and focused, like a soldier surveying a battlefield.
The second was shorter, with a bulkier frame and a perpetual scowl. His shock of unruly hair stuck out in all directions, and he shot the house a look of pure disdain. “What’re you looking at, kid?” he muttered when he caught Akiko staring, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Nothing,” Akiko shot back, her voice sharp.
But before the tension could thicken, the third mover stepped forward—a pale, thin man who moved with a quiet, unsettling grace. He barely seemed to strain as he hefted a large box from the truck, his eyes cold and detached.
“Alright, let’s get to it,” Kunikida ordered, his voice firm. “We’ve got a lot to unload and not a lot of time.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the second mover grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”
With a creak and a groan, the truck’s rear doors swung open, revealing a veritable mountain of furniture and boxes. There were antique mirrors wrapped in cloth, dark wood dressers, and stacks of crates that seemed to go on forever. Akiko craned her neck, trying to peer inside. It looked like enough stuff to fill an entire mansion.
“Is all of this ours?” she asked, glancing uncertainly at Mori.
“Just a few old things,” Mori replied breezily. “Family heirlooms, mostly.”
Akiko’s gaze shifted back to the movers as they hauled piece after piece out of the truck and onto the gravel path. Even with three of them, it was slow work—Kunikida barking orders as the second mover struggled under the weight of a particularly large cabinet. The third mover, silent as ever, moved with eerie efficiency, stacking boxes taller than himself without a word.
The sight made something twist uneasily in Akiko’s stomach. It was just a house, she told herself. Just a big, empty house.
But as she stood there, watching the shadows stretch across the driveway, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else watching back.
If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that this place had more to it than just creaky floors and dusty rooms.