Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Tale of the Doll
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Agatha, Ragatha, it was irrelevant what her name would be.
She had always been alone, yet she never managed to grow accustomed to solitude; in fact, she feared it.
So, she decided to adapt to others. To be the friendliest, the happiest, the most empathetic, even if she hated the person. She preferred bad company to being alone.
The only comfort she found was in caring for her horse; the sensation of taming its coat with every brushstroke gave her a certain satisfaction at completing that small task without feeling like a disappointment.
She no longer rode. She preferred to avoid the disapproving looks when she failed to meet expectations or, worse, when she could not surpass her own time.
And upon reaching adulthood, the problems she carried with her only intensified.
She studied a career suitable for a girl like her. She found a fiancé suitable for a girl like her and was on the verge of having a wonderful wedding, if only her fiancé had not decided to sleep with the best man.
It was a blessing in disguise. Agatha was not excited about the idea of marriage, nor a house full of children, nor that her only contribution to the world would be to be someone’s wife.
It was the perfect excuse to convince her mother to stop pressuring her, since this time it had not been she who failed.
Agatha ventured into the real estate business. She arrived at her first showing wearing an elegant baby-blue dress that harmonized with the color of her hair and a white pearl necklace, a relic from her late grandmother.
She parked her car at the entrance of the picturesque mansion. Upon entering, she had to push the door with her shoulder and immediately searched the closet for oil to grease the hinges. She pulled open the curtains in the living room and the dining room, went upstairs to the second floor to turn on the lights, and waited.
Her first appointment did not show up, and after several unanswered calls she decided to end the visit.
But it was a small stumble.
—I'm surprised you expect any result beyond failure. —said her mother.
Agatha smiled and announced she would go up to her room. She did not come down for dinner, even though she was hungry.
The next day she lit scented candles in the living room. She took a package of cookie dough from her bag and placed the pieces on a tray. She had read in an article that baking in the kitchen could create a homely atmosphere and provide greater comfort for potential clients.
But her appointments did not arrive and Agatha had to return home without even having the opportunity to fail.
And every day followed the same pattern for four months.
Until the company issued an ultimatum. Either she sold a property or they would terminate her contract. And the human resources manager made sure to give her the worst property possible. It was an abandoned building.
The building had been the city’s first hospital until an earthquake weakened the infrastructure and its original owners preferred to build a more modern and spacious complex in the city center.
Later it became a wooden chair factory that suffered a great fire in which its owners died, causing the property to gain a reputation for being haunted.
Decades later, a pastor decided to buy the property to establish his own church. It became quite popular and for a time managed to chase away the ill omen everyone in town believed the building carried.
Until one morning, in the middle of a pastoral service, the police entered the premises and handcuffed the pastor amid shocked exclamations and the crying of his wife. It turned out the church was a front for a human trafficking operation…
…They found tunnels connecting different parts of the city to the church.
So now the property was the mayor’s office’s Achilles’ heel. With its horrendous history, the best thing would have been to demolish it, but it was a historic building.
Trapped in time. With no possibility of rest because of a stupid law.
And that meant Agatha would soon be unemployed.
Agatha sighed, driving along the dirt road. She clenched her teeth when the tire of her car fell into a deep pothole and burst. She stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut, the sound echoing along the lonely road.
She turned, looking around. It was deserted. No houses or nearby buildings to ask for help. Agatha understood how a trafficking network could have operated so calmly in the city; there was no one there, neither witnesses nor murderers.
She opened the car door and stretched inside to grab her bag. This time she considered it useless to carry scented candles or attempt any trick to improve the atmosphere.
She would need three priests and a cleaning crew to do anything about the place.
She searched inside her bag for the key to the padlock and grimaced in disgust when the rust from the old lock stained her hands. They smelled like blood.
Was it a prelude to her fate? Even so, she went in.
Agatha raised a hand to cover her nose. The dusty air was too dense. She walked and sneezed while turning on the lights in the hallways.
The doors that were closed, she decided, were better left that way.
She was not earning a commission for finding bodies. Or worse, confronting someone who thought she was invading their home…
…She was a terrible fighter.
She reached the end of the hallway and went up the stairs to the third floor. She stopped when she saw lights shining through the window of a door and heard the hum of… a computer.
She turned behind her, terrified someone might be standing there.
She was alone. Though she felt watched.
—It's paranoia. Everything is fine. —she whispered to herself.
Soft piano notes raised the hairs on her skin; the music came from behind her and seemed to be approaching where she stood.
—It's paranoia. You're alone. —she repeated.
But the piano notes were soon joined by more instruments, like an orchestra.
And soft human voices singing in harmony, reminding her of her days in the church choir. The gentle murmur intensified until the volume of the voices drowned out her own thoughts.
Agatha entered the room and locked the door.
She crouched down, pressing herself against the door and fixing her gaze on the doorknob.
Whether because of her nerves or because it truly happened, she saw someone try to turn it.
The voices fell silent, and the music grew calmer, returning to the initial lonely notes of a piano. She did not attempt to get up from the floor.
She was terrified of not being alone.
She rested her head on one of her knees and observed the room she was in. It was an abandoned office, just as dusty as the rest of the property. With the exception of an old computer.
The dim screen displayed a square bouncing from corner to corner. The repetitive image made her drowsy, and she closed her eyes for a moment.
She woke to the sound of lively instrumental music, the kind common in the cartoons of her childhood. She tried to move her neck and felt a sharp pain as she straightened it.
She blinked lazily toward the computer that remained on and, curious, walked toward it.
She pressed a key on the keyboard, and the screen displayed a start panel with a single icon shaped like a circus tent. She dragged the mouse and clicked the icon.
The piano music came to life again, and Agatha brushed her hand against a white headset.
—A videogame? Here?
She looked around and lifted the headset. When she brought it close to her ear, she heard circus music. Cheerful and childish.
Toc
She turned toward the door and noticed the shadow of a tall person staring directly at her.
In their hand they carried a medium-sized object, and with it they tapped the window in the door.
Toc Toc
The person tilted their head, observing her with curiosity.
Agatha dropped the headset and stepped away from the computer.
The person raised a finger, wagging it from side to side. The same way a small child is scolded.
he looked around, searching for an exit, but the only one was a window sealed with wooden boards.
Toc Toc
The person tapped the window again to get her attention. Agatha watched as they pointed at the headset on the floor and then at her.
Hesitantly, she knelt down to pick it up.
The person raised their thumb, congratulating her, and then mimed placing the headset on their head.
Agatha shook her head and heard the dry metallic click.
She recognized the sound. It was a damn gun.
Toc Toc
The person tapped the window and violently twisted the doorknob to enter the room.
—Don't come in! I'll do it. I swear, I'll do it! —she shouted.
But her promise was not enough for the person, who began pounding on the door.
Her last memory was the sound of the door opening before everything around her turned dark.
Then she was surrounded by an obscene mixture of garish colors.
She closed her eyes as dizziness washed over her. She raised a hand to press against her head, massaging her temples as her mind seemed to explode. When she focused on the sensation, it felt strange to be so soft and plush.
Agatha opened her eyes to look at her hands. Her skin was fabric with neat stitches.
She could hear an animated voice around her, but it was impossible to focus on it.
She clenched her fists, then extended her fingers.
—No. Let her have a sweeter name,— exclaimed a voice in front of her.
She admired the lack of lines in her joints.
Not a single trace of the scars from her childhood.
Her hands were made of cloth.
Like those of a rag doll.