- [Hwa-Young, the Witch] -
The alchemy laboratory hums with an electric sort of anticipation, the very air crackling with the potential of ancient, arcane secrets waiting to be unveiled. A faint, ever so slight, chill clings to the brickwork, a breeze whispering through the cracks in the walls, and the dim light flickers uncertainly from the hanging lanterns swaying gently above. The scent of crushed herbs and potent elixirs permeates the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang that seems to seep from the very bones of everyone inside.
— Together with the pleasant, delightfully fresh aroma of crushed lavender.
Hwa-Young stands at the center of the room, her robe a swirl of deep purples and midnight blues that ripple with each movement. Her hands — delicate and unsteady — flit over the ingredients laid out before her, a scatter of glass vials and wooden bowls filled to the brim with vibrant powders and liquids. Her students — four wide-eyed apprentices — watch with a mix of fascination and nervousness, their own hands itching to mimic the witch’s work.
They had originally come from various corners of the kingdom, each drawn by the promise of power and the allure of forbidden knowledge that the Vampire Lord's castle offers for adventurers. But be it by good fortune or unusual aptitude, they all stumbled upon — or were stumbled into — by the witch who made them an unusual bargain.
Yet, beneath their eagerness lies a shared anxiety, for Hwa-Young is known for her forgetfulness as much as her skill. Sometime’s she’ll forget what ingredients she’s put into a potion actively while making it, creating exceptionally dangerous situations regularly. The tables around them are more than used to being flipped over and used as impromptu blast shields. All of the living objects inside the laboratory have left long ago, for their own safety.
The laboratory itself, now in heavy use, is a marvel of dark elegance — shelves carved from obsidian and lined with tomes bound in leather, their spines cracked and worn from centuries of time. The floor, a mosaic of polished black stone, reflects the room’s contents in ghostly silhouettes. At the far end, a large cauldron bubbles quietly, its surface disturbed by the occasional ripple of a slimegirl’s playful touch. The slimegirls — translucent and ever-curious — glide around the room, their giggles a soft echo that dances around the students, who occasionally throw them nervous glances.
— They alone were brave enough to stave in here, unlike all of the other monsters. There’s something about that fact, contrasted with their odd playfulness, that makes them frightening.
“So now we must add the powdered tongue of a basilisk,” starts Hwa-Young, grabbing a smudged vial.
“Teacher!” interrupts a student quickly, raising his hand. “You already added that!” he notes, the others already ducking out of the way as Hwa-Young uncorks the glass.
“...Did I?” asks the witch quietly, quietly pondering with a finger tapping on her chin.
A sharp knock at the heavy oak door startles the room into silence. Hwa-Young’s head jerks up, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features before she smooths it away. With a murmured apology, she excuses herself, leaving the apprentices to their own devices amidst the bubbling cauldron and the giggling slimegirls.
The door creaks open, revealing a shadowed figure — the Vampire Lord himself, his presence a suffocating weight that seems to draw the warmth from the room.
Hwa-Young freezes, standing in place. “Is… is it finally time?” she asks through her translating skull, her usual, absent-minded and lightly playful voice taking an abruptly serious note that unnerves her students who whisper amongst themselves.
They’ve never seen the Vampire Lord before.
“It is,” notes the fascinatingly dashing man, his ruby eyes shining more vividly than any of the torchlight around him.
Hwa-Young turns around, grabbing the door. “Stay here!” she instructs promptly. “Cause no trouble,” says the witch, sparing them a second’s look. “I will return shortly.”
As the door closes behind her, the apprentices exchange uneasy glances. This castle is an odd place, and most of them don’t like being in it that much. It’s ice cold, and there is a… feeling in the air, a dreadful feeling that makes them know they’re most unwelcome. Hwa-Young’s usual chipper voice and ditzy lectures are the only real contrast to that they ever get.
The room seems suddenly colder, the shadows longer, and the flickering lights more hesitant. One of the slimegirls, sensing the shift, bounces over to a student, nudging their hand with a cool, gelatinous touch. “What do you think he wants?” one whispers, the words almost lost in the stillness.
“I don’t know,” another replies, their voice barely more than a breath. “But it can’t be good. Do you think there’s some sort of problem?”
The tension grows, a living thing that coils in the corners and wraps around their hearts. It’s only broken by a woman’s loud, shrill, piercing scream — a sound that cuts through the silence like a blade a second later. It lasts and reverberates much longer than is comfortable. The students all jump, the noise echoing in their ears long after it fades into the oppressive quiet.
“Teacher!” calls one of them, running to the door but being stopped by another student who grabs him.
“Are you insane? Stay here!” he warns. “You know the monsters out there aren’t friendly.”
Moments stretch and snap like old elastic bands until the door swings open once more to reveal Hwa-Young returning, her legs weak as she catches herself on the wall. Her hair is disheveled, her cheeks flushed with color, but it’s the fresh red bite mark — a vivid crescent on her pale neck — that draws the students’ attention. It gives her the appearance of a wild drunk, roaming the streets to get home on her last legs.
One of the apprentices swallows hard, glancing at the others. “Should we - ”
“Shh,” another hisses, eyes darting to the door, as if expecting the Vampire Lord to burst back through at any moment. “Just pay attention.”
Hwa-Young sweeps back into the room with the air of someone who has misplaced a thought mid-sentence and is determined to find it again.
“Now, where were… we?” she asks, seeming strangely giddy, her voice bright and unconcerned, as if nothing had happened. She falls over, catching herself on her desk, her large, wide-brimmed hat falling halfway over her face as she laughs by herself at something. She doesn’t notice the way her students’ eyes linger on her neck, nor the way their expressions have shifted from eager curiosity to wary confusion. Her hands move to the ingredients once more, stirring and mixing with practiced ease as she slurs her words.
“Ah, yes,” says Hwa-Young. “We need to add some tongue!” she says excitedly, grabbing an open vial. “…A familiar mood,” she ponders to herself, holding her red face with one hand.
“Wait! Teacher!” calls one of them desperately, the others diving to the ground and taking cover as a second later, an explosion blasts out from the cauldron, scorching the already black ceiling. Fire blasts out of the open window.
The stone of the ceiling used to be gray, back before their first lessons began weeks ago.
— Just like the rest of the room.
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- [Fi-Fi, the Maid] -
A heavy air presses down within the shadowed confines of the odd chamber, thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the acrid scent of fear. The dim light from the solitary, ornate lantern flickers uncertainly against the tapestried stone walls, casting wavering shadows that seem to slink and twist of their own accord over the duck-pattern rug, covering old blood stains that just would not scrub out of the rock. As always, even here the cold is ever-pervasive, seeping into every crevice and chilling the marrow, a constant reminder of the room's grim purpose.
Although it has been… redecorated.
Fi-Fi stands in the center of the torture chamber, her bright skeletal form and frilly maid’s dress a stark contrast against the darkness she silhouettes. Her voice rings out — sharp and commanding — as she directs the lesser vampires with a precision that brooks no argument. The three of them scurry under her watchful gaze, their pale faces drawn and tense, eager to avoid her ire. By order of the Vampire Lord himself, she has full control over their fates. She decides who lives and who dies; she decides who has to mop, who gets to dust, and who gets to fold bedsheets.
Each movement is scrutinized, each corner inspected for the grime that has no place within the Vampire Lord’s domain.
The castle isn’t just some death-filled pit of despair, screaming, and agony. No. It’s a death-filled home full of despair, screaming, and agony.
— And that requires some love to be put into it here and there.
The lesser vampires — newly appointed to their roles — move with a mix of lethargy and determination. Cleaning a castle such as this is no small feat, and they are keenly aware of the two hollow eyes that watch their every move. They exchange nervous glances and whispered reassurances, their efforts punctuated by the barked orders that echo throughout the chamber. In their minds, the task is monumental, yet failure is not an option.
Fi-Fi, as sweet as she can be, is a ruthless task master.
“You! Fold those sheets!” she snaps.
“I already folded them, ma'am,” argues the smallest vampire, looking at her as the skeleton leans over to the folded sheets, placing a finger onto one of the four corners that sticks out farther than the rest.
“You call this sloppy work a fold?” asks Fi-Fi?” turning her head to look at the vampire. “Do you want the Master’s guests to think he lives in a castle or a hovel?” snaps the maid, her finger running along the edge sticking out of the folded silk bedsheet. “I could raise cattle on all of this free space! Do it again!”
“I’m sorry!” yells the vampire, unfolding the sheet and starting over.
Fi-Fi points to one of them, using a broom to swipe away a spider’s web. “You! What are you doing?!” she asks, the taller vampire with the broom turning his head to look at her. “That spider’s web is ornamental!” she explains as if talking to a child, hitting the back of her hand into her open palm. It belongs there!” Fi-Fi taps the side of her head. “This is a haunted castle. We need webs!”
He lowers the broom. “...I thought it was just some web…” he mutters quietly.
“Just some… just some web?!” Fi-Fi plants her hands on her hips, the man taking a step back. She lifts her head, her hand by her mouth, as she calls up toward the ceiling. “Hey! Did you hear that?” she asks loudly.
The spidergirl, looking through the hatch to the attic, shoots a scornful look at the vampire, shaking her head. “Wait till my sisters hear of this,” she hisses, the hatch slamming back shut.
“Great job. Now I can’t put you on attic duty for a week until they calm down,” says Fi-Fi, sighing.
“Miss Fi-Fi,” starts the last of the three, raising a hand. A mop is held in his other,.
“That’s Madame Fi-Fi to you,” says the skeleton.
“Madame Fi-Fi,” says the vampire, pointing at his mop. “I can’t mop the floors with this.”
“Why?” she asks, sighing, her face held in her hand.
He demonstrates, setting the mop into a bucket of water. A loud, sloshing bubbling comes from below, water splashing over the sides as the mop’s strands all flop around like worms, burrowing out of the ground.
“It’s alive,” he explains, the living object mop in his hand protesting against his grip.
“Oh, come on,” snaps Fi-Fi, looking at the three of them as if watching a group of helpless animals run into a wall. “If you want to be good enough to become the Master’s favorite, like me, then you need to step up,” she says hautily. “Hold on. There’s another mop in here.” Against one wall looms a large cabinet, its wood darkened with age and secrets. She approaches it with a critical eye, her bony fingers reaching out to grasp the polished, dust-free handle.
The door swings open, revealing nothing but shadowed interior — until a pair of hands shoot outward, pale.
Fi-Fi is caught off guard and pulled into the cabinet with surprising force, only a sharp shriek accompanying her as she’s stolen. The heavy doors slam shut behind her, the sound a jarring punctuation in the oppressive silence.
The vampires stare, caught between disbelief and confusion, their tasks abandoned in favor of the spectacle before them.
“Kyaaa~!” cries her voice from inside the cabinet. “Senpai! I’m stuck! Taskete~!”
The cabinet shakes violently, the sounds of struggle and a muffled cry emanating from within. It’s a noise that sends a shiver along the spine, a resonance of fear that vibrates through the air. The vampires exchange looks, their uncertainty mirrored in their wide eyes. One hesitantly steps forward, hand outstretched, but hesitates to interfere with whatever dark force the cabinet now harbors.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Hey, wait,” says the smaller one. She grabs him, pulling him back. “Don’t…” says the vampire.
Finally, with a crash, Fi-Fi tumbles out, landing in an unceremonious heap upon the cold stone floor. Her skeletal form and dress are both in disarray; her bones askew from the unexpected ordeal. Clutched in her hand is her own skull, her fingers tight as if to reassure herself of its presence. Two distinct marks now mar the smooth surface of her spinal cord, a testament to an encounter with something far more sinister than dust.
She rises unsteadily, the lesser vampires hovering uncertainly as their leader regains her composure. Her gaze sweeps over them, daring them to comment, but the bite marks speak louder than words. The room is silent, the air heavy with an unspoken question that none dare voice.
One of the vampires shifts, breaking the stillness with a tentative question. “What happened?”
“Senpai noticed me,” she replies, her voice as sharp as ever but with an edge of something more — something vulnerable. “The Master has just asked me in private to be nicer to you worms,” says the skeleton maid, fitting her skull back on her bitten spinal cord. “So Fi-Fi will be.” She cracks her neck. “— For now.”
They stare at each other quietly.
“Okay. Now I’m done!” snaps Fi-Fi, pointing at them sharply. “Get back to work!” barks Fi-Fi, raising her voice. The three vampires jump to it. “Or you’ll have to slave for thirty years to repay the Master for the damage you’ve caused!” she warns.
They return to their tasks, the room once again filled with the sounds of cleaning.
The incident lingers in the air, a shadow that stretches over their work, but the presence of their stern overseer is enough to keep them in line.
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- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
What a bunch of silly business. He’s glad that’s handled. There is an important task at hand. Hwa-Young and Fi-Fi have been waiting for their turn to be bitten for a while now, but the others are starting to line up for it too again.
— Now there’s just one more left.
It must be quite the experience, being bitten, not that he’ll ever find out for himself.
“So is this really all you do all day?” asks a snide voice from his side, in his arm. “Fraternizing with… the help?” she asks, sounding almost disgusted.
Inkume looks at the wooden doll he has in one arm. Her legs are rickety and wobbly, so she can make it from mirror to mirror, but she isn’t really equipped to make it through this kind of terrain.
“No, most of the time I just read a book or take a bath,” notes the Vampire Lord, shrugging. “Sometimes I’ll stare out of a window mysteriously when somebody walks past me, to make it look like I’m thinking about something important,” he adds. “I’m retired, you see.”
He can hear the clatter of her glass eyes moving inside of her porcelain eye sockets, presumably rolling.
“Anyway, they’re my friends,” he ponders. “So of course they’re helping me.”
“The Vampire Lord does not have friends!” snaps the doll. “He is the beast that devours all life! His servants toil in fear of his wrath; there is nothing more there than that!”
Inkume stops, looking at her and pointing at himself with his free hand. “You’re really not going to ever get with the program, are you?” he asks.
The doll in his arm points at him. “You are a charlatan. A fool. A fraud. A… A dandy!” she accuses with all of her might, and he gasps, covering his mouth.
“You’re pretty mean for a doll,” asks the Vampire Lord, grabbing her with both of his hands and holding her in the air as she crosses her arms. “Aren’t dolls supposed to be fun things to play with?” he muses, tilting her slightly to the side.
“I am not just a simple doll!” she argues. “I am the dedicated, loyal, and most trusted servant to the true master of this castle — who you are not even a shadow of,” says the doll, clutching her dress to hold it in place as he flips her upside down. “Yes, this is my physical form, but what matters is the powerful dark powers inside of me!”
Inkume turns her right side up again, looking into her glass eyes. “...And those are?”
“— None of your concern,” she snaps, lifting her nose.
Inkume flips her over again, and she screams out, kicking her legs at him, a soft, fabric boot hitting his nose. “Unhand me, you letcher!” she snaps.
Inume shrugs and sets her down. “Okay. But keep up,” says the Vampire Lord. “The next mirror isn’t around for a good twenty-minute walk, so you’re stuck with me.” He kneels down, pointing at her. “Probably a lot longer with your stubby legs.”
“Why am I even here?!” she yells.
Inkume shrugs. “I like to kidnap people at different times for different things,” he explains fairly plainly. “Really helps me figure out what everyone is thinking; spend some quality time with the fam-alam, you know?”
“Are you speaking in tongues? You’re touched in the head,” replies the doll dryly, glaring at him. “Why can’t you grasp what you are?” she asks, exasperated.
“I won’t accept that from a talking doll owned by a grown man,” says Inkume, leaning to her side and looking into her ears. “Wait… shit…” he mutters to himself.
That’s him. He’s the grown man who owns a doll now.
He gets up, ready to leave this conversation, and keeps going.
The air is thick and oppressive in the mines, imbued with the scent of damp soil and the acrid tang of raw metal.
Vampire Lord Inkume strides with purpose, wiping the last traces of crimson and bone dust from his lips. Satisfaction lingers in his veins from the recent indulgence. Fi-Fi wasn’t really worth any experience points since she’s an undead like Snatch. But Hwa-Young’s blood was extremely potent, up there in strength together with Bark’s at least, if not more. Behind him comes a muffled pattering of wooden feet in fabric shoes against the uneven stone floor of the mine.
His presence down below commands the attention of the kobolds and golems, each busy with their tasks of extracting the castle’s precious black metal ore and repairing the damage left by adventurers who dared tread too close not that long ago. Their labor is tireless.
“Keep up the fine work, gentlemen,” asks Inkume, moving past a cluster of them who then return to their tasks in a fresh zeal.
Inkume pauses at the edge of a vast ravine — an abyss that seems to swallow light itself. He peers over the precipice, eyes narrowing at the depths below, past an array of glowing crystals embedded depely into the walls. Precarious wooden mining platforms are suspended from the sides of the gorge next to them.
The haunted doll at his side, a whimsical yet unnerving companion, shifts slightly, her porcelain face cracked but expressive after she arrives a full minute later. “They’re down there,” she murmurs, her voice a soft echo against the cavernous expanse.
“You’re sure?” he asks. She nods. “Snatch’s bones,” Inkume says, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through the cavern. He feels a pang of something — an emotion he rarely allows himself to acknowledge. The ghost was a friend, in a manner of speaking, and this task holds personal significance.
The doll nods, her small hands clasping together. “She jumped, you know?” she asks. Inkume looks over at the porcelain doll with wooden legs and arms, swaying from side to side with her hands locked together. “She was so ugly. I’ve never seen anything like it!” says the doll. “It’s been a thousand years, and I can still remember how sick seeing her made me feel!” she unclasps her hands, covering her mouth to laugh. “It’s just a shame that the drop didn’t do anything to fix her.”
— Not getting up, Inkume, still squatting there at the edge of the ravine, grabs the doll by the back of her dress and lifts her up, staring into her eyes.
“What are you…?”
He unceremoniously tosses her over into the pit, watching as she drops. The doll flies through the air, flailing and crying out in terror as she plummets down into the darkness of the abyss.
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“Unbelievable! Inexcusable!” yells a harsh voice in the darkness as he descends. “I’ll never forgive you, you brash scoundrel!”
Lowering himself in the form of a giant bat, Inkume spreads his wings wide, their leathery surface catching the draft of rising air. The doll clings to his legs that caught her half-way down, nearly weightless, as they descend into the dark maw of the ravine. The air grows colder still, the silence punctuated only by the distant clink of metal against stone from the workers above.
As they fly deeper, the walls of the ravine close in — a suffocating embrace of rock and shadow.
The doll murmurs directions, her voice a guiding star in the inky blackness. “Left here. Just a bit further.”
Inkume’s wings beat steadily, the rhythm a comforting constant in the disorienting depths. The air shifts around them, a subtle shift in temperature that signals they are nearing their destination. He lands with a soft thud upon a narrow ledge, the doll releasing her grip and landing beside him.
“There,” she points, her finger trembling slightly with excitement. “Do you see?”
Inkume’s gaze follows her gesture, settling on a faint glimmer among the rocks. His eyes narrow.
A small pile of bones lies there in the darkness on a far, distant alcove, half crushed and broken — frozen in a block of ice. The same ice coats the rest of the walls around them, the water in the ravine crackling as it freezes in real time as it flows. Pools of frozen water lie scattered across the uneven ground.
Vampire Lord Inkume turns back into a man and moves with purpose, his gaze sharp and discerning as he crosses the treacherous landscape. The doll lifts her nose, dusting herself off as she stumbles after him over the uneven rocks.
They come upon a passageway, an opening in the rock that leads into the naga's domain — the frozen lake he had discovered a few weeks ago.
Inkume pauses, considering the path with a calculating eye. This secret hole at the bottom of the mine’s ravine must be the way an adventurer would normally stumble upon the secret area and bossfight below the castle. But he has no time for detours.
Finally, the ice gives way to bare stone. Inkume’s gaze sweeps across the ground, and there — scattered among the rocks — lie the bones of Snatch. The sight is both relief and sorrow.
Kneeling, Inkume extends a hand, his touch gentle and reverent. The bones are frigid cold beneath his fingers.
In that moment, the temperature somehow seems to drop even further, the air growing still as the ghost immediately materializes — a shimmering form that hovers above the remains. “M-Master!” she stutters, seeing him. “I felt you. Why are you down here?” Seeing him touching her old body’s bones, she lets out a nervous, quiet yelp. Snatch’s usually growling voice is a whisper on the wind, a nervous sound that seems to echo from the depths of the soul. There is hurt curiosity there, a hint of something more — an emotion unspoken and undefined.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t ask you, Snatch,” he says, looking up at her. “But I knew you’d say ‘no’.” Inkume straightens up, meeting the ghost’s gaze with a steady resolve. “I came to get you out from down here,” he replies, his tone firm and unyielding. The weight of his words lingers in the air, a promise that transcends the boundaries of the physical and the ethereal. He nods his head over his shoulder. “Although I did have to make a little bargain to figure out where exactly ‘here’ was.”
Snatch looks at him. “I don’t need these ugly bones, Master. They’re trash. Worthless,” says the ghost. “I didn’t want you to see them!” she snaps. “Just look at them,” starts the ghost, an old disgust rising in her trembling voice. “They’re so disgusting,” she says, her tone rising and her tempo quickening. She reaches down, grabbing a femur and raising it into the air to smash it against a rock. “I didn’t want you to see how ugly and worthless I was!” she starts to cry, her face dribbling with snot.
Inkume grabs her arm just before the bone shatters on a rock. “Snatch,” says the Vampire Lord firmly, the sniffling, distraught ghost looking his way. “I came to get your bones because they’re precious,” he explains softly.
“W…what?” asks the ghost, wiping her face as he takes the femur from her hand and then starts collecting the others one by one with gentle care, setting them into his unclasped cloak and using it as a pouch.
He nods, kneeling there in the water as he works — he’s not wearing socks today. “You’re a ghost, Snatch,” says Inkume. “You’re bound to this world, but if something happens to your remains — if some adventurer breaks them apart or some priestess sanctifies them — you might vanish,” he says softly, standing upright and holding the bundle in both of his arms as if it were something precious and fragile. Inkume and Snatch stare at one another. “I want to keep you for as long as you want to stay and not a moment less,” he explains, lifting the load ever so slightly. “So these are coming to stay with me in my crypt, where they’re safe,” explains the Vampire Lord.
The air grows warmer, a subtle shift. Snatch wipes her face, looking at him. “Can… can I stay with you forever, Master?” asks the ghost.
He nods his head, gesturing to the secret passageway that leads back up eventually, as he wants to carry these back as a man to be sure they arrive safely where they belong.
“I really hope so,” he replies to her, not having a free hand as Snatch latches on to him and then grabs the free tips of his hands, holding them.
As they stand together, the shadows seem to recede, the darkness lifting to reveal the path ahead. He leans his head against her. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” says the Vampire Lord. “It’s almost daytime, and I’ll need to sleep soon.”
Inkume turns, his gaze sweeping over the underground he melds into.
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- [The Doll] -
The doll stands back there behind them, watching them go. After a minute, she looks down at her wooden hands, staring at the fingers that were once delicate, beautiful porcelain and glass. But then the wood became scratched and bent, clawed into, burned, snapped, and repaired many times over to become what it is now.
She just doesn’t get it.
It was always her arms, body, or legs. He never hurt her face, for some reason. She never really understood why. It’s just how he was — the old Master.
The doll looks back up, watching as the two of them hold hands and leave together. A memory of herself and another, similar silhouette to his flash before her eyes as she looks at their backs.
Hands are a very delicate thing, aren’t they? They break so easily.
She still has them, and she still has fingers. But it feels like they’re broken, even if she can move them freely and well. That’s because they don’t really hold things anymore.
She used to hold things a lot — things she liked, mostly him, the old Master.
Even when he was mean to her, her hands still held him at first. She held him very tightly. But then they eventually started… not working, her hands. They started holding him less and less and less, and eventually she found herself holding on to nothing. After he broke her fingers and had her new ones made of wood, her hands felt like they should work again, but they didn’t grab things anymore.
She doesn’t know why.
“Hey!” snaps a sharp, guttural voice. She lifts her eyes, looking at the ghost that has come back again. “I hate you, and I wish I could smash your head on a rock,” says Snatch abruptly and to the point, having returned by herself. “But the Master asked me to come back and get you because you can’t walk, and also not to do that,” she explains, narrowing her eyes. “I love him more than I hate you, so I guess you’re lucky.”
“‘Love’?” asks the doll. “He’s been here for a few months,” she explains. “You’re confused,” says the porcelain girl, a look of pity in her eyes almost starting to form for a brief moment that is quickly erased by coldness. “I know how this goes. You’ll see,” she says, smiling and shaking her head at the creature that has yet to learn the hard lesson to come like she already has.
Snatch points at her. “The Master said that too, that I’m confused,” admits the ghost. “But I know what I feel,” she explains with determination. “And it’s something anybody except you ever felt for that old creep.” The doll looks up, about to take offence. “Everyone here with half a brain loves the new Master.”
“You will speak of the true lord of this castle with the proper respe-!”
Snatch jabs a finger into her chest, cutting her off. “Fuck him,” says Snatch without a hint of hesitation anymore, and the doll covers her mouth, gasping in horror.
“You can’t say that!” she protests.
“Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck fuck FUCK the old Vampire Lord,” barks Snatch, unafraid as she stares down the doll. “He was garbage. Trash. He couldn’t pull off the ritual or even his own pants by himself. He was a monster in the worst sense of the word, and, if you ask me, you’re just as sick as he was,” berrates the ghost, glaring her down and letting loose not without much remorse at all. She shoves the doll back, the porcelain figure falling over onto her bottom, her eyes wide. Snatch points down at her. “The only difference between you is that he was at least powerful enough to get away with being a psycho for a while. You’re just… just some dumb doll. You don’t even look pretty anymore, so what are you even good for?” asks Snatch.
The ravine is quiet, the two of them staring at each other. The doll quietly looks down at herself and her hands. “…That’s rich, coming from you,” she mutters quietly.
Snatch points at herself. “Yeah. I still think I’m ugly as crowshit,” admits Snatch. “But he makes me feel like I’m not,” says the ghost, her tone lowering down again. “And I love him for that. So I do everything I can for him, and that includes not burying you here alive for the next thousand years.” Snatch shakes her head. “Can you believe that he specifically asked me not to do that?”
The two of them remain there quietly for time, the water trickling off the stones nearby.
The doll lifts her head as she looks at the ghost. “…Do your hands still work?” she asks.
“What a stupid question,” mutters Snatch, rolling her eyes. “God, I hate you. Watch this,” she says, narrowing her eyes and wiggling her fingers. “- SNATCH!” snarls the ghost, effortlessly grabbing the doll, and then the two of them vanish in an instant, leaving their old business down at the bottom of the ravine as if it were a used, open grave that now only needed to be filled in with fresh soil.
The running water carries away the last of the lingering words and feelings, washing them to a place more far and distant.