Chapter 179: Perfect Doll

Virginia had always sold itself on rolling hills and old money history. Tourists came for the scenery and the stories. The back road Soren was on sold neither.

The driver kept one eye on the mirror and the other on the empty stretch of asphalt. “You sure you want out here, kid? Place went quiet after the killings. Nasty ones. Even a Los Santos detective bought it investigating. Locals won’t go near it now.”

Soren watched the trees blur past, face blank. He didn’t answer.

After the carnival weekend with Patty he had flown east the first chance he got. The regular bus line into Raven’s Fair had been shut down indefinitely for the same reasons the driver was listing. The town’s few remaining residents had packed up and left almost overnight. What sat out here now was a ghost town in every sense of the word. He had paid a man with more guts than sense to drive him the last stretch.

A rusted welcome sign flashed by.

Welcome to Raven’s Fair — Land of Ivy and Streams.

The car rolled to a stop a short distance later. Soren stepped out and looked the place over.

Calling it a town felt generous. It looked more like a private estate that had spilled past its original walls and never recovered. High stone fencing still ringed most of it. The only way in was a heavy black iron gate left half open.

The driver leaned out the window. “You coming back the same way? I can wait if it won’t take long.”

“Appreciate it,” Soren said without turning. “Shouldn’t be long.”

He walked through the gate. A single dark cloud drifted in and hung over the streets like it had been waiting for him. Boarded-up storefronts lined both sides. A few bicycles lay abandoned against the curb, tires flat, frames rusting.

McClane had spent most of his career playing it safe in Los Santos. The old man had covered for Soren more times than either of them admitted. And still he had come all the way out here for a string of murders that weren’t even his jurisdiction. He had died for it.

Soren spoke the name under his breath, voice flat.

“Mary Shaw.”

He followed the main road deeper until the old family manor came into view—the same one from the original story. The entire town had once belonged to that bloodline. Then their ancestors made the mistake of crossing a ventriloquist, and the curse did the rest. The family withered. The money dried up. Only the house and the bitterness remained.

Soren stopped at the front door and kicked it in.

The heavy wood slammed inward and kicked up a cloud of dust. Inside, the light was dim and the air tasted of old carpet and neglect. Thick dust coated every surface.

The moment his boot crossed the threshold the world went mute.

Wind, leaves, the distant creak of settling wood—everything cut out at once. The house had been put on silent.

Soren paused, eyes moving across the foyer.

Several dolls sat on the floor. Portrait after portrait lined the walls. Every single face shared the same detail: the lower jaw torn open.

Ghostly hands unfolded from his back and crushed the nearest dolls one after another. Mary Shaw could jump between the puppets she had made. As long as even one survived intact, killing her was almost impossible. Anything visible had to go.

The shattered pieces hit the floor without a sound.

Clever little trick. Strip away every noise and the prey starts imagining footsteps behind them. Once that happens, the scream is only a matter of time. And the scream is what calls her.

Keep your mouth shut and most of the danger evaporates.

Soren moved deeper. The occasional doll skittered across the floorboards. Somewhere farther in he caught the faint echo of children’s laughter mixed with wet, human screaming—sound that shouldn’t have existed in a place that had been muted.

He reached the living room.

A long sofa faced away from him. Three heads rested against the back cushions like a family that had simply sat down to rest.

The sofa turned.

The middle figure was a middle-aged man in a worn suit, hair gone white at the temples. On either side sat the young couple from the original murders—the boy and his girlfriend. All three had been posed with care. Torn jaws had been fitted with crude hinged mechanisms so the mouths could open and close. White paint caked their faces. Bright rouge sat on the cheeks. The eyelids had been propped open; the pupils behind them were the color of dirty glass.

A soft click.

The older man’s jaw dropped. Something long and wet uncoiled from the ruined mouth—not one tongue, but a thick braid of them, layered and knotted together.

“Hello, Soren.”

The voice that came out was an old woman’s, dry and amused.

Soren stared at the corpse without expression. “Mary Shaw. You coming out on your own, or do I dig you out?”

The middle body went still. The head slumped forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut, then toppled off the sofa entirely.

From the hallway that led to the dining room, a woman in a deep-blue low-cut dress stepped into view. Heavy makeup. Stiff, doll-like movements.

“Who are you looking for?” Her voice was empty.

Soren closed the distance in one step, locked a hand around her throat, and fed a pulse of demonic power straight into her.

The body detonated in a wet red mist.

Cold wind tore through the house. Where the woman had stood, a withered old face of pure spite took shape in the air.

“You little bastard—how dare you ruin my perfect doll!”

Mary Shaw’s eyes locked on him, voice cracking with rage.

“Arrogant little exorcist. As long as a single one of my puppets remains in this town, you will never kill me.”

Soren’s mouth curved in a thin, cold smile.

“That so?”

He glanced at the blood still settling on the floor. “Finding dolls happens to be something I’m good at.”

Darkness bled out from beneath his feet. Paint peeled from the walls in long strips. Wet red tissue surged across every surface, racing outward. In seconds the entire manor—and the ghost town around it—was dragged into Silent Hill.