AN: Okay, so last year I said I wouldn't do it again (see 'Bloody Mary' in Don't Turn on the Light) but I apparently lied.

That would be Kitty's fault.

What? No! I have never done anything wrong in my LIFE.

I hope you all appreciate the effort it takes to keep a straight face.

Really.

Kitty. I love you. I have literally murdered people for you. But that head, there…you removed it with a hacksaw. While he was still screaming.

Fair enough.

Jeeze…this one means 'fear of dolls', which is understandable. Dolls are creepy, and old ones get that deathly pallor and yellow eyes.

McStaken-Same. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little happy the car got crushed. A smidge. Even if it wasn't forever. Always have a contingency plan.


Jim Murphy, if asked, fears nothing. Fear is for wimps, and he's no fuckin' wimp. Jim is a MAN, dammit, he ain't afraid of jack shit.

Except dolls, and that is a secret he will take with him to the grave, being afraid of a little girl's toy. He can't help it, though. Something about those unblinking, glassy eyes…no. Just no.

So when he stumbles into his apartment one afternoon and finds a porcelain doll sitting on his counter, he feels justified in hurling the thing into the trash can hard enough to shatter its face.

It's his bitch of a sister, and yeah, he knows that's not PC or whatever, but she's always thought it was funny. Locked him in the bathroom with her Barbies once.

Heart racing, he scrolls through his phone to find her number. What the effin' hell, Clarice, this kind of shit isn't funny, they're not twelve anymore…

She doesn't answer. Whatever. Screw her. He knows this was her.

Okay. What did his old shrink used ta say…breathe in for five, hold for three, exhale for seven.

Works, that. Shame the guy had to go and turn into a nut, he did wonders for Jim. Eh, that's Gotham for ya.

He buries the doll under take-out boxes and a couple'a beer bottles and takes out the trash before bed. He'll talk to Clarice tomorrow.

That fucking cow-!

Another doll, this one old enough to have yellowing eyes, is sitting in his cupboard, bowl and spoon propped in its lap. And this. Is. IT. Yeah, he knows he promised Ma on her deathbed to try to not hate his sister, but…but…

Breathe. Okay. She's always been childish. Jealousy, maybe, he dunno. This is new, but whatever. Put the thing in the trash, clean out the fridge, call Clarice and…request…that she stop. Easy.

He rescues his dishes and sweeps the thing into the trash, shuddering. It stares at him from the bottom of the can, little smile hinting that it wants to murder him in his sleep.

If he's a little vigorous dumping old pizza onto it, well…no one'll know.

Jim comes home to an empty apartment and a power outage. Goddammit.

He stubs his toe three times on the same coffee table leg, because his life sucks, but he eventually comes up with the flashlight. Please have battery, please have battery-yes!

He clicks the light on and wonders how long the power's been out. 'Least he stopped for McDonald's on the way home tonight…

He kicks off his shoes and wanders into the bedroom for a sm-WHAT THE FUCK.

His bedroom is not empty. His first thought is that someone's broken in, but they're just sitting on the bed. The flashlight catches old button-up shoes and a gray plaid dress and…and…

Oh god.

Oh. Clarice. Fucking Clarice, this is enough.

He storms in, plucking up his courage to drag the damn thing out to the trash. He's just reaching for the neck of the dress when the head-

-moves.

What the hell no no no-

He scrambles away, flashlight falling from sweaty fingers, and hears more than sees the thing stand up. Its gait is wobbly but it's moving it's moving and he's gotta get outta here-

HISSSSS!

He coughs, eyes watering, and two yellow dots cut through the dark. He turns to run, trips, and tries to crawl away. He gets maybe two feet before something sharp and cold presses against the back of his neck.

"Shhh."

The doll totters over. He can hear its shoes scuffing against the carpet and no no don't come near him please go away…

"We never did finish that immersion therapy, did we, Mister Murphy?"

WHAT.

"D-Doc?" He swallows tears. "Doc, please, you can stay here 'til the heat's off I won't say nothin' I swear-"

"This is good for you!" The cold thing leaves his neck and he's kicked over. The flashlight illuminates shiny black shoes and the porcelain face stares impassively at him. "Now…let's play house."

THE END