Fungal Halo

Now where’d that hat of yours go? You’ve been looking everywhere, and…

Oh, there it is, resting on the head of your First Doll, which appears to be imitating your body language as it gives orders to the other dolls.

You hold out your hand, giving it a pointed look.

When the doll accidentally drops the teacup, shattering it, she knows just what to do. She takes her time wiping up spilled liquid and carefully picking up each shard to throw away.

Then, with equal care, she follows the trash, climbing into the garbage can herself.

It’s a house party for witches, and you thought you’d just be able to enjoy a calm and relaxing evening with a couple friends, something of a break from the chaos of managing the affairs of your own house. The host, however, seems to have something more in mind for you.

Once, there were three of them.

One who was almost an angel.

One who was almost a doll.

One who was almost a person.

The three of them were almost friends.

I’ve been coming to this library increasingly often after I found the twists and turns through the aisles that take me to where they keep their most interesting books.

Not many people visit this isolated wing, which adds to the appeal.

It seemed like a nice date at first. She cooked you an elaborate meal, she shared such interesting stories, and the way she looked at you with those arresting eyes made you squirm in your seat.

Then she told you that the pie had been poisoned and all the doors were locked.

“What about this one, sir? Its self diagnostic sounds good aside from the crushed leg. Could probably hot-swap that out and have it on the field again without much fuss.”

“Don’t just rely on the doll’s self-report, kid. You gotta learn to use your eyes. Look at this.”

There was a place for her once. There was a city and a home and an address there. Friends and loved ones grew their roots together with her.

Even now the crowd unconsciously parts as though making space for her to walk among them.

The witch cracked the sky open to unleash the full force of her power. She hurled frigid winds and a torrent of ice, each shard a dagger flying through the air.

There, in the center of the storm, a doll stood, unmoving.

The body of the Saint of Error receives millions of visitors each year, some crossing truly unfathomable distances on their pilgrimage to the holy site.

Across seas of What-Could-Be and oceans of Never-Conceived, pilgrims make their journey.

Some, increasingly, are people.

The doll trundles down the stairs, one uneven step at a time, button eyes hanging particularly loosely from the threads joining them to her face.

Her sisters cast a sympathetic glance her way and clear a path to the kitchen for her. One silently begins filling a kettle.

The more powerful a witch, the greater the impact on the world when they finally depart from it.

The works of some will linger long past their time.

One witch’s legacy in particular is spoken of in fearful whispers: the twelve or thirteen assassin dolls it left behind.

The door to the other observation chamber—the one kept off the record—opens for me with a welcoming chime as I scan my badge on the reader. Inside, my colleague waits for me.

She renews her struggles when she sees me enter, but the straps secure her firmly to the table.

When I was a fresh young witch—newly come into my power and before I was Unbowed—I received a gift from my mentor.

Witches do not commonly give each other gifts, and such a gesture always comes with strings attached. This was no different.

The old witch gave me a doll.

At first it was so scary to hear that my best friend managed to upset the local witch enough that she started making threats.

Everyone in town said that she was powerful and terrifying and cruel. I was so worried about what she’d do.