The First Child

Darkness. A space of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠absolute nothingness.

A sensation far deeper and more distant than anything I had felt before.

It felt like sinking into the deepest trench of the ocean, crushed by the sheer pressure.

My sense of time vanished, leaving only the perpetual feeling of falling.

How much time had passed?

The sound of an old, wind-up music box reached my ears. A slow, disjointed, eerie melody. Taking that sound as my cue, I opened my eyes.

The first thing that came into view was a crystal chandelier hanging from a high ceiling.

Beyond its glittering facets, I saw wallpaper with an endless red pattern. Then came the scent of rotten vanilla—a smell both sweet and sickening.

I pushed myself up.

A loud, metallic squeak of springs protested my movement.

Huh...?

Sensing something off, I looked down at my hands.

I'm a kid?

They were small, chubby, child-like hands.

I was wearing blue dinosaur pajamas.

I had become a five- or six-year-old boy.

This was the stage of the scenario I had analyzed beforehand.

It appeared to be the very house where the curse had begun.

This isn't an Incomplete Synchronization...?

It seemed I had fallen into a much deeper sleep than I'd intended.

Which meant...

I was currently in a state of Full Synchronization.

In other words, I was fully immersed in the world of the ghost story scenario.

I quickly scanned my surroundings.

The room looked as if a 19th-century Victorian dollhouse had been scaled up to human size. Every piece of furniture was made of dark mahogany, their edges carved with excessively intricate details.

A worn Persian rug covered the floor, and the windows were draped in heavy velvet curtains, completely blocking any view of the outside.

Almost everything in the room was overly antique and meticulously ordered.

Like an exhibit in a museum.

And there, on a rocking chair in the dead center of the room...

That's it!

The "Suzy" doll was sitting.

It was far more worn and radiated a much more sinister aura than it had in the photographs.

Her pink dress was yellowed with age. Her body was split open with loose threads in several places. One of her eyes had fallen out, leaving only black stitching behind like a jagged scar.

But what was truly spine-chilling was her remaining glass eye. It looked as if someone had painted it pitch-black from the inside.

The doll stared at me as if watching my every move, and I was forced to realize it instinctively.

It's exactly as I set it up in my scenario.

This meant this was a stage of tragedy, born from the fusion of a vengeful spirit and "the guilt of the child who abandoned their doll."

And right now, I had become the protagonist of that tragedy—the "First Child."

I have to play along with the act.

There was no telling what would happen if I rashly defied the rules of this world.

For now, assessing the situation was my top priority.

I climbed down from the bed, deliberately letting my footsteps creak against the wooden floorboards. I walked over to the rocking chair and picked up the doll.

A cold, damp smell of musty cotton drifted from her body.

Holding the doll tightly to my chest, I opened the bedroom door. A long, dark hallway stretched out before me.

Endless portraits of what seemed to be the house's past owners lined both walls. Feeling as if the eyes in the paintings were tracking my movements, I squeezed my eyes shut and hurried forward, my small feet pattering against the floor.

From the end of the hallway, a faint light flickered, accompanied by the clatter of knives and forks scraping against plates.

Let's head there first.

I walked toward the sound.

It was a massive dining room.

Ill-suited to the grand scale of the room, only two people sat at the head of a long dining table.

Are they Mom and Dad?

The woman wore a stiffly starched dress, while the man was dressed in a rigid suit. They were cutting their food with mechanical precision.

Their faces were as unnatural as masks.

"Minjun, come here."

"Son, come over here."

I was right.

"Uh... okay!"

I sat in the child's high chair opposite them and placed the doll on the table.

In that instant...

Huh...?

I noticed other children standing in a neat line beside the dining table.

The children, all around my age, looked like worn-out mannequins.

Their cheeks were painted with unnatural, bright red circles of rouge, just like a doll's.

The Collection...?

The term from my scenario flashed through my mind.

Children who had been consumed by the curse and turned into living dolls.

They were the audience of this bizarre play, and the victims waiting for their turn.

I don't even need intuition to tell me. This is exactly like my scenario.

Everything was moving precisely as I had designed. This world was a stage operating strictly under my script.

In that case, I had to participate in this play as an actor while searching for a loophole in the narrative—the single variable that could change the ending.

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

After dinner, I returned to my room.

I gently laid the Suzy doll on the bed, tucked her in with the blanket, and began to thoroughly search the room.

The books on the shelves were all blank, devoid of both titles and content.

The clothes in the wardrobe were also nothing but identical pajamas.

It seemed this world was constructed only of the bare minimum props required for playing with dolls.

I checked under the bed first. Reaching out and feeling around the floor, my fingertips brushed against something cold and hard. When I pulled it out, a dusty, old sketchbook revealed itself.

A picture diary?

I flipped open the diary.

The starting point of all the tragedy.

A record of the exact moment a child's pure heart was corrupted into a curse called "guilt."

Naturally, I knew the ending to this story.

Unable to withstand the pressure, the child eventually abandons the doll.

And that guilt summons the vengeful spirit, completing this horrific "Doll's House."

In that case, my task was clear.

The curse of guilt cannot exist if no guilt is ever created.

I hid the diary back in its original place.

Soon, the climax of this story would begin.

As an actor, I had to step onto the stage and perform the predetermined tragedy.

But as the director, I also had to completely rewrite the ending of this story.

◇◇◇◆◇◇◇

Dinner time.

The atmosphere in the dining room was starkly different from this morning.

The light from the chandelier had grown dimmer and more oppressive.

The untouched food sat on the table, exactly as it had in the morning.

My parents still sat in their rigid postures, but their smiles were gone. They scraped their forks and knives together with expressionless faces.

The clatter of utensils was the only sound breaking the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠silence.

The shadows of the children leaning against the walls looked like prison guards keeping watch over us.

Near the end of the meal.

My father set down his knife.

A sharp, metallic clang echoed through the room. He pulled something from his pocket and spread it across the table.

...?

It was a toy catalog, filled with brightly colored robots, cars, and dinosaur figures.

"Minjun."

His voice was dry.

"Now that you're all grown up, you must need a new toy."

He pointed his finger at a page ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the catalog.

It showed a massive robot wielding a shining laser sword.

"Suzy is far too old now. If you have a cool robot like this, you won't need a dusty old doll anymore. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Right?"

It had begun.

The prelude to the tragedy.

I didn't answer. I simply lowered my head.

At my silence, my mother spoke up.

"You heard your father, didn't you, sweetheart? Old, dirty things are meant to be thrown away. We will throw Suzy out tonight."

I raised my head and spoke.

"No."

Instantly, a sickening creak, creak began to echo from my father's and mother's necks.

The light from the chandelier flickered with a static buzz.

The sky in the landscape painting hanging on the wall turned ash-gray in a split second.

So this is the pressure the child must have felt.

The fear and anxiety a child experiences when defying their parents' wishes.

The curse seemed to visually manifest those emotions. Everything in this world was likely a massive stage prop designed to reflect the psychology of the "First Child."

I spoke once more.

"I don't want to throw Suzy away..."

At that moment...

The red rose vine pattern covering the walls began to squirm.

They slithered out like snakes, transforming into black, damp mold. At the same time, the food on the table rotted at an accelerated pace, instantly swarming with writhing insects.

"You mustn't be stubborn, Minjun."

My father's voice had now turned completely mechanical.

"Suzy is old now, so we must throw her away."

"Suzy is old now, so we must throw her away."

"Suzy is old now, so we must throw her away."

"Suzy is old now, so we must throw her away."

He repeated the same words over and over like a broken robot. In sync with his voice, black tears began to stream from the eyes of the children standing against the wall.

The red rouge painted on their cheeks mixed with the black tears, making it look as if they were weeping blood.

I forced myself to stay focused and recalled the rules specified in my scenario.

The curse feeds on the child's guilt. The stronger the pressure and fear the child feels, the more powerful the curse becomes, eroding reality even further.

If I broke down in fear here and ultimately yielded to their demands, the fuel of "guilt" would be complete. Therefore, I had to withstand this wave of emotion without being swept away.

"Hup!"

I scrambled down from my chair and bolted toward the child's room as if fleeing for my life.

Behind me, my parents' mechanical voices...

...and the pattering footsteps of the children pursued me.

Pant... pant...

I burst into the room and slammed the door shut.

But it was useless. Black mold had already begun to seep through the cracks of the door like slithering serpents.

I tightly hugged the Suzy doll resting on the bed.

The source of all this, and the only key.

Knock, knock.

A knock sounded from outside the door.

"Minjun. What are you doing? Open the door."

I didn't answer. The doorknob rattled violently. The wood groaned as if the door would splinter at any second.

"A stubborn child is a bad child."

"And bad children don't deserve to be loved."

"A stubborn child is a bad child."

"And bad children don't deserve to be loved."

Their voices had now dissolved into whispers, squeezing through the cracks of the door to drill into my ears. The words a child feared most. The primal terror of being abandoned by one's parents.

I have to hold on. This is just a play. It's just a script I wrote.

I repeated it to myself like a mantra. But perhaps because I was trapped in a child's body, my heart hammered frantically, and my limbs grew ice-cold. A terrifying dread crept over me, whispering that I really had become a bad boy and would be trapped in this horrific place forever.

Damn it...

Right then...

SLAM!

The bedroom door finally burst open.

There they stood in the doorway.

!!!!!!!!!!!

They were no longer human.

They were mannequins with twisted joints. Their eyes, noses, and mouths had vanished, leaving behind nothing but smooth, blank surfaces.

And in their hands, they held large, black trash bags.

This is the climax!

"Hurry and put Suzy inside here."

A voice echoed from the faceless mother's head.

"Otherwise, you're a bad boy."

The children swarmed into the room, surrounding me completely. They slowly reached their hands out toward me. There was no escape.

I looked down at the Suzy doll cradled in my arms. Her remaining glass eye began to glow with an ominous, crimson light.