He wanted to turn his head and warn this idiot who kept switching sides, but the doll couldn’t do a “turning head” movement—every turn meant twisting its whole body.

George Miller was stunned by his turn, and after a while, he said cautiously, “Mr. Clark, you look kind of cute in that pose.”

The person in the mirror might have choked, letting out a muffled cough.

William Clark closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, If I respond to these two idiots again, I’ll write my name backwards.

He ignored them, and the living room returned to silence.

George Miller had just felt the atmosphere was pretty relaxed, not scary at all, but after only a few seconds of quiet, that silent sense of fear crept up his back again.

The doll of William Clark leaned against the old person’s door, motionless.

The figure in the mirror hadn’t disappeared, just stood there in silence. Because it was so tall, from George Miller’s angle, it didn’t even look like it was standing—more like it was hanging there.

Suddenly, George Miller had an illusion, as if William Clark and Henry Baker weren’t here at all, and he’d been alone in this room from the start. The doll by the door was the one he’d taken down, lifeless. He didn’t know who was in the mirror, dressed in white, face expressionless, staring at him.

He silently recited in his heart, “That’s Henry Baker, that’s Henry Baker, that’s Henry Baker,” and, “He’s looking at Mr. Clark, not at me, not at me, not at me.”

After a long time, he cautiously looked up, only to meet the eyes of the person in the mirror.

William Clark pulled two strings from his overalls, wrapped them around his hands, and was trying to use the strings to open the bedroom door.

The doll’s movements were really hard to control. He spent some time, and just as he managed to unlock it, he heard George Miller let out a very soft whimper.

William Clark: “……”

He had a bit of a headache, but after holding back, he still lowered his voice and asked, “What now?”

George Miller was too embarrassed to admit he’d scared himself with his own imagination, so he stammered, “I—I just remembered a lot of nightmares I had as a kid, they also had dolls and mirrors.”

William Clark: “……”

He’d never had nightmares like that, nor did he have the patience to comfort the kid. He wrapped the string around his hand again, pulled it tight, and gave a gentle tug. The old bedroom door creaked open.

“Shh.” William Clark didn’t look back, signaling him to be quiet.

George Miller, though timid, was obedient. He immediately shut his mouth, even his sniffling stopped.

William Clark beckoned with his hand behind his back and led the way into the room.

The doll’s perspective was very low, so even after entering, he couldn’t see the whole room. All he could see was an equally old-fashioned big bed, with the bedding bulging—presumably the old person was sleeping there.

On the side near the door was a nightstand, just as Henry Baker had said. On top of the nightstand was a slanted oval mirror, a bit bigger than a palm, the kind popular in the early 90s.

William Clark closed the door, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a face flash by in the oval mirror—probably Henry Baker coming in.

He was very sensitive to gazes. Although he couldn’t see Henry Baker’s expression clearly, he could feel that the Henry Baker in the mirror gave a look toward the inner side of the room.

The inner side?

What was on the inner side?

William Clark looked in that direction, but the bed blocked most of his view. He could only see a corner—there should be an old-fashioned desk by the window, the kind with a vertical row of drawers on each side, and one drawer had a lock hanging on it.

William Clark lifted his foot to head that way, but George Miller grabbed him from behind.

“What?” William Clark whispered.

“Are we going in?” George Miller didn’t dare speak out loud, only dared to whisper, and even so, he was trembling.

“There’s a lock over there.”

“So what if there’s a lock?”

“If it’s locked up, it must be important,” William Clark said.

“Why?”

“Because this is the subconscious of the cage owner. The things the subconscious never forgets to hide—what do you think?” William Clark retorted impatiently.

Most of the time, finding the locked place meant you were close to breaking out of the cage.

William Clark crept along the foot of the bed, quietly approaching that side.

He finally felt the benefit of being a doll: he could move around freely, couldn’t break or shatter, and because his body was soft, he didn’t even leave any footsteps.

Thinking this, his mood improved a lot, and he felt that Henry Baker’s words did make some sense.

Before he even reached the desk, William Clark started using the string in his hand.

In the hands of a skilled puppet master, a single string could do many things with just a flick of the fingers. William Clark’s current effect was a bit weaker, but it was still a good tool.

He watched as the other end of the string wrapped around the lock. William Clark gave another tug, and the end of the string slipped into the keyhole.

Just as he finally moved in front of the desk, ready to take off the lock, he caught a glimpse of something off about the shadow by the desk.

The room’s curtains were open, and the dim bluish moonlight slanted in from outside. On the floor beside William Clark, several shadows fell—the desk’s, the window frame’s, the two doll bodies of him and George Miller...

Whose was the extra shadow?

William Clark suddenly looked up and saw the little boy standing beside him, expressionless, holding a sharp awl high in his hand.

That awl had been lying on the Eight Immortals table in the living room that afternoon. It was originally used to drill holes in puppets, and in a puppet master’s terms, it was called a soul-hooking awl. It was sharp enough to pierce a person without a problem.

The little boy’s pitch-black, hollow eyes stared unblinkingly at William Clark, the awl raised above, its sharpest point aimed right at William Clark’s eyes.