Batman Dollhouse Novels & Stories

… Meanwhile, in the basement of a windowless villa, the only source of light came from a dust-coated oil lamp beside a small altar. The wick had been drawn thin, its flame trembling at the slightest draft. Long shadows stretched across the stained walls, resembling dried streaks of blood. The altar itself was made of oak, its smooth surface faintly glinting under the weak lamplight. At its center sat a Krowonian doll. The doll, barely half a foot tall, wore a silk robe that glimmered faintly in the dim glow. Frayed golden threads unraveled down the fabric, revealing a dark underlayer that resembled dried veins.

Havermouth, Present Time It was fascinating to see where the werewolves who had tormented her at school lived, Aislen thought looking out the window as they pulled up to the neat and tidy suburban house with it’s pristine lawn and bloom-heavy rose garden. Part of her hated the domestic perfection of the house because it represented everything that she didn’t have. “Oh, look,” she muttered. “It’s the domestic Barbara set. Each pack contains the dreamhouse, one Barbara doll, one Kenneth doll, one boy doll and one baby doll. Is there a cat and dog doll, or do they come as separate purchases?”

"If I'm supposed to play a role, I need to know the stage." Adrian released my jaw, stepping back to grab his suit jacket from the back of the armchair. He slipped it on, his shoulders squaring under the tailored fabric. "We are going to an exclusive, underground black-market auction house. It’s located beneath a luxury hotel downtown, run by a neutral faction that caters only to the elite of the underworld." I stared at him, trying to process the words. "A black-market auction? At two in the morning?"

Not hers. My hands started shaking. 'Are they selling off coma patients' bodies?' All those stories from school came flooding back. My skin crawled. I fought the nausea and fear, forced myself to finish cleaning her up. I was about to leave when I saw it—the music box on her nightstand. Ms. Deinert had told me not to mess with it. But my hand moved anyway. I popped it open. No music. Just velvet at the bottom. Then I saw it—tiny crumbs near the edge. Crackers, maybe?

I know in time all this training would come in handy if any situation would arise and will find myself in between. He wasn’t here, of course. But words may travel much more quickly than any disease, and he’ll know about my fight. That I wasn’t just any porcelain doll used for display only. Fragile and precious that always needed protection. I am not just an ordinary pet doll. I position myself in the middle of the ring, squaring my stance. The bell tolled and I braced myself as my opponent delivers the first move. This doll will fight and will win no matter what.

A lush garden filled with vibrant flowers and towering trees. In the centre lies a small, serene grave adorned with a single peony. Rhys with a weathered face and gentle eyes, slowly approached, his steps heavy with the weight of memories. Raindrops fell softly, casting a melancholic veil over the scene. He smiled down at the grave and replaced the weathered Peony with a new one. “Another day, my doll.” With trembling hands, he delicately placed a fresh peony on the grave, its petals glistening with raindrops. He knelt beside it, his movements slow and deliberate. Sitting beside the grave, he gazed at it with a mixture of longing and acceptance.

How dangerous. I don’t want her to get sucked in by this life like I was. I glare at Rafael, who looks like butter won’t melt in his mouth, but he’s watching me, his gaze calculated, sharp, taking in my every word and action. Betsy pulls out a pink box with an expensive looking doll inside. “Isn’t she pretty, Mommy?” “She is,” I say through clenched teeth. “Did you thank Mister Andoletti?” “Yes!” she exclaims. “I was very good. We had ice cream, and pizza, and he bought me a Barbie bed and a playhouse for outside, and-”

Zariah always said dolls were misunderstood. People thought they were cute. Delicate. Passive. But to her, they were powerful. And tonight, she was ready to play. The Doll House stood behind a velvet curtain at the back of her apartment, a soundproof room bathed in low amber light. Walls lined with mirrored panels. Velvet chaise lounges. A wardrobe of corsets, lace gloves, and porcelain masks. Every detail designed for submission. And control. She opened the door, heels echoing on the dark hardwood.

I tried to console him, “Hey, hey. Calm down, okay? It’s alright. We can always go back to the temple and get you another one.” “No! The doll and I are connected! I can feel what happens to it!” “Connected?” I cleared my throat, “Just because you’re handsome doesn’t mean I’ll believe everything that comes out of your mouth, dude.” “No! You don’t get it! I can actually feel everything that’s done to the doll!” I smiled and calmed myself before replying, “I told you the doll was weird, didn’t I? So, what happened to it?” “I gave it away. I gave it to one of the more handsome ones when we were at the park yesterday.”

But the empty house mocked that hope. At exactly two o'clock, the heavy rumble of an engine vibrated through the floorboards. The mechanical whine of the garage door opener broke the silence, followed by the distinct thud of a car door slamming. Sahara shot up from the couch, her heart hammering against her ribs. She rushed to the connecting door, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. She threw the door open just as the inner door from the garage was pushed open. Leaf stumbled through the frame.