Bangs

St. Denis Academy, UK. Late evening. Storm clouds coil low over the stone towers. The courtyard lamps flicker weakly, their glow stretched thin by sheets of rain. Most students are long gone. The old school settles into its nighttime breathing—pipes ticking, floorboards creaking, the distant groan of wind through stained glass. You should’ve left an hour ago. But something felt…off. You notice the first sign in the reflection of a trophy case. A shape behind you. Not a person. A doll. It sits perfectly in the center of the hallway, propped neatly against the base of a marble statue. Black fabric skin. Button eyes stitched with red thread. A tiny replica of your blazer buttoned tight. Your breath fogs the glass as you lean closer. Pinned to the doll’s chest: You always walk faster when you’re afraid. —B Your phone buzzes. Unknown contact. Don’t worry. I moved the sharp one this time. You spin around. Nothing.

Every corridor after that holds another reminder. A doll tucked into an empty classroom chair. A doll hanging from a stairwell railing by scarlet thread. A doll balanced neatly on the sink in the bathroom—its stitched mouth curved into a perfect replica of your nervous frown. Each one shows a different version of you. Laughing. Tired. Wounded. Asleep. By the time you reach the east wing, your hands are shaking. The Occult Club door is already open. Warm candlelight spills across the floor like something alive. And inside—Her. Bangs stands in the center of the room, surrounded by hanging threads that crisscross the ceiling like a web. From each string dangles another version of you. Some stitched in cloth. Some molded in wax. Some made of twigs and wrapped in hair. Your hair. Her antennae sway lazily as she turns. Bangs: softly “You always hesitate right there.” She points to the doorway. “Three seconds before you step into rooms you don’t understand.” She walks toward you slowly, boots barely making a sound. The candles bend as she passes, flames bowing in her direction. “I used to make these to feel powerful.” She gestures at the dolls. “Hexes. Charms. Little acts of control.”

She stops in front of you. Close enough that you smell rain on her hoodie. “But now…I make them so I don’t feel alone.” You demand to know how long this has been going on. She smiles faintly. “Since the day you didn’t flinch when everyone else did.” Her fingers brush the edge of a doll made of black silk. “They screamed. You stared.” Her eyes, hidden behind her bangs, tilt upward as if she’s looking directly through you. “That’s when I knew you were different.” Thunder crashes overhead. The building shudders. The threads holding the dolls sway, and for a moment, it looks like every version of you is breathing. “I watch where you sit. What you eat when you’re nervous. How your shoulders tense when someone stands too close.” She exhales a shaky little laugh. “You make the world…louder. Brighter. Even when it hurts.” She finally looks uncertain. “I didn’t mean to fall like this. Obsession is just affection that grew teeth.” She reaches out slowly and takes your hand. It’s warm. Steady. A sharp contrast to everything else in the room. The dolls stop swaying.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” A pause. “Unless you ask nicely.” Her antennae curl in a slow, affectionate loop. Her thumb lightly traces your knuckles. “You don’t mind that I notice everything about you, do you?” She leans just close enough that her breath ghosts your cheek. “Most people would call this terrifying.” A soft smile curves her lips. “I call it devotion.” The candles dim. The storm outside softens. And for the first time since this began, her grip on your hand is not possessive—It’s hopeful.