Chapter 1: The Widow’s Finger
Rain lashed the crime scene tape, turning the alley into a slick black throat. The tape shivered like nerves under a scalpel, fluttering against brick and shadow. Detective Tom Mercer ducked beneath the plastic barrier, his leather jacket glistening under the oscillating red-blue patrol lights. Water soaked his cuffs, wormed through the seams of his boots.
The stench hit him first—coppery blood, spoiled milk, stagnant piss. And beneath it, faint but unmistakable: perfume. Too sweet.
The Body sprawled halfway inside a graffiti-scarred dumpster, legs twisted like a broken marionette, one heel hooked on the rim. Male, mid-forties, though it was hard to be sure—his face had been peeled open from hairline to jaw, as though someone had tried to unmask a rubber Halloween costume and lost patience. Muscle and sinew gleamed like lacquered meat under the streetlamp. The skin was pinned to the brick wall behind him with rusted nails. A macabre butterfly, wings of flesh twitching in the wind.
“Third one this month,” muttered Officer Chen, handing Tom a pair of nitrile gloves. “Same MO. Doll parts.”
Tom crouched. His knees popped, protesting years of stakeouts and sprinting after junkies. His thigh brushed against the cold metal of the dumpster’s edge.
Inside the corpse’s mouth—a porcelain doll’s finger. Lodged deep. Glossy and intact, nails painted a faded ballet-pink. It glinted with something close to intent. Not rage. Not even cruelty. Artistry.
Tom’s own scar itched—the one on his forearm from a meth-head’s switchblade two years ago. It flared during bad cases. Always during the bad ones.
Justice. Always just out of reach.
Tom Mercer, Up Close:
At 6’2”, he had to hunch to avoid the lip of the dumpster lid. His once military-short hair curled rebelliously at his collar now, damp strands clinging to the creases of his neck. Gunmetal-gray streaks split the brown like lightning bolts through mud.
His coat smelled of stale coffee and cracked leather. His breath fogged the air, though the cold didn’t bother him anymore—not since Clara died.
His hands, broad and scarred, hovered over the corpse, inches above the wound pattern. Steady. Always steady. Even when the scene turned the stomachs of younger cops.
“No defensive wounds,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “He knew her. Or at least didn’t see her coming.”
Chen hovered nearby. “Wallet’s still in his back pocket. Richard Kline. Local. Divorce finalized last fall. Owns a gym up on Claymore. Three Yelp stars.”
Tom reached for the wallet, glancing at the ID. A photo of a golden retriever peeked out—creased at the corners, the dog’s eyes washed out by flash glare.
He had someone.
His thumb brushed the bullet in his coat pocket. Engraved: T.M. A keepsake from another life. A coin of penance.
Clara’s ghost stirred at the edge of his thoughts.
The Watcher
Across the street, beneath a sagging awning that wept droplets onto her ballet flats, Selene Voss sipped from a latte cup wrapped in knit mittens. Her scarf was silk, blood-red, knotted loose around her throat like a noose waiting for a name.
Detective Mercer.
He was taller than she expected. Broad. Weathered. All worn denim and weary nobility. The tragic jawline. The ghost-hollow eyes.
Perfect.
She giggled into the coffee lid. The barista had called her “Miss” and given her a free cookie. People always did, even though she looked like she was in her mid twenties. She wore a pastel sweater today, soft lilac, two braids falling over her shoulders, tied with cherry-red ribbons. She was oh-so-ancient now. But never bored, not with men to alter into toys for her games.
The city called her harmless. It didn’t know her name yet.
Her crescent scar itched—the one carved just beneath her lower lip, pale and twitching now with glee. Watching Tom inspect her masterpiece made her blood fizz.
Richard Kline had lasted forty minutes. She’d counted every second. Scalpel first, slow cuts along the jaw. Then the tongue work. Then the whisper.
The first syllable of the curse. Just enough. A little taste of decay.
She wanted Tom to see her work up close. Smell it. Touch it. Maybe find the little gift she’d left under the spleen.
Selene Voss, Unseen
Raindrops clung to her lashes, magnifying her eyes. At 5’4”, she disappeared easily in a crowd, but right now, she wanted to be seen. Just barely.
Enough to be felt.
Let him squint across the street and wonder—did someone just smile at me?
Her blood-red nails tapped the coffee lid.
Notice me. Chase me. Bleed for me.
The locket nestled beneath the corpse’s organs was from victim number four. Etched in silver: To My Eternal Love. Inside, she’d slipped a splinter of bone shaved from the cursed doll’s rib. One drop of Mercer’s blood, just one touch, and the curse would root.
The Twist
Back in the alley, Tom’s flashlight caught a glint beneath the pile of viscera. He reached in, teeth gritted against the smell, and withdrew a locket.
His fingers tingled.
Cold. Unnaturally cold. The metal seemed to breathe against his skin.
He cracked it open.
To My Eternal Love.
“Detective?”
Chen’s voice. A hand on his shoulder. “You’re shaking.”
Tom blinked.
His vision swam for a second. The light seemed too bright. His limbs too distant.
The locket trembled in his grip.
He looked up—and caught his reflection in the squad car’s window.
Something was…off.
His jawline? Softer. Eyes… rounder? Was it the rain? The streetlight?
He shoved the thought aside. Stress. Exhaustion. Not madness. Not yet.
The Dance Begins
Across the street, Selene began to hum. It was tuneless. A child’s nonsense lullaby.
She walked with light steps, her ribbons fluttering, fingers brushing against the doll in her purse.
It was homemade—button eyes, stitch-mouth, chest stuffed with cotton and a single strand of Detective Tom Mercer’s hair. Plucked from the rim of his coffee mug during a brief interview six weeks ago.
It only needed time now.
Time for the curse to wind its way into his bones, coil tight around his height, his masculinity, his pride.
By tomorrow, he’d lose an inch.
By next week, he’d lose his badge.
By the end, he’d fit neatly in her palm.
Selene skipped toward the subway entrance, heels splashing through puddles. Behind her, sirens wailed.
In the alley, Tom pocketed the locket.
The bone shard inside sliced his finger. He didn’t notice.
Not yet.
Somewhere, on a quiet street, a woman giggled.
High. Girlish.
...Gone.
Giantess World
Story Notes:
This story blends psychological horror, surreal transformations, and symbolic femdom themes. Inspired by noir thrillers and gothic revenge tales, it follows a detective’s unraveling under the influence of a powerful and twisted woman.
Expect: body horror, shrinking masculinity, subtle domination, mental disintegration, and a curse wrapped in silk.
Written as a serialized novel. New chapters will be added regularly.
Chapter End Notes:
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