You came up to the attic to clear out grandma's boxes. The light from the dormer fell across a velvet-lined case at the bottom of a steamer trunk. Inside was a porcelain doll on a stand — black bra, black gloves, white underthings, blue hair across her painted shoulder. A gold bell hung from a fur collar at her throat. The collar was the only part not glued down. You picked it up to look at the clasp.
It clicked shut around your neck before you finished the thought. The bell rang once between your collarbones. You went to your knees on the floor not because anything hurt — your knees just went. The floorboards creaked under you. Your hands found the buttons of your shirt and undid them without asking permission. By the time you understood what they were doing, they had your jeans open and your fingers were inside the waistband of underwear that had not been there a minute ago.
Your hips pushed up. You could not stop your hands. You had no reason to stop. You did not stop when your hand pulled your cock out of your jeans. You did not stop when your thumbs pressed into the head. You did not stop when the bell began to chime in time with your wrist.
It was the bell that brought your eyes back open. The attic air was cool on your chest. You looked down. There were strands of blue hair across the back of your wrist. They were yours. You watched it happen with your hand still on yourself. The skin under your fingers was unsewing. The thing you had been holding was shrinking. The sensation was a ticklish pop of static from the inside out. Then the thing was gone. There was a blank space. The collar chimed and you followed the autopilot down.
Your hand found something new where the old thing had been. It was already wet. Your hips lifted to meet it without being told. A bra came up under your chest before the breasts that needed it. White frill settled around hips that had been narrower a minute ago. The bell rang in time with you. You did not stop when you came. The porcelain doll on the stand was bare now. Her dress was on the floor. The dormer light fell across your wrist and the empty case beside you.
***
The stairs at the back of the attic creaked. You did not have time to cover. He came up the last three steps, framed in the dormer light with a roll of contractor bags in his fist, and stopped dead. He set the bags down. He did not ask. He walked across the floorboards and lowered himself between your knees in the dust.
He reached down and touched you like he was making sure you were real. His fingers moved under the lace of underwear that had not been there a minute earlier. You were too shocked to speak. He had a strong jaw and a thin face. He looked into your eyes once and then down at his own hand, working you over the dust. You were still wet from before. You did not stop him.
He pulled the lace off your hips and threw it across the boards. He undid his belt with one hand. Then he was inside you and the bell at your throat started to chime in time with him. It rang out in the silence of the attic. He fucked you harder. His fingers dug into your hips. The bell rang louder and the sound carried down through the floorboards.
The dust hung suspended in the dormer light above his shoulder. Then the thought arrived in your head fully formed, and it wasn't yours, and then it was. You did not have a name before. You do now. Kikimora. The old self watched from somewhere small, and then from nowhere. He came inside you with a groan and the bell chimed and chimed and chimed.
He stayed inside you for a few seconds longer than he meant to. When he pulled out, you sat up without hurry on the dust. The skirt was already on you again as if it had never come off. The lace knickers were across the floor by the trunk. You did not crawl after them. The porcelain doll on the stand was bare and her painted eyes were the same color as your wrist. You picked up the empty case beside you. Kikimora knew what to do with it.