If you had any dreams, you don't remember them when you wake up. The couch was a little less comfortable than the bed, so you feel a bit stiff as you stretch your little limbs and yawn.
You realize the couch looked a lot bigger today. Your legs dangle off the side and fail to touch the floor. You've gotten smaller, probably younger, and your skin is almost white. When you jump off onto the floor, your curly hair surrounds you. It's so incredibly curly that the ankle-length tresses only reach your waist, surrounding you in a thick black bush. They're the kind of curls you'd see in beauty magazines or perhaps silly Lolita-style wigs, and rolls of curls this solid, this perfect, didn't usually come naturally.
You think about cutting it all off when you spy your new outfit on the other couch across the room. The clothes you had thrown on the floor last night are, as expected, nowhere to be seen. This black dress was much smaller, but even more frilly. Black fabric with white loops and pleats and layers upon layers of fluffy skirt awaited you to fill them. You trot across the room, feeling a surge of youthful energy. You notice, too, that your panties have changed overnight to a toddler's underwear. After slipping on the black-and-white leggings, you step into the dress, it being the kind that zips up in back. This dress actually had sleeves, which went all the way down your arms and ended in open-fingered gloves similar to your arm warmers. Apparently your tailor got offended that you removed them due to heat yesterday, and manufactured a countermeasure. These sleeves, though, are completely black instead of striped. Zipping up the back proves quite the chore with your hair's persistent curls getting in the way. You have to do something about them, first.
The house seemed to anticipate your needs. You see two white ribbons lying on the couch. With both hands you secure the left half of your curls, gathering the locks at the back-left side of your head and forcing as many of them together as possible. Then you wrap one of the white ribbons around the thick bundle of jet-black strands, tying it off with a nice big bow. The right side of your hair is soon to follow, although you find it very hard to keep it all together as you tie the knot. When you're finished you have two pigtails of impossibly curly hair floating behind you down to your waist.
The zipper, now free of intrusive hair, is pulled up and a thick white ribbon is tied around your waist, creating a large bow in the back. This dress, like the last two, falls to your ankles with its thick layers and frills. You put on the collar, which looks no different from all the others aside from being a little smaller. With that tied around your neck, you look around for what you can only guess will be two-foot-high platform boots.
To your surprise, you see a small pair of black shoes underneath the couch. They are ankle-less, shiny-black, and have only three-inch flat-footed platforms. Sighing in relief that you no longer have to worry about your balancing act, you slip them on easily.
Now it's time to examine your changes. You head to the third floor bedroom, where you know there is a full-length mirror. (Unlike a certain other mirrored room that presented the danger of growing your hair even longer.) Your heels clomp loudly going up the staircase, and you have a hard time resisting the urge to run. Being more youthful, it seems, is making you impatient. Although you're not thrilled by your latest changes, you still want to see what your reflection looks like, intrigued by the mystery.
You reach the fancy door and turn the knob. You take one step into the room and gasp.
The bedroom has changed. Its furnishings are all still there. The bed, the dresser, closet, mirror, bath, vanity, and so on are just as you left them yesterday. But so much has been added. From the pink flowery wallpaper to the stuffed animals on the bed, the guest bedroom has become outfitted for a young girl. There are toys, a rocking chair, and dolls. Lots of dolls. They're sitting all over the dresser, on the chairs, and lying on the pillows. All of them have a similar build, implying they were all made by the same company...or the same person. You pick one up off the bed. Just like the rest, the doll is made of white plastic, with exaggerated makeup and pink rosy cheeks. She's dressed in a gothic outfit similar to yours. In fact, all of the dolls are wearing dark-colored ensembles, elaborately tailored. All of them have tiny little platform shoes of varying thicknesses. All of them have black lipstick and curly hair.
And they look all too familiar.
Clutching the doll in your hand, you walk slowly to the mirror. You don't even notice that you're stepping on some of the child toys littering the floor. A teddy bear gets his paw stepped on. A small wooden xylophone breaks under your heel. A coloring book's pages are crumpled in the shape of your footprint. You stop in front of the mirror. You feel so disturbed that if your skin could get any paler, it would have.
But it can't. Your skin is completely white. You stare at your chubby childish face with its dark blue eyeshadow and its black glossy lips and its thick black eyelashes and its perfectly round bright pink cheeks staring at you with the same vapid expression as the doll you hold. Your five-year-old body is dressed in its dollish black-and-white outfit, its black hair tied in two giant curly pigtails.
Your heart sinks as you finally realize the house has been turning you into a living, breathing, life-sized doll.