The forgotten doll

  : The Forgotten Doll :

Emily was a quiet, thoughtful child, who preferred reading to playing with other kids. When her parents moved into an old Victorian house on the outskirts of town, she was thrilled. The house was full of hidden corners, dusty bookshelves, and attic rooms that felt like they held secrets.

One day, while exploring the attic, Emily came across an old, ornate box. Inside, nestled in fraying velvet, was a doll—an antique, dressed in a faded lace gown, with porcelain skin and unsettlingly real glass eyes. The doll’s expression was neutral, but there was something about its eyes that made Emily uneasy, as though it were watching her too closely.

Still, she couldn’t resist taking it downstairs, intrigued by its craftsmanship. Her mother, however, was less impressed. “That’s strange,” her mother muttered when she saw the doll. “I don’t remember ever seeing that thing up there.”

That night, as Emily placed the doll on a shelf in her room, she swore she heard a faint giggle. But when she turned around, there was nothing—just the doll, staring at her from its perch. She shrugged it off, deciding her imagination was just running wild.

Over the next few nights, the feeling of being watched grew stronger. Emily would wake up in the middle of the night and feel the doll’s eyes on her, gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Each time, the doll seemed slightly closer to her bed, though she couldn’t remember moving it.

On the fourth night, Emily awoke with a start. Her room was freezing, and the doll was no longer on the shelf. Instead, it was sitting at the foot of her bed, its head slightly tilted, staring right at her. She let out a small scream, scrambling to the corner of her bed.

Her mother, rushing in, found nothing out of place. The doll was back on the shelf, its glass eyes dull and lifeless once more.

But Emily knew something was wrong. The whispers started the next day, faint at first, but growing louder as the evening wore on. She couldn’t understand the words, but the giggling—high-pitched and chilling—was unmistakable. It seemed to follow her around the house, always just out of sight.

That night, she couldn’t take it anymore. She grabbed the doll and threw it into the attic, slamming the door shut. For a moment, the house was silent. But as she turned to walk back to her room, she heard it—a tiny shuffling sound behind her.

The attic door creaked open.

Emily froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Slowly, the sound of small, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hall. She turned, and there, at the top of the stairs, was the doll. But it wasn’t sitting anymore. It was standing, its tiny porcelain feet tapping softly against the floor, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. 

It started walking toward her.

Emily backed away, her breath coming in short, terrified gasps. She ran, but no matter how fast she moved, the doll was always just behind her, its glass eyes gleaming with a malevolent hunger.

The last sound Emily’s parents heard that night was her scream, echoing through the house. When they burst into her room, they found it empty—no trace of Emily. The only thing left was the doll, sitting on her bed, its eyes dull and lifeless once again.

But if you listen closely, they say, you can still hear her footsteps in the attic, and the faintest sound of giggling, waiting for someone new to play with.