My name is Kim, and I need to share something with you—something I can barely make sense of myself, but I know it’s real. It all started when my grandmother passed away a few months ago. She left me her old Victorian house, filled with antiques and memories. Among them was a doll, an old porcelain thing with delicate features, pale blue eyes, and a dress that looked like it had been made over a hundred years ago.
I didn’t think much of it when I found it in the attic, tucked away in a dusty trunk. My grandmother had collected all sorts of things over the years, and the doll was just another piece of her collection. I set it on a shelf in the guest room, where it could gather dust like everything else in that old house.
But things started happening almost immediately after I brought the doll downstairs.
At first, it was small, almost unnoticeable. I’d walk past the guest room and hear faint whispers, like the sound of someone talking just below their breath. I thought it was the wind, or maybe the house settling, but the whispers continued, growing louder and more distinct as the days went on.
One night, as I was lying in bed, I heard it clearly for the first time—a voice, soft and girlish, coming from the guest room. I sat up, my heart pounding, and strained to listen. The voice was faint, but I could make out the words. It was singing, a sweet, lilting tune that sounded like a lullaby.
I got out of bed, my legs shaking as I crept toward the guest room. The door was slightly ajar, and the room was bathed in the pale light of the moon. The doll sat on the shelf, its eyes staring blankly ahead. The voice stopped the moment I stepped into the room, the air heavy with an unsettling silence.
I checked every corner of the room, but there was nothing—no radio, no phone, nothing that could have made that sound. Just the doll, sitting there, its blue eyes reflecting the dim light. I tried to convince myself that I’d imagined it, that it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but deep down, I knew that wasn’t true.
The whispering didn’t stop. It only got worse. Sometimes, I’d hear the voice when I was alone in the house, the soft, insistent murmurs following me from room to room. Other times, it would wake me up in the middle of the night, a cold breath against my ear, the words too low to understand but filled with something dark, something angry.
I tried to ignore it, to pretend that it wasn’t happening, but the doll wouldn’t let me. Its presence became overwhelming, a constant weight on my mind. I’d catch glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye, always watching me, always there. Sometimes, I’d find it in different positions than I’d left it—its head tilted to the side, its hands clasped in its lap, as if it had moved on its own.
Then, a few nights ago, I woke up to the sound of footsteps. Light, almost imperceptible, but they were there, moving slowly down the hall toward my bedroom. I lay frozen in bed, listening as the steps stopped right outside my door. The whispering began again, louder this time, the voice urgent, pleading.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw the covers off and flung the door open, but the hallway was empty. The only sound was the rapid beating of my heart. I turned on every light in the house, desperate to chase away the shadows, to prove to myself that I was alone. But when I reached the guest room, the doll was gone.
I searched everywhere, tearing the house apart, but it was nowhere to be found. The whispers continued, echoing through the empty rooms, coming from the walls, the floors, the very air itself. I locked myself in my bedroom, barricading the door with furniture, but I could still hear it—the voice, calling to me, getting closer.
This morning, I found the doll. It was sitting on my bed, its blue eyes staring up at me, its porcelain lips curved into a faint smile. I don’t know how it got there. I don’t want to know. All I know is that the whispering has stopped, replaced by a silence that feels even more terrifying.
I can’t stay here any longer. I’m leaving this house, this town, everything. I’m taking the doll back to where I found it—back to the attic, where it belongs. But before I do, I need to warn you.
There’s something wrong with that doll. Something evil. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s been watching me, waiting for something. I think my grandmother knew, and that’s why she left it hidden away. She knew the danger it posed, and now I do too.
