I never liked dolls. When the antique shop owner smiled and said, “It’s been waiting for you,” I laughed it off.
The doll sat on a lace-covered shelf, hands folded in its lap. Its painted brown eyes looked calm. Harmless.
The tag said $5.
I told myself it was only a doll.
I bought it.
When I carried it into my room, the air felt heavy, pressing softly against my ears. The floorboards creaked though I stood still. Old houses make noise, I thought. The doll’s stare seemed warmer now—less painted, more patient.
I set it on my desk and turned it toward the wall.
That night, rain tapped against the window. I read until my eyes burned and shut off the lamp. Darkness settled slowly around the room—and around the doll.
Sleep came in thin pieces.
Then something slipped through it.
Not a voice. A breath.
My name.
I sat up so fast my chest hurt. The room looked the same, but the doll faced my bed. Its head tilted slightly.
I got up and turned it back toward the wall. I checked the door. The window. The closet. Nothing had moved.
Morning arrived before I closed my eyes.
The Doll’s First Warning
By daylight, I knew I shouldn’t keep the doll. I slid it into my backpack and left for school. I planned to drop it into a donation box on the way.
At the box, I lifted the lid. The metal hinge groaned and resisted, warped from rust and damp. I pulled harder until it scraped open.
Something shifted inside my bag.
A soft tap.
Then another, closer together.
I froze.
I unzipped the bag slowly. The doll lay on top, its porcelain fingers hooked around the zipper pull as if it had climbed there.
I hadn’t packed it that way.
I shut the bag and walked home too fast.
In my room, I shoved the doll under my bed and stepped back.
That evening, my mother asked why I looked pale. I shrugged. I didn’t trust my voice.
After dinner, the house felt tight and hollow.
A faint scratching came from beneath my bed.
It dragged once along the floorboards.
Then paused.
A careful knock.
I crouched and aimed a flashlight into the dark. Dust. Shoes. Nothing else.
The beam flickered.
Cold air brushed my ankles.
When I stood, the doll sat beside my closet door.
Its painted lips had cracked slightly.
“I know—” it whispered.
The word thinned into a dry scrape across the room.
I pressed my hands over my ears.
For a second, I almost answered.
Old Warnings About the Doll
I locked myself in the bathroom and called my aunt. She collected strange antiques and told stories most people didn’t believe.
When I finished explaining, she stayed quiet long enough that I thought the call had dropped.
“Some things learn by listening,” she said at last.
The line crackled.
“Silence keeps them hungry.”
“That’s all?” I asked.
Her breath shifted. “Don’t let it hear you choose it.”
Choose it.
I didn’t understand, but I kept my mouth shut after that.
I stayed on the cold tile floor. The pipes ticked inside the walls. Once, I thought I heard something move down the hallway—slow, careful—but I pressed my hands harder against my ears.
If it wanted a word from me, it wouldn’t get one.
Dawn thinned the dark.
When I opened the bathroom door, the doll stood at the end of the hall, facing the wall as if it had been there all night.
The Doll by the River
My aunt arrived before sunrise. We placed the doll into a plain cardboard box and drove without speaking. Fog lay heavy along the riverbank. The water moved dark and steady.
We tied stones to the box.
No prayers. No names.
My throat tightened anyway. I nearly said something—anything—but swallowed it back.
We pushed the box into the river.
It floated longer than it should have. The current around it slowed, circling as if waiting.
Then it tipped and sank.
The surface closed.
That night, my room felt almost normal. I lay awake for a long time, listening.
Nothing moved.
Nothing whispered.
I let my breath out slowly.
From the corner of the room, soft and close:
“Eli.”
A pause.
“I’m still listening.”