Desiree's Baby

Title: Desire Baby

Subtitle: A Dark Psychological Horror About Obsession, Loss, and the Price of Unfulfilled Desires

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Desire Baby

I. The Cradle Never Slept

Eleanor never packed up the nursery. Five years after the miscarriage, the walls remained a soft lavender, the mobile still swayed gently above the crib, untouched by time—or so it seemed.

She had named her before she was born. Lila. A name whispered nightly into darkness. Her husband left not long after. Grief devoured them differently. He walked away. She dug in deeper.

It started small. A sound—gentle creaking from the cradle. A faint scent—baby powder and something sweeter, like milk. Then a giggle, muffled, far away but real enough to stop Eleanor mid-step. She began leaving the door open at night.

She swore she could feel breath on her cheek as she slept.

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II. A Gift from Nowhere

The package arrived on a rainy Tuesday. No name. No return address. Inside: a porcelain baby doll, hand-painted and chillingly lifelike. Auburn curls. Pale cheeks. Green eyes—Eleanor’s exact shade.

She didn’t ask who sent it. Some part of her believed she had called it here.

The doll—Lila, she began to say again—fit perfectly into the nursery. Into the cradle. Into her arms. She talked to it. Bathed it. Fed it. She even read bedtime stories like she used to dream of doing.

Visitors noticed the change. Or tried to. Her sister left abruptly during a visit, pale and shaking. “Something’s wrong in that room,” she said, almost whispering. “It’s watching me.”

Eleanor only smiled. “She’s just shy.”

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III. The Pact

Before the doll arrived, Eleanor had been researching. Old rituals. Obscure forums. She read about Desire Magic—ancient rites born not from logic but pure longing.

She tried one.

Under the nursery floorboards, she buried a piece of herself: a lock of hair, a fingernail, a drop of blood.

The spell promised only this: Desire will take form, but not shape you control.

And soon after, the doll moved.

First it shifted in the crib. Then she found it sitting up. Then standing.

She never questioned it.

When it first said “Mama,” Eleanor wept with joy.

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IV. Not a Baby

But Lila wanted more.

She grew restless when Eleanor left the nursery. Lights flickered. Shadows moved without cause. The mirrors in the house turned cloudy. Photos of Eleanor’s ex shattered, untouched.

Eleanor had dreams—twisted and vivid. Of tiny hands gripping her throat. Of crying inside the doll’s porcelain head, unable to escape.

Then came the scratches. Tiny ones. On Eleanor’s arms. Across the walls.

Lila was changing.

“I gave you life,” Eleanor whispered one night.

The doll blinked slowly. “You gave me wanting.”

“What do you want?”

“To stay.”

“To be.”

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V. What’s Left Behind

Neighbors still talk about the house. They say it breathes at night. The lights go on without power. Soft lullabies drift through closed windows.

No one’s seen Eleanor in months.

But sometimes, children walking home late claim to see a small figure in the upstairs window. Pale face. Green eyes. Always watching.

If you ever find a porcelain baby doll at your doorstep, don't bring it inside.

Desire doesn’t die.

It just waits to be born.