The Doll in the Window

When Zara’s family moved into the old Victorian house on Elm Street, she didn’t notice the doll at first. It sat in the dusty attic window, a porcelain figure with glassy eyes, a cracked smile, and a faded pink dress. Her younger brother had insisted it was creepy, but Zara thought little of it. Dolls were just dolls, after all. That was before she began noticing subtle, unnerving changes.

The first night, she awoke to soft, deliberate footsteps moving across the creaking hallway. At first, she assumed it was her brother, perhaps sleepwalking. But when she called his name, the house remained silent. Curiosity and a little fear drew her to the attic. The doll, which she had seen lying on its back during the day, now sat upright in the window, its head tilted slightly as though watching her. She shook her head and dismissed it as imagination, tired eyes playing tricks in the dim moonlight.

Over the following days, strange incidents became frequent. Toys disappeared from her brother’s room and were found near the attic door, arranged unnaturally. The doll’s glassy eyes appeared to follow her wherever she went. At night, faint whispers seemed to drift down from the attic, words too soft and jumbled to understand. Yet the tone was deliberate, deliberate enough to make her skin crawl. Zara told herself it was the house settling or perhaps a trick of the wind, but deep inside, a gnawing sense of dread grew.

One evening, during a summer storm, the power went out. Darkness engulfed the house. As Zara shone her flashlight down the hallway, the beam fell on the doll, now perched at the top of the attic stairs, sitting upright as if it had moved itself. Every instinct screamed at her to look away, but she couldn’t. The temperature in the hallway dropped sharply, icy air brushing against her skin, making her shiver uncontrollably. The doll’s cracked smile appeared wider than before, and its eyes seemed to glint with a malevolent light.

That night, Zara couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed, listening as faint footsteps paced across the floorboards. Her brother whispered in the dark that the doll had spoken to him, though he refused to say what it said. Every time Zara thought she had a moment of safety, she felt eyes upon her, even when the doll was nowhere in sight. It had become more than an object; it had become aware.

Days passed, and the doll’s behavior grew bolder. Its position changed without explanation, always appearing closer to the family’s rooms, always watching. Then one night, it vanished from the attic entirely. Panic gripped Zara. The house was quiet for a moment, and then a whisper called her name from the darkness of her bedroom. She froze, heart hammering. There, at the foot of her bed, stood the doll, perfectly still, its glassy eyes reflecting the faint light from the storm outside, its cracked smile stretching impossibly wide.

Zara screamed, throwing a blanket over the doll, but when she lifted it, the figure was gone. The whispers did not stop. They came from the walls, the floors, the ceilings—everywhere and nowhere at once. The doll was no longer confined to the attic or her room. It had taken control of the house itself, patient and relentless, feeding on fear, waiting for her attention.

Finally, the family moved out, leaving behind furniture, curtains, and even the doll. When new tenants arrived, the doll reappeared in the attic window, its eyes glimmering faintly, its smile cruel and permanent. And on quiet nights, when the wind blows just right through the cracks in the old house, the doll whispers again, calling the names of anyone brave—or foolish—enough to enter.

Some toys, Zara realized too late, are never meant to be played with.