Bo-Peep's Knock

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Anya’s grandmother had whispered it to her the night she arrived at the old house deep in the Carpathian Mountains. The warning felt absurd, like something from a fairy tale. Yet, when Anya woke to the soft tapping on the other side of the locked bedroom door, she remembered it.

Tap… tap… tap.

The house was ancient, creaking with the wind, but this sound was deliberate—rhythmic. She pressed her ear to the wood and heard a faint giggle, like a child’s.

Her pulse quickened.

On the bedside table sat a doll—Bo-peep. It had been there since she was a child, its porcelain face frozen in a sly smile. She’d forgotten about it until now. Anya never liked the doll. It always seemed to stare, eyes too bright, too knowing.

The tapping grew louder. Bo-peep tipped slightly forward, her head cocked unnaturally to the side.

Anya’s hand hovered over the door handle. She could feel something waiting on the other side, something eager. The air grew cold, heavy with the scent of damp earth.

Suddenly, the doll’s head turned toward her, creaking as it moved. “Come play with me,” a voice whispered, though Bo-peep's lips never moved.

The door rattled violently. Whatever was out there wasn’t knocking anymore.

Anya stepped back, her heart pounding in her chest. She couldn’t resist much longer.

The handle began to turn.