I Bought a Haunted Doll Off a Livestream

I’ve always had a strange relationship with fear.

I don’t flinch at horror movies, I laugh at haunted house stories, and I’ve always thought that people who claim “spirits followed them home” were either lying or needed help. I thought I was immune.

Until I bought that damn doll.

It started as a joke.

I was scrolling late at night on a sketchy livestream app. The host was a young guy with wild eyes and a growing collection of supposedly “haunted objects.” He claimed to have everything from cursed coins to mirrors that trapped souls. Most of the viewers were just spamming emojis or laughing in the chat.

Then he held up a porcelain doll.

She was old—probably early 1900s—her skin pale and cracked, her eyes a cloudy blue that almost looked real. Her dress was yellowed lace, torn at the edges. What made her disturbing was the expression: not sweet or innocent, but smug… like she knew something you didn’t.

The host called her "Annora" and said she came from an estate sale where the entire family had reportedly vanished. He claimed the doll moved on its own, whispered at night, and drained batteries when she was nearby.

He was auctioning her. Starting bid: $20.

I typed “$25” just to mess around.

No one else bid.

A minute later, a message popped up: “Congratulations! You’ve won Annora.”

I laughed. Guess I own a haunted doll now.

Two days later, she arrived. No box—just wrapped in an old newspaper, with a faint scent of mold and perfume. There was no note. Just the doll, staring up at me with that smug expression.

That night, things got weird.

At 2:13 a.m., I woke up to the sound of my closet door creaking open.

Now, my closet is stiff. You need to really tug it to open. But there it was—ajar, slightly swaying, as if someone had nudged it from the inside.

I blamed the wind. I live alone. No pets. No open windows.

I put Annora on the shelf in the living room and went back to sleep.

The next morning, she was sitting on the kitchen table.

I thought maybe I’d moved her and forgotten. Sleepwalking, maybe?

But that night, I set up my phone to record.

The footage is still on my cloud. Around 3:17 a.m., the screen flickers, then goes black for exactly 7 seconds. When it comes back, Annora is gone from the shelf.

Cut to 3:18 a.m. — she’s sitting on the couch, head turned slightly toward the camera.

I didn't sleep that night.

The days that followed were worse.

Lights would flicker when I passed by her. My cat (I adopted one a few weeks earlier) would hiss at empty corners and run from the doll, fur raised. I started waking up with bruises—tiny fingertip-sized marks around my ankles.

One night, I tried to lock her in the storage room. But in the morning, the door was wide open, and she was sitting on my bed, facing the wall.

I called the livestream host. No answer.

I messaged him.

His reply was only two words: “Too late.”

I tried burning her.

She wouldn’t catch fire. I even soaked her in lighter fluid. The match fizzled out every time.

I buried her in the woods.

She showed up the next day in my car’s passenger seat.

I drove her to a river and tossed her in.

The next morning, she was back on my living room floor—muddy, but dry.

That was the moment I truly broke.

I don’t know what she wants. She doesn’t speak—at least not in ways I can hear. But I feel her. Watching. Judging. Growing stronger.

And every night at 3:17 a.m., I hear footsteps. Small ones. Across the hardwood floor. Pausing right outside my bedroom door.

She doesn’t knock.

She waits.

It's been a month. I’ve lost weight. My friends don’t visit anymore. I tried to post about her online, but the video always corrupts. The photo disappears. It’s like she won’t let the world know what she is.

I’ve stopped trying to get rid of her.

But last night, something changed.

I woke up, and she was right beside me, sitting upright on the pillow, staring.

Her lips were slightly parted.

And I swear, I heard her whisper:

“You're mine now.”

If you’re reading this, and you ever see a livestream selling haunted items—don’t bid. Don’t watch. Don’t even stay.

Because some things don’t want to be owned.

They want you.