The Christmas Doll That Watched Me Sleep

Christmas had always been my favorite time of year. The lights, the songs, the magic—it all felt like stepping into another world. This year was no different. Snow blanketed the streets, and our home smelled of pine needles and cinnamon. But this Christmas brought something else. Something I’d never forget.

It all started when Aunt Lydia came to visit. She had always been a bit eccentric, showing up with odd gifts and wild stories from her travels. This time, she arrived with an antique doll. It was a Christmas gift, she said, for me.

The doll was beautiful, in a way that felt unsettling. Her porcelain face was pale and flawless, with rosy cheeks and glassy blue eyes that seemed to follow you wherever you went. She wore a deep red velvet dress trimmed with white lace, and her golden curls were pulled back into a neat bun. Most peculiar of all was the tiny music box embedded in her back. Aunt Lydia demonstrated how to wind it up, and the doll played a hauntingly sweet version of "Silent Night."

"She’s one of a kind," Aunt Lydia said, her voice tinged with pride. "I found her at a little shop in Prague. They say she’s over a hundred years old."

I forced a smile, thanking her. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but something about the doll made my skin crawl.

That night, I placed the doll on the shelf across from my bed. Her eyes seemed to glint in the dim light, but I told myself it was just my imagination. I climbed under the covers, pulling them up to my chin, and drifted off to sleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a sound—a faint, lilting melody. It took me a moment to place it: "Silent Night." My heart thudded in my chest as I sat up. The music was soft, almost like a whisper. I squinted in the darkness, my eyes adjusting. The doll wasn’t on the shelf anymore.

She was sitting on the edge of my desk, her glassy eyes fixed on me.

I froze. I hadn’t moved her, and no one else could have come into my room. My parents were asleep down the hall, and our house didn’t have creaky floors or doors that could swing open on their own. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. But the doll’s unblinking stare told me otherwise.

With trembling hands, I picked her up and put her back on the shelf. The music stopped as soon as I touched her. I stared at her for a long time, waiting for something else to happen. But the room remained silent, and eventually, I convinced myself it was just a coincidence.

The next morning, I told my mom about the doll.

"You’re probably just spooking yourself," she said with a laugh. "It’s an old doll. Maybe the music box is sensitive."

I nodded, but her explanation didn’t sit right with me. Still, I tried to push the incident out of my mind. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and there were cookies to bake and movies to watch.

That night, I placed the doll back on the shelf, making sure she was sitting perfectly upright. I even snapped a picture of her on my phone for proof. Then I climbed into bed, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

At 3:14 a.m., I woke up again.

The room was pitch black, but I could hear the soft hum of "Silent Night." I reached for my phone, turning on the flashlight. My heart dropped when the beam landed on the doll. She wasn’t on the shelf. This time, she was sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed.

I gasped, my throat tightening. My pulse pounded in my ears as I scrambled out of bed. I picked her up, her tiny body cold and heavy in my hands, and stuffed her into the bottom drawer of my dresser. I slammed the drawer shut, leaning against it as if the doll might somehow burst out.

"You’re being ridiculous," I whispered to myself. "It’s just a doll."

But as I climbed back into bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

Christmas morning arrived, and I tried to act normal. I didn’t mention the doll to my parents, and I avoided Aunt Lydia’s knowing smile when we opened presents. But the whole day, I felt uneasy, like there was a shadow looming over me.

That night, I decided to test something. I left the doll in the dresser drawer and locked my bedroom door. If she moved again, I’d know something was truly wrong.

I barely slept, tossing and turning as my mind raced. Every creak of the house made me jump, and I kept glancing at the dresser, half-expecting the drawer to slide open. But nothing happened.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt a flicker of relief. Maybe it really had been my imagination. I unlocked the door and opened the dresser drawer, bracing myself.

The doll was gone.

Panic clawed at my chest as I searched the room, my hands shaking. I checked under the bed, behind the dresser, even in the closet. She wasn’t anywhere. It was like she had vanished.

The next few days were a blur. I kept the lights on in my room, barely sleeping as I waited for something else to happen. I wanted to tell someone, anyone, but I didn’t know how to explain it without sounding crazy.

Then, on New Year’s Eve, I found her.

I was cleaning up after dinner when I noticed something on the mantel above the fireplace. The doll was sitting there, her head tilted slightly to the side as if she were listening. My stomach churned. I hadn’t put her there, and neither had my parents. They didn’t even seem to notice her.

"Who put this here?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

My mom glanced up. "Oh, I found her in the living room yesterday. Thought she looked festive."

I didn’t respond. My mom didn’t seem to understand the significance, and I didn’t have the energy to explain. I grabbed the doll and took her outside. Snow crunched under my boots as I made my way to the backyard. I found the fire pit, still piled with ashes from our last bonfire, and tossed the doll in. Then I lit a match and dropped it onto the velvet dress.

The flames roared to life, and I felt a strange mix of relief and sadness as the doll burned. Her porcelain face cracked and blackened, and her blue eyes melted into nothing. When the fire died down, I stomped out the embers and went back inside.

That night, I slept better than I had in weeks. The nightmare was over. Or so I thought.

At 3:14 a.m., I woke up to the sound of "Silent Night."

My breath hitched as I turned my head. Sitting on the shelf across from my bed was the doll, her dress pristine and her eyes gleaming in the dark.

"Why won’t you leave me alone?" I whispered, tears streaming down my face.

The doll didn’t answer, but the music grew louder, filling the room with its eerie melody. I felt a cold hand brush against my cheek, though no one was there. My chest tightened as the air around me seemed to grow heavy.

The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed me was the doll’s glassy eyes, unblinking and relentless, watching me sleep.