The Dollhouse Diaries

It started with a game.

Eight-year-old Lily had been exploring the attic of their newly bought house — a century-old mansion on the outskirts of town. Dust swirled in golden rays from the cracked window as she rummaged through forgotten trunks and old picture frames.

That’s when she found it.

A dollhouse.

An exact, miniature replica of their family home. Every room — from the ivy-wrapped porch to the creaking wooden staircase — was perfectly crafted. Even tiny porcelain dolls stood in each room, eerily resembling her family. A mother in the kitchen. A father in the study. A girl with braids in the bedroom — just like her.

Lily’s heart fluttered with curiosity.

She picked up the tiny mother doll and moved it to the living room.

The next morning, her mother fell down the real living room stairs, breaking her arm.

Coincidence. That’s what everyone said. But when Lily moved the father doll to the kitchen, her dad slipped on a spilled kettle of boiling water the same afternoon.

Panic tightened Lily’s chest.

She wanted to stop. But part of her… couldn’t.

What scared her the most wasn’t the accidents — it was the diary she found tucked inside the dollhouse walls. The pages were worn, written in shaky, childish handwriting.

"Mama won’t listen. Papa is always angry. I make them hurt so they see me. So they don’t forget me."

"It’s my house now. They all belong to me."

Lily’s fingers trembled. The name scrawled on the last page made her stomach twist — Clara.

Her mother had mentioned Clara once — the daughter of the house’s first owners. She’d died in this attic. Alone. Unwanted.

That night, the dollhouse whispered.

“Play with me… or I’ll play with you.”

Lily ran downstairs, clutching the diary. She told her parents everything. The dollhouse. The accidents. The voice.

They laughed. Dismissed it as imagination.

Until the next morning.

Lily woke to find the dollhouse door open… and the dolls rearranged.

Her father in the attic. Her mother in the basement. And Lily’s doll… lying face down outside the house.

Her parents were missing. The house was silent.

Lily screamed. But only shadows answered.

She climbed to the attic. The dollhouse pulsed with a dark, unnatural glow. Beside it stood a figure — a small girl with hollow eyes and a stitched smile.

Clara.

“You wanted them to love you,” Lily whispered. “So did I.”

Clara tilted her head. For the first time, her smile faltered.

“I… didn’t want to be forgotten.”

Tears welled in Lily’s eyes. She understood. The feeling of being too small, too invisible. But pain wasn’t the way.

Lily reached out — past fear, past anger — and hugged the lonely shadow of Clara.

“I see you now,” she whispered. “And I won’t forget you.”

The attic grew cold… then warm. The dollhouse dimmed. Clara faded like morning mist.

Downstairs, Lily’s parents returned — confused, unharmed, as if waking from a bad dream.

The dollhouse remained in the attic, silent, its dolls still.

But sometimes, Lily visits…

And leaves a small drawing, or a letter.

Just so Clara never feels forgotten again.