The Whispering Doll
Emily had always hated the attic. It was a forgotten realm in her family's old farmhouse, filled with cobwebs, dusty trunks, and the faint smell of mildew. But on that rainy afternoon in late October, boredom drove her up the creaky ladder. She was twelve, too old for dolls but young enough to be
The Whispering Doll
Emily had always hated the attic. It was a forgotten realm in her family's old farmhouse, filled with cobwebs, dusty trunks, and the faint smell of mildew. But on that rainy afternoon in late October, boredom drove her up the creaky ladder. She was twelve, too old for dolls but young enough to be curious about the relics her grandmother had left behind.
Poking through a cardboard box labeled "Toys - 1950s," she found it: a porcelain doll with glassy blue eyes, ringlet curls of faded blonde hair, and a frilly pink dress yellowed by time. Its face was eerily perfect, lips painted in a perpetual smile that didn't reach the eyes. Emily lifted it carefully, feeling a chill as her fingers brushed the cold skin-like material. "Hello, pretty," she whispered, half-joking.
That night, as thunder rumbled outside, Emily placed the doll on her nightstand. She named it Annabelle, after a character from a book. Sleep came fitfully, dreams plagued by whispers she couldn't quite hear. In the morning, she woke to find the doll sitting upright, staring at her. "Must've knocked it," she muttered, propping it back down.
The whispers started subtly. At first, Emily thought it was the wind through the cracks in the old house. But by evening, as she did homework, a soft voice tickled her ear: "Emily... play with me." She spun around, heart racing. The room was empty except for Annabelle, whose eyes seemed to follow her. "Mom?" she called, but her parents were downstairs, watching TV.
Shaking it off as imagination, Emily tucked the doll into her closet. That night, the whispers grew louder. "I know your secret, Emily. The one about the candy you stole from the store." She bolted upright, sweating. How could a doll know that? She hadn't told anyone. Trembling, she yanked open the closet door. Annabelle sat there, smile unchanged, but her head was tilted as if listening.
The next day, Emily tried to ignore it. She played outside with her dog, Buster, but the doll's voice echoed in her mind: "Buster will run away if you don't play with me." That afternoon, Buster vanished. Emily searched the woods, calling his name until dark. When she returned, exhausted and tear-streaked, Annabelle was on her bed, a tuft of Buster's fur clutched in her tiny porcelain hand.
Terror gripped her. "What are you?" she whispered, grabbing the doll and shaking it. The eyes blinked—impossible, but they did. "I'm your friend," the voice hissed, not from the doll but from inside her head. "Your only friend now."
Emily's parents noticed her pallor, her refusal to eat. "It's just a phase," her mother said, dismissing the wild tales of a talking doll. But that night, as Emily lay awake, the whispers turned menacing. "Tell no one about me, or Mommy will have an accident." Visions flooded her mind: her mother slipping on the stairs, blood pooling. Emily clamped her hands over her ears, sobbing silently.
Desperate, she researched online. Old forums mentioned "whispering dolls" from the 1950s, cursed toys made by a toymaker who dabbled in the occult. One post claimed they housed spirits of lonely children, feeding on fear until they possessed their owners. "Destroy it," the advice read. "Fire purifies."
Emily waited until her parents slept. She crept to the backyard with Annabelle, a box of matches, and kindling. The doll's voice pleaded: "Don't leave me alone, Emily. I'll make you strong. We'll be together forever." She struck a match, flames licking the dress. But as the porcelain cracked, a scream pierced the night—not the doll's, but Emily's own voice, twisted and echoing.
The fire died quickly, rain dousing it. Annabelle lay charred but intact, eyes still gleaming. Emily felt a shift inside her, a cold presence uncoiling. "Too late," it whispered. Her hands moved on their own, picking up the doll and cradling it.
In the morning, her parents found Buster safe in the barn, whining. But Emily was different. She smiled too widely, her eyes glassy. "Annabelle and I are playing," she said in a voice not quite her own. Her mother frowned, noticing the doll on the table—unburnt, pristine.
Days blurred. Emily's whispers filled the house at night, secrets spilling: her father's affair, her mother's hidden pills. Arguments erupted, the family fracturing. Buster growled at Emily, hackles raised, until one day he lay still in the yard, eyes vacant.
The doll's commands grew. "Hurt them," it urged. Emily resisted at first, but the presence strengthened, her thoughts no longer hers. She watched her hands pour something into her parents' coffee, a bottle from under the sink.
The police report called it a tragedy: a girl orphaned by poison, claiming a doll made her do it. They found Annabelle in Emily's arms, smile eternal. The officer who took it felt a chill, hearing a faint whisper: "Play with me."
Emily was sent to an institution, where she sat staring at walls, murmuring. But one night, a nurse noticed the doll had reappeared on her shelf. "How...?" she began, but Emily's eyes locked on hers. "She's my friend," Emily said, voice hollow. "And now, yours."
The whispers spread through the wards, patients waking in terror. The doll vanished again, only to appear in another child's home, waiting. For loneliness calls to it, and it answers—forever.
About the Creator
Md Abul Kasem
Dr. Md. Abul Kasem, homeopathic physician & writer, shares thought-provoking stories on history, society & leadership. Author of “অযোগ্য ও লোভী নেতৃত্বের কারণে বাংলাদেশ ব্যর্থ”, he inspires change through truth & awareness.
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The Hollow Guest
The rain lashed against the windows of the old puritanical house, a grim shower that echoed through its empty halls. Clara had inherited the place from her great-aunt, a woman she slightly knew, who’d lived alone and failed alone in this worsening relic on the edge of city. The house was a maze of creaking floorboards and shadowed corners, its wallpaper shelling like dead skin. Clara, a realistic woman in her thirties, didn't believe in ghosts. She’d come to sort through the clutter, vend what she could, and put the place on the request. But as the storm raged outdoors, the house felt alive, its palpitation wheezing in the walls. She started in the garret, where dust motes danced in the weak light of a single bulb. Trunks overflowed with moth-eat clothes and yellowed letters. One point stood out: a small, tarnished glass with an ornate frame, its glass clouded and depraved. Clara’s reflection looked malformed, her eyes too large, her mouth a thin rent. She set it away, unsettled, and moved on to a mound of journals. Her great-aunt’s handwriting was spidery, compulsive, filled with references to" the guest. ” It watches from the corners. It wears my face. Clara fiddled, dismissing it as the ramblings of a lonely mind. Downward, the house moaned under the storm’s assault. Clara lit a fire in the salon, the dears casting fluttering murk on the walls. She tried to concentrate on listing cabinetwork, but the glass from the garret kept drawing her eye. She’d brought it down without thinking, propping it on the mantel. Now, it sounded to gawk back, its face splashing noiselessly, though she told herself it was just the firelight. By night, the storm had worsened, and the power flitted out. Clara cursed, fumbling for her phone’s flashlight. The ray cut through the darkness, revealing the salon’s faded majesty — and commodity differently. A shadow moved in the corner, too altitudinous, too thin, its edges blurring into the dusk. She swung the light toward it, heart pounding, but there was nothing. Just the glass reflecting her pale face and the empty room. She laughed nervously, reprimanding herself. “ Get a grip, Clara. ” But as she turned down, a soft creak came from the staircase. Not the house settling — deliberate, like steps. She set, hardening. Another creak, near. Her phone’s light quivered in her hand as she crept toward the hall. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of damp wood and sharper, like burnt hair. “ Hello" Her voice was a tale, swallowed by the house. No answer, but the creaking stopped. She reached the staircase and shone her light overhead. The darkness sounded to palpitate, as if the house itself was breathing. Also, from the wharf over, a faint giggle — grandly, childlike, and hugely wrong. Clara’s blood ran cold. She was alone. She was supposed to be alone. She backed down, retreating to the salon, where the fire had downscale to embers. The glass caught her eye again, and this time, her reflection wasn't hers. The face was hers same brown eyes, same sharp cheekbones, but it smiled when she didn't, its lips entwining too wide, showing too numerous teeth. She stumbled back, knocking over a president. The glass fell, shattering on the domicile. Shards scattered, each one reflecting that same grotesque smile. The giggle came again, from far and wide and nowhere. Clara seized her phone and ran for the frontal door, but it wouldn't budge. The cinch was jammed, the handle cold wave as ice. She pounded on the wood, screaming for help, but the storm drowned her out. Commodity brushed her neck, light as a breath, and she spun around. Nothing. Just the dark, and the sense of being watched. She fled to the kitchen, blocking the door with a table. Her phone was at 5 battery, the flashlight dimming. She tried to call for help, but the signal was dead. The air grew colder, the murk thick. Also, from the other side of the hedge, a voice — her voice, but concave, mocking. “ Clara, let me in. ” She choked back a sob, clinging a kitchen cutter. The voice kept talking, reciting her studies, her fears, her nonage secrets. “ You left Mom alone when she was sick," it whizzed. “ You didn't indeed cry at her burial," Clara screamed, hurling the cutter at the door. It stuck, jiggling, but the voice only laughed. The house sounded to close in, walls bending inward. She ran upstairs this time, locking herself in a bedroom. The glass’s shards were there, incredibly, scattered on the bottom. In each piece, that face — her face, but not — goggled back, unblinking — the room filled with whispers, a chorus of her voice, culminating, riding. “ You can't leave. You’re part of me now. ” Clara sank to the bottom, handing over her knowledge. The storm outside faded, replaced by a silence so deep it hurt. She felt it also — the guest. It wasn't outside her, not presently. It was in her skin, her blood, her studies. Her reflection in the shards blinked, though her eyes stayed open. When morning came, the storm had passed. The house stood quietly, its door uncorked. Clara was gone, her car still in the drive. The glass was whole again, its glass clear, reflecting nothing but the empty room. And in the garret, a new journal entry appeared, in Clara’s handwriting It wears my face now. It’s home.
By Md Abul Kasem5 months ago in Horror
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