The Ceramic Doll’s Lullaby

In the sweltering summer of 2014, I rented a room in a dilapidated mansion in the outskirts of Baguio, known for its chilling fog and pine-scented air. The house, once a colonial-era retreat, had been converted into a boarding house for students like me. My roommate, a quiet art student named Lorna, and I occupied a corner room on the second floor, its walls adorned with faded floral wallpaper and a musty smell that clung to our clothes.

One night, as the wind howled through the cracks and the old pipes groaned, I woke to an unnatural cold that seeped into my bones, despite the thick blanket. Lorna’s breathing was steady, her form a dark lump in the opposite bed. I tried to shake off the chill and close my eyes, but then I heard it: soft, deliberate footsteps on the wooden floor, moving toward the bathroom. I cracked an eye open, expecting to see Lorna’s slight figure, but the silhouette was smaller, more hunched, like a child. Relief washed over me—maybe it was a stray cat that had gotten in. I decided to get a glass of water from the kitchenette.

As I sat up, I glanced at Lorna’s bed. She was there, tangled in her sheets, snoring lightly. I froze. My eyes darted to the bathroom door, which was now ajar, a sliver of darkness within. My heart hammered. I tiptoed to the door, pushed it open, and flicked the light switch. The small room was empty, but on the porcelain sink, I saw a small, ceramic doll—one I had never seen before. It had cracked, porcelain skin, and its black button eyes seemed to follow me. A chill ran down my spine. I backed out, leaving the light on, and returned to bed, burying my head under the pillow.

Just as I was drifting off, a high-pitched giggle echoed from the bathroom, followed by the sound of water splashing. I jolted up, heart pounding. Lorna stirred but didn’t wake. I grabbed my flashlight and crept to the bathroom again. The doll was now on the floor, face down, its tiny hands curled as if reaching for something. The sink faucet was dripping, and on the mirror, scribbled in what looked like red lipstick, were the words: ‘COME PLAY.’ I stumbled back, my throat dry. I knew Lorna didn’t own any red lipstick.

I spent the rest of the night in the living room, curled on a moth-eaten sofa, my eyes fixed on the hallway. The next morning, I told Lorna, but she just laughed, saying I had a nightmare. Yet, when we went to the bathroom, the doll was gone, and the mirror was clean. But I noticed a wet footprint on the floor, too small for any adult. Over the next days, the presence grew. I would hear the tinkling of a music box at odd hours, and in the corner of my eye, I’d see the tiny figure darting behind furniture. Lorna began to complain of sleepless nights, saying she felt like she was being watched.

One evening, I returned to our room to find Lorna sitting on her bed, pale, holding the doll. It was in her hands, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. ‘It was under my pillow,’ she whispered, ‘and it’s humming.’ I grabbed the doll and threw it into the trash can outside, but when I came back, it was sitting on my pillow, its smile seeming wider. I knew then that this was not a mere childhood toy; it was something that wanted to stay.

That night, I decided to burn it. I built a small fire in the yard, the flames licking the porcelain face until it blackened. As it crumbled, a blood-curdling shriek pierced the air, and the wind died instantly. I ran back inside, shaking. In the bathroom, the mirror was fogged, and written in the condensation was a new message: ‘YOU CAN’T DESTROY ME, I LIVE IN THE WALLS.’ We moved out the next week, but even now, in my new apartment, I sometimes hear a faint giggle in the night, and I know—the doll never left me. It’s still playing its lullaby.