The Dollhouse Game

I was fifteen when the dreams started, but I didn’t connect them to the house until later. We had just moved to a dusty little town called Redfield, into a two-story Victorian that had been vacant for years. My parents thought it was charming; I thought it was drafty and full of creaks. My room was at the end of the hall, with a big bay window that overlooked the overgrown garden. It felt wrong, like I was being watched, so I took to sleeping on the living room couch, bundled in a quilt my grandmother made.

One Tuesday night, after a long day at the new school, I dozed off on the couch. In my dream, I got up and walked to my room. The door was ajar, and a pale light spilled out. I pushed it open and saw a little girl, maybe six, sitting cross-legged on my bed. Her hair was white as bone, and her eyes were too big for her face. She smiled and said, ‘Will you play with me?’ A fog of dread wrapped around me. I backed away and slammed the door, my heart pounding.

I woke with a start, gasping. The living room was dark, but my head was clear. I needed my curling iron for the school picture the next day. I told myself it was just a nightmare. I walked down the hall to my room, and the door was ajar, spilling that same pale light. I pushed it open. The girl was still there, but now she was standing, her head tilted at an unnatural angle. ‘Do you want to play now?’ she asked, her voice like rustling leaves. I shook my head and tried to slam the door, but she moved faster than I thought possible. Her fingers were like ice, and she yanked me into the room. I fell onto the bed, and she was on top of me, scratching and beating, her laughter turning to shrieks. ‘PLAY WITH ME! PLAY WITH ME!’ I screamed, but no sound came out.

Then I truly woke up, crying, my face buried in the couch cushion. My arms and legs ached. I lifted my sleeve and saw jagged red welts, like claw marks, running down my forearm. I pulled up my shirt—more scratches on my stomach. My breath hitched. This wasn’t just a dream.

The next day, I told my mother about the dreams and showed her the scratches. She pursed her lips and said it was probably allergies, that I scratched myself in my sleep. But I knew better. That night, I decided to stay in my room, determined to face whatever was there. I left the lights on and sat on my bed, my back against the headboard. I didn’t sleep. I just stared at the closet door, half-expecting it to open.

Nothing happened for three nights. I began to relax, thinking it was over. But on the fourth night, I drifted off out of sheer exhaustion. I dreamed again. This time, I was in a large, dusty attic. The little girl was there, but she was different—her clothes were old-fashioned, like from a century ago. She was crying. ‘You left me,’ she said. ‘Everyone leaves me. But you’ll stay, won’t you? We can play forever.’ I looked around and saw a dollhouse in the corner, a miniature replica of the very house I lived in. The lights in the dollhouse were on, and I could see tiny figures moving inside.

I woke up with a scream. The room was cold, and the lamp on my nightstand was flickering. I looked at my closet, and the door was slightly open, just a crack. I got up and pushed it shut, but as I turned, I caught a glimpse of the reflection in the window: a small pale face, not mine, staring back at me from the garden below. I ran downstairs and slept on the couch for the rest of the week.

But the dreams continued. Each night, I’d be back in that attic, the girl pleading with me, her face alternating between sweet and furious. The scratches grew worse, and I started to have small waking visions—glimpses of the girl in the corner of my eye, the sound of a music box playing a tinny lullaby.

I did some research at the local library. I found an old newspaper article from 1923: a house fire on our street, a little girl named Emily who perished. She had no siblings, no friends. The house was rebuilt, but maybe she never left. I felt a chill. She was lonely, that was it. She wanted a playmate.

One night, I was so exhausted that I fell asleep on the floor of my room, wrapped in the quilt. I dreamed of the attic again. Emily was there, but this time she was peaceful. She held out her hand. ‘I just want someone to stay. Will you stay?’ I looked into her eyes and, for a fleeting moment, I felt a surge of empathy. But then I saw the scratches on my arms, the fear on my face, and I knew I couldn’t give in. I said, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ Her face twisted. ‘THEN I’LL MAKE YOU!’ She lunged at me, her fingers elongating into claws. I woke up, choking, the quilt binding me like a net.

That’s when I realized I couldn’t fight her alone. I started leaving offerings: a doll, a tea set, a music box. I placed them in the attic, which my parents had cleared out, thinking it was just junk. After I left the music box, I dreamt of Emily playing with it, her back to me. She didn’t turn around. The next night, I left a note: ‘Emily, I can’t be your friend, but I can help you find others. I’ll open the door for you.’ I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it felt right.

The following week, a new family moved in next door. They had a little girl with the same white hair and big eyes. I saw her in the backyard, staring at our house. She waved. I waved back, a cold feeling in my stomach. That night, I slept soundly for the first time in months. I dreamt of Emily, and she was smiling. ‘I found a new friend,’ she said. ‘But I’ll save a spot for you.’

I’m seventeen now. The scratches have faded to faint white lines. I still sleep with the lights on, and I never go near the attic. But sometimes, when I pass by the window, I see the girl next door, standing perfectly still, staring at our house. And she’s not alone. There are two of them now. And sometimes, I think they’re waiting for me to play.