The Glass-Eyed Doll

I never believed in ghosts, not really. I was fascinated by them, sure, but fascination is not the same as faith. I’d read every book in the library on the paranormal, watched documentaries, and listened to my aunt’s stories with a skeptic’s ear. She used to say that her house in New Orleans was haunted by a gentle spirit, a former resident who liked to move her porcelain dolls from their shelves to the windowsill. I always thought she just forgot where she put them.

Then my aunt died, and I inherited that house, along with the dolls. It was a narrow, three-story Victorian that leaned a little to the left, as if it were tired of standing. The windows were tall and narrow, and the floors creaked with a mind of their own. I moved in with my dog, a labradoodle named Biscuit, thinking it would be a fresh start.

The first week was quiet, save for the usual settling sounds. I unpacked boxes, painted the walls a cheerful yellow, and tried to make the place feel like mine. But every night, I’d find the same porcelain doll–the one with the chipped face and glass eyes–sitting on the hearth in the living room. I’d leave her in the attic, but by morning, she’d be downstairs, staring at me with those vacant, blue eyes. I chalked it up to my own absent-mindedness, but deep down, I knew better.

One evening, after a long day of work, I sat down with a cup of tea in the living room. The last of the sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns on the hardwood floor. That’s when I saw it: the glass-eyed doll, in her usual spot on the hearth, was crying. Not like a person, but like a leaky faucet, with tears that ran down her porcelain cheeks and stained her dress. I froze, teacup halfway to my lips. Biscuit whined and hid under the sofa.

I put down the tea and walked over, my heart thumping. I reached out and touched a tear with my finger. It was cold, but wet. And as soon as I touched it, the crying stopped, and a faint, high-pitched sound filled the room, like a music box winding down. I stepped back, and the sound faded. But now, the doll’s head was turned slightly, as if she had been following me.

The next day, I decided to get rid of the doll. I drove to the local dump and threw her in a bin. I watched the garbage truck crush her and take her away, and for a moment, I felt relieved. That night, though, I woke to a scratching noise in the wall. At first, I thought it was mice, but then it stopped, and I heard a child’s voice whisper, ‘Why did you put me out?’

My blood ran cold. I grabbed the flashlight and checked the room. Nothing. Biscuit was cowering at the foot of the bed, his tail between his legs. I convinced myself it was a dream.

The next morning, the doll was back, sitting on the kitchen table, her glass eyes fixed on me. But now, her face was different: she had a fresh crack that ran from her forehead to her chin, and in the crack, I saw something dark and wriggling. I screamed, and Biscuit barked, and for a moment, the room felt colder than a tomb.

I called a friend who dabbled in the occult. She said the doll was likely a vessel for a spirit, and that I needed to perform a cleansing. I did everything she said: burned sage, placed salt at the doorways, said a prayer. But the doll remained, and each night, she found new ways to torment me. She’d move to my pillow, her face inches from mine when I woke. She’d make the lights flicker, and the walls would groan as if in pain.

One night, I had enough. I took the doll to the attic, locked it in a box, and bolted the attic door shut. I felt a sense of victory, but that night, I heard scratching from inside the attic, and then a soft, scratchy voice said, ‘Let me out, please. I’m cold and alone. I miss my mommy.’

I tried to ignore it, but the voice grew insistent. ‘You took me from my home. You made me cry. You broke me. Let me out.’ I clutched Biscuit, my heart pounding, and I buried my head under the pillow. But the voice was inside my head now, whispering, ‘You’ll never be rid of me. I’ll be with you until you die.’

The next morning, I saw that the attic door was ajar, and a trail of small, muddy footprints led down the stairs. I followed them to the living room, where the doll was sitting on the coffee table, but this time, she wasn’t alone. There were other dolls, all with glass eyes, and they were all watching me. I counted them: there were thirteen, and they all began to cry in unison.

I rushed out of the house, but the door slammed shut behind me, and the windows locked. I was trapped. The dolls’ crying grew louder, a chorus of wails that filled every room. And then, one by one, they turned their heads to face me, and they smiled.

Now, I never leave the house. The dolls are my only company. They don’t cry anymore, but they watch me, and sometimes, they whisper to me, telling me secrets about the previous owners, about the spirit that once possessed the house, about the little girl who died here in the 1800s, and whose face the chipped doll is modeled after. She wanted someone to play with, and now she has me. For eternity.