The Hollow Eyes of Margaret

When I was eight, my family moved into my great-aunt’s crumbling Victorian house on the edge of the salt marshes. The house smelled of mothballs and sea brine, and every room seemed to hold a whisper of decay. My great-aunt had died the year before, leaving the place to my mother, who saw it as a fresh start after my father’s accident. I was lonely, the only child in a house full of dusty furniture and creaking floorboards. My only companions were two dolls my mother had found in the attic: a plastic baby doll with a cracked smile and a beautiful porcelain doll with deep blue eyes that seemed to follow me.

I named the plastic one Betsy, and the porcelain one Margaret. Margaret was my favorite. I spent hours dressing her in faded lace gowns and arranging her in the window seat, where she could watch the tide roll in. Betsy was less interesting, her limbs stiff, her voice a hollow rattle when I shook her. But one rainy afternoon, Betsy began to speak. Not the usual pre-recorded phrases, but words I’d never heard her say before. ‘I see you,’ she whispered, her tiny voice crackling like old radio static. I giggled, thinking it was a trick of the battery. I pressed her belly, but the sound wasn’t from her. It seemed to come from the walls. I ran to my mother, but she was napping, so I went back and picked up Margaret, clutching her to my chest. ‘You’re safe,’ I told her. ‘You’re the only one.’

That night, I left both dolls on the dresser, Margaret standing tall, Betsy slumped in a corner. I woke to a sound like fingernails on glass. I sat up, heart pounding. The room was dark, except for the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Margaret’s face was turned toward me, her blue eyes glinting. And then I heard it—a girl’s voice, thin and reedy, like wind through marsh grass. ‘He broke me.’ I froze. The voice wasn’t from Betsy. It was from Margaret. Her porcelain lips were still, but the voice filled the room. ‘Who are you?’ I managed to say. ‘I’m Margaret,’ the voice replied. ‘He threw me down the stairs. My face cracked. He said I was ugly. He made me silent.’ I screamed, grabbing Betsy and running to my mother’s room. My mother, annoyed, said it was just the wind. But I knew better.

The next morning, I refused to go back to my room. My mother sighed and brought the dolls to the kitchen. She placed Margaret on the table and Betsy in a chair. ‘They’re just dolls,’ she said. ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’ But as she turned away, I saw Margaret’s head tilt, ever so slightly. The voice came again, softer this time. ‘He’s coming back. He’s always coming back.’ I looked at Betsy, and for the first time, I noticed her eyes—they were hollow, black pits. I screamed and ran outside, but the voice followed me, echoing in the salt air.

Days passed. I avoided the kitchen, but Margaret seemed to appear everywhere—in my room, in the hallway, on the stairs. Once, I found her standing at the foot of my bed, her dress damp, as if she’d been in the marsh. I told my mother we needed to get rid of her, but my mother just shook her head. ‘She was your great-aunt’s favorite. She’d want you to keep her.’ One night, I woke to see Margaret at my window, her silhouette black against the moon. The voice was clear, no longer a whisper. ‘You can hear me. Finally, someone hears me.’ I pulled the covers over my head, but she continued. ‘I was five when he broke me. He buried me in the marsh. He said I was a doll, just a doll. Don’t be like me. Don’t let him use you.’

The next day, I found a photograph in the attic. It was my great-aunt as a child, holding a porcelain doll. The doll’s face was cracked, exactly like Margaret’s. The back of the photo read, ‘Margaret, 1902.’ I dropped it, my hands shaking. The voice came again, from the attic itself. ‘He was my brother. He threw me down the stairs. He buried me where the grass grows black. Find me. Please.’ I ran to the marsh, the cold mud sucking at my boots. I dug where the grass was black, and I found it—a small, broken doll, its porcelain face split, one eye missing. As I held it, I heard a child’s laughter, and then a scream, and then silence. I brought the doll home and placed it next to Margaret. The voice was gone, but on Margaret’s face, I saw a smile that hadn’t been there before.

Now, I’m seventeen, and I still live in that house. Margaret is in my room, her eyes still blue, her smile still serene. But sometimes, at night, I see her in the corner of my eye, and I hear a faint voice, not from her, but from the other doll—the broken one I found. It says, ‘Thank you.’ And sometimes, it says, ‘He’s still here. He’s always been here.’ I’ve learned to live with it. But I never look in the attic, and I never walk the marsh at night. Because some things are better left buried, and some dolls are meant to be watched, not played with.