The Keepsake

Four years ago, when I was twelve, my family and I went on a summer holiday to the ancient city of Matera, Italy. We had rented a converted cave dwelling, a sasso, carved into the limestone cliff. I was thrilled to explore the maze of alleys and stone stairways, but my parents insisted we first settle in. The apartment was a labyrinth of whitewashed rooms with vaulted ceilings and small, square windows looking out over the ravine. My room was the smallest, with a narrow bed and a tiny wooden desk. On the bed, there was a small, cloth doll, hand-stitched, with button eyes and woolen hair. My mother, seeing me hold it up, said, ‘Oh, someone probably left it. We’ll give it to the owner.’ But I felt a strange pull, as if it had been placed there for me.

For the first few days, we explored the ancient churches and winding streets, and I forgot about the doll. But one afternoon, as I was reading a comic on my bed, I heard a soft giggle from the corner of the room. I looked, but saw nothing. I shrugged, thinking it was from outside. Then, the doll, which I had placed on the desk, was now on the floor, facing the door. I picked it up and put it back. That night, as I was falling asleep, I heard tiny footsteps on the stone floor. I froze, but the sound stopped quickly.

Over the next days, strange things happened. The doll would move on its own, appearing in different rooms, once even in the kitchen. I told my parents, but they laughed, saying it was just my imagination. Then, one night, I woke to find the doll sitting on my chest, its button eyes staring at me. I screamed, and my parents rushed in. They saw the doll, but they thought I had put it there myself. After that, they decided to take the doll to the owner, an elderly woman who managed the property. She took it with a strange smile and said, ‘Ah, little Elena has found a new friend.’

My parents dismissed it as a simple mix-up. But the next morning, I found the doll on my bed again, with a note in a child’s handwriting: ‘You’re my new sister now.’ I felt a chill run through me. I tried to throw it away, but it always returned. I had nightmares of a little girl in old-fashioned clothes, standing at the foot of my bed, her face pale, her eyes dark.

On our last night, I woke to find Elena standing beside my bed, transparent, but real enough to touch. She whispered in my ear, ‘I waited so long for someone to find me. You will come back, or I will come for you.’ The next morning, I woke in a cold sweat, the doll gone. When we checked out, the owner said she had no knowledge of any doll, and our room was empty except for our belongings.

Back home, I tried to forget, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. A year later, we moved, and I thought it was over. But last month, I received a package with no return address. Inside was the doll, and a photograph of me, taken in front of our hotel in Matera, with a girl in the background, her face blurred. The note said, ‘I’m coming to visit soon.’ I haven’t slept well since. I don’t know who or what she is, but I know she is not done with me. And I am terrified of the day I hear that giggle again, because this time, I know it’s real.