The Porcelain Doll’s Sabbath

It was the autumn of 2015 when I moved into the old house on Linden Street. The house was a relic from the 18th century, with creaking floorboards and windows that seemed to watch you. The town was quiet, almost too quiet, but the house had a charm that drew me in. My brother, Max, was away for the week, so I had the place to myself.

On the evening of October 21st, I was curled up on the couch, binge-watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures. The only light came from the TV and the dim glow of a streetlamp outside. I got up to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. When I returned, the TV was off, and the room was plunged into an unnerving silence. I thought Max had come home early and was playing a prank, but I remembered he was hundreds of miles away. Shrugging it off, I turned the TV back on and settled into the cushions.

Minutes later, a sound made me freeze: the high-pitched giggles of a child, coming from the corner where Max kept his toy chest. I called out, but no one answered. I crept toward the corner, heart pounding. The toys were still, but the laughter seemed to echo from inside the chest itself. I opened it, revealing nothing but scattered action figures and a dusty old porcelain doll that I’d never seen before. Its glassy eyes seemed to follow me as I backed away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing faint footsteps in the hallway, and the giggling would start again, sometimes right outside my door. I didn’t get much rest.

The next morning, October 22nd, I was getting ready for school, trying to shake off the unease. As I bent down to tie my shoes, I saw it: the porcelain doll, sitting on my bed, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. I hadn’t put it there. I threw it in the trash bin outside, feeling a sense of relief as the lid clattered shut.

But when I came home that evening, the doll was back, sitting on the kitchen counter, its porcelain face clean and polished. I decided to burn it. I built a small fire in the backyard and tossed it in. The flames licked at its painted features, but the doll didn’t melt or blacken. It just sat there, the fire flowing around it like water. And then I heard the giggles again, but this time they were deeper, almost snarling. The fire died out, and the doll was untouched.

That night, I woke to the sound of my brother’s toys being thrown around the room. I rushed downstairs to find the toy chest open and the doll seated at the center of the living room, surrounded by scattered toys. The giggling was now a cacophony, echoing from every corner. I tried to leave the house, but the front door wouldn’t budge. The windows were sealed shut as if fused.

The doll’s head turned slowly, its glass eyes meeting mine. A voice, not a child’s, but a woman’s, raspy and cold, spoke from its painted lips: ‘You brought me into this world. Now you’ll join our play.’

The lights flickered. The giggles turned into screams. And then everything went black.

When I came to, I was sitting on the couch, the TV on, playing the same documentary. The doll was gone, but on the coffee table lay a note in childlike handwriting: ‘Our game has just begun.’ I haven’t seen the doll since, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of it in the corner of my eye, watching me. And every night, from the toy chest, I hear the faint, playful laughter of something that isn’t there.