The Red-Eyed Doll in the Attic

The summer I turned nine, my father’s job transferred us from the quiet suburbs of Ontario to a desolate stretch of the Mojave Desert. Our new home was a sprawling, two-story farmhouse with a rusty windmill that groaned in the constant wind. The nearest neighbor was a mile away, and the town, if you could call it that, was a gas station and a diner. I was a shy, bookish kid, and the move had uprooted me from the only friends I’d ever known. My mother tried to reassure me, saying, ‘It’ll be an adventure, Lily. Just think of all the space to explore.’ But all I felt was the vast, empty silence pressing in on me.

The house itself was oppressive. The walls were painted a faded yellow, and the floorboards creaked even when no one walked on them. My parents, busy unpacking and setting up, often left me to my own devices. One sweltering afternoon, I discovered a trapdoor in the hallway ceiling, hidden behind a false panel. It led to an attic, a dusty, cobweb-filled space that smelled of mothballs and old wood. My flashlight revealed boxes of my father’s old college textbooks, a dressmaker’s mannequin with a cracked porcelain face, and in the corner, a child-sized chair with a doll sitting on it.

The doll was old, with a porcelain face, painted red lips, and a faded blue dress. Its eyes were closed, but as I approached, I felt a chill run down my spine. I picked it up, noticing the weight of it, and as I turned it over, I saw the name ‘Margaret’ stitched into the back of its dress. I brought it downstairs, thinking it might be a nice addition to my room, but my mother’s face went pale when she saw it. ‘Where did you find that?’ she demanded. I told her, and she grabbed it from my hands, stuffing it into a bag. ‘We’ll donate it,’ she said, but I saw her hands shake. That night, I heard a faint scratching from the closet where she’d thrown the bag.

The next day, the doll was back on my bed, sitting upright, its eyes now open. They were a deep, dark brown, almost black, and seemed to follow me as I moved. I called for my mother, but when she came, the doll’s eyes were closed again. She accused me of playing tricks. But I knew what I’d seen. That night, I had a dream of a little girl with brown braids standing at the foot of my bed, singing a nursery rhyme in a language I didn’t recognize. When I woke, the doll was under my pillow, its head turned to face me.

I tried to get rid of it. I buried it in the backyard, under the creaking windmill. The next morning, it was sitting on the kitchen counter, its red lips curved into a knowing smile. My parents noticed my distress but dismissed it as nighttime fears. I started sleeping with the lights on, but every time I closed my eyes, I heard that faint, childish humming. The doll’s eyes were always open now, in that unsettling brown gaze.

One evening, I found my grandmother’s old diary in the attic, tucked behind the same boxes. Written in her shaky handwriting was a passage dated fifty years ago: ‘The doll, Margaret, is not a toy. She was made by a craftsman who lost his daughter. He put her soul into the porcelain. To release her, you must burn the doll and say a prayer for the departed, but beware, for she will fight to stay.’ I knew what I had to do. I built a small fire in the yard, using the dry wood and old pages from the diary. As I placed the doll on the flames, its eyes snapped wide open, and a shriek, not from the doll but from the wind itself, filled the air. The windmill spun violently, and the fire flickered as if fighting a gust.

I whispered a prayer under my breath, and as the flames consumed the doll, I felt a wave of cold air pass through me. Then, silence. The fire died, and the doll was nothing but ash. I didn’t sleep that night, waiting for any sign that it was truly gone.

The next morning, the sun rose over the desert, and for the first time, the house felt still. My mother commented on how well I looked. I went to the attic to clean out the boxes, and in the corner, where the doll had sat, I found a small red button. It was shaped like a heart, with the word ‘Margaret’ engraved on it. I picked it up, and a tiny, familiar whisper brushed my ear: ‘I’m still here.’ I dropped the button, and it rolled under the floorboards. I never found it again, but sometimes, at night, I still hear that humming, and I swear I catch a glimpse of a small figure in the peripheral of my vision, watching me from the shadows.