His Doll

Boom! Crack!

The echo of the nightly storm pulsed through the simple two-story house. The sound touching every dark corner, ricocheting off the peeling walls and surveying the empty hallways. Every noise from the storm rattled the antique interior and shook the cobwebs through the house. Teens usually didn't try to go near the house because odd things would always happen once you stepped foot onto the property, a young couple looking for a late night rendezvous are the town's constant physical reminder. However tonight, four teens managed to huddle in the basement of the abandoned house, flinching at every sound.
All four of them knew what took place here.
The house was the home of the Peterson's, consisting of the stereotypical parents of the '60s and their young boy. The boy was bullied as a child, the children at his school avoided him for being weird. He wasn't like most boys, he didn't like riding bikes, or play with toy cars. In fact, his favorite toy was a doll.
The doll was simple, it had brown yarn for hair, eyes made from black buttons and was dressed in ratty red overalls. He brought the doll everywhere, to school, to the park, and occasionally, he would even bring the doll to church.
At first, it did not disturb the people of the town, that the child was playing with a doll, they figured it to be a weird phase for the boy, which he could outgrow.
Quickly, the people of the town talked about how the boy would have 'conversations' with the doll, faking sympathy because it was his only friend.
Throughout elementary school, he was pushed, shoved, laughed at and even called names. It wasn't until one day while talking to the doll, one of his bullies grabbed his doll and threw it on the floor. Before the bully could spit on the doll, they froze, eyes wide. Its brown yarn moved one stand at a time, with its head and body slowly following behind. It stood there upright looking at its surroundings. Rooted in their spot, the bully's nose started to bleed. The bully slowly reached up to touch their nose. Red stained the young bully's fingertips. The staff and surrounding children were wide-eyed and terrified. The bully's eyes now too widened even more while slowly retreated before running the opposite direction. The boy calmly picked up the doll after if it were a mere baby. He inspected it with pitch black eyes, dusted it off and walked home cooing soothing words into its ears. The students and teachers watched him walk off with fear in their eyes, pedestrians alike kept a wide berth as he walked along the sidewalks. As he approached home he noticed a chainsaw left unattended right by the freshly cut tree on their lawn. The voice, her voice whispered to him. He was hesitant at first but quickly obeyed. With a trail behind him, he slowly crawled into his house, leaving his legs by the fresh stump. His eyes, pooled black, trained on the door. Going towards the door with a clear thud and drag of his torso. A puddle was left at the front door the same crimson color as the trail behind him as he made his way into the house his black eyes trained on the basement door.
Trembling, the teens still huddled in the corner listening to the sounds of the storm echo throughout the house. A loud crack right outside the small window in the basement. Made them jump out of their already blood streaked skin. They were in the same room they were found. The teens quickly turn their heads.
You can hear the doorknob jiggle. The door opens with a slow and deafening creek. The sound lasting what felt like an eternity. The teens were now on high alert, their only line of sight, illuminated by the flickering lamppost outside the basement window, was to the basement entrance. The teens freeze as it enters.
It's pitch black eyes, claw marks down his young face, his hand clutching the same doll splattered in blood. His mouth morphs to a crooked sinister smile his teeth to a point. His eyes trained on the group, his head slowly tilting. He then, in a quick yet broken pace, went into the darkness leaving the doll sitting upright.  Staring at the group. The hairs on the back of their necks were at full attention, their bodies trembling in anticipation, their senses alert but eyes distracted by the doll. A breeze seemed to come across the nape of their necks. They all freeze, every single one of their muscles tensing. They all use their eyes to see the locked basement windows. Very slowly one of them turns their head, making eye contact. The last thing heard that clear night was an echo of screams, ricocheting down the silent streets.