DOLL: The doll makers curse

Marion wakes to the suffocating stillness, her breath shallow, her skin damp with cold sweat. Something is wrong. She can feel it.

Her eyes flicker toward the chair in the corner. The doll shouldn't be there.

She left it outside. Locked away.

But there it sits, its porcelain hands folded neatly in its lap, its head tilted just slightly. Watching.

Her fingers tighten around the blanket, her pulse hammering. The air in the room feels thick, heavy. Like something else is breathing in here with her.

Then-
Creak.
The sound of tiny joints shifting. The whisper of fabric rustling.

The doll's head moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

Marion's throat closes, her body frozen in terror.

Then-soft, so soft, like the voice of a child who had just woken up-
"Marion," it whispers.

Her stomach turns to ice.

"I don't like it when you leave me alone."

She bolts upright, gasping for air. The candle beside her bed flares to life-on its own.

The doll is gone.

But the whisper is still there, curling through the darkness.

"Now it's my turn to hold you."

Then, behind her-
Fingers. Cold, small fingers, wrapping around her wrist.

The candle blows out.

And the darkness begins
...