A few years ago, my friend Jason and I were just kids in school. We didn't have much money, so when Mr Johnson offered us a job cleaning his old house after school, we jumped at the chance. He said he'd pay us good money, and we needed it for sure.
Little did we know that the house held secrets darker than anything we could imagine. The first time we stepped into that house, I felt a chill run down my spine. It was like the air itself was heavy with some kind of darkness.
But Jason and I, being young and full of bravado, shrugged it off and got to work. The dust was thick, and the cobwebs seemed to have taken over every corner. Still, we rolled up our sleeves and got to cleaning.
As we worked our way through the rooms, something caught my eye in the corner of the living room. There it sat on an old dusty shelf, a doll. But not just any doll.
This one looked like it had seen better days. Its porcelain face was cracked, and its glassy eyes seemed to follow us as we moved around the room. "Creepy," Jason muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded in agreement, feeling a shiver run down my spine. "But we had a job to do, so we pushed the thought out of our minds and continued cleaning. As the days went on, strange things started happening.
Objects would move on their own, and we'd hear whispers echoing through the empty halls. At first, we tried to brush it off as our imagination playing tricks on us. But deep down, we both knew something was not right about that house.
Then, one evening, as we were finishing up our cleaning for the day, we heard a soft giggle coming from the living room. Jason froze, his eyes wide with fear. "Did you hear that?
" he whispered, his voice trembling. I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. Together, we slowly made our way toward the living room, our footsteps echoing in the silence.
There it was again, the doll, but this time it was different. Its cracked porcelain face seemed contorted into a sinister grin, and its glassy eyes gleamed with malice. I felt a chill run down my spine as I stared at the doll, unable to tear my eyes away.
It was like it was alive, like it was watching us, waiting for us to make a move. Without a word, Jason reached out and grabbed the doll, his hands trembling with fear. But as soon as he touched it, a scream echoed through the house, freezing us in our tracks.
The walls groaned and the floorboards creaked beneath our feet. Then, in an instant, everything went silent. We stood there, frozen in fear, unsure of what to do next.
As if on quue, Mr Johnson burst into the room, his face pale with terror. "What's going on? " he demanded, his voice shaking.
"I tried to speak, but no words would come out. Instead, I simply pointed at the doll, my hand trembling with fear. Mr Johnson's eyes widened as he took in the scene before him.
Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. "This," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "is why I hired you boys. " With shaking hands, he opened the box, revealing a small vial filled with a dark liquid.
Without hesitation, he poured the liquid over the doll, muttering words in a language I couldn't understand. And then, in an instant, the doll went still. Its glassy eyes lost their gleam, and its cracked porcelain face seemed to relax into a peaceful expression.
We stood there, stunned, as Mr Forth Johnson explained that the doll was haunted by the spirit of a little girl who had died in the house many years ago. He had hired us to clean the house in the hopes of finally putting her spirit to rest. As he spoke, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over me.
The darkness that had hung over the house seemed to lift, and for the first time since we had set foot inside, I felt safe. From that day on, Jason and I never went near that house again. But now and then, I can't help but wonder what would have happened if we hadn't stumbled upon that haunted doll.
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In 2001, we were getting ready to move to a new house in Australia. Before we left, my mother told me to go through the attic and pick anything I wanted to keep. The stairs to the attic creaked under my weight as I climbed up.
The air grew musty the higher I went. I had never liked the attic. Something about it always made me uneasy, but I pushed that aside.
Old boxes were stacked against the walls, some torn open, some still sealed with yellow tape. I started digging through them, hoping to find something worth saving. Most of it was junk, worn out clothes, broken lamps, old toys, missing arms or eyes.
One box stood out. It was smaller than the others, with faded floral designs carved into the wood. Unlike the rest, it looked like it had been cared for, at least once.
I lifted the lid. Inside was a doll, porcelain, delicate, with cracks spidering across its face. The expression it wore was blank, but somehow it felt a wear.
Its glass eyes seemed almost too clear, too focused, following wherever I moved. A small engraving at the base caught my attention. Ella, 1978.
A cold draft stirred the attic. For a moment, I thought I heard something shifting behind me, but when I turned, nothing was there. I shut the box and slid it back where I found it.
That night, I had trouble sleeping. Footsteps echoed through the hallway, even though everyone else was asleep. Drwers I knew I had closed were left open.
Small things, coins, a comb, even my watch disappeared and reappeared in strange places. I told my parents. They brushed it off.
Moving was stressful, they said. Maybe I was just tired. But the feeling in the house changed.
It wasn't just noise or missing objects. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of something, a dark outline near the door, a figure moving past the window, even when the curtains were closed. After a few days, I decided to talk to someone who might actually listen.
An old man lived two houses down, Mr Harris. Locals said he had lived there his whole life and knew the town's history better than anyone. I went to his house the next afternoon.
It was small and weatherbeaten, tucked behind overgrown bushes. Mr Harris listened carefully as I told him everything from finding the doll to the noises at night. When I mentioned the name engraved on the doll, he leaned back in his chair.
That doll isn't something you should have touched, he said, voice low but steady. He told me about Ella, a girl who had lived in the town generations ago. She was shunned by neighbors, feared for reasons nobody liked to talk about.
Rumors spread about strange things happening wherever she went. Then one day, she vanished. The only thing left behind was the doll.
Mr Harris said if the doll was disturbed, the trouble would start again. I asked him what could be done. Destroy it, he said, before it grows stronger.
I went home with a pit in my stomach. My parents didn't believe in ghosts or curses, but after enough pleading and showing them the odd things happening in the house, they agreed to help. We decided to do it that night.
Armed with whatever heavy tools we could find, we made our way back into the attic. The air was different up there, heavier, like something waiting. We found the box easily.
The lid was slightly a jar, even though I had closed it tightly. The doll sat inside, tilted toward us, the cracks in its face seeming deeper than before. Before we could move, a strong gust slammed the attic door shut behind us.
The candle we brought flickered out, leaving us in near darkness. But we didn't stop. My father reached in first, grabbing the doll by the arm.
It felt wrong, he said later, like holding something that didn't want to be touched. He slammed it against the floor. Once, twice, the porcelain cracked.
I grabbed a metal pipe and struck it again, shattering the head into dozens of pieces. For a moment, nothing happened. The air shifted again, lighter, clearer, like a pressure lifting off our shoulders.
We gathered the shards, wrapped them in cloth, and buried them deep behind the old shed outside. The house was different after that. The footsteps stopped, the strange movements, the glimpses, all gone.
We moved a few weeks later. I never went back to that attic. Even now, when I think about that time, I wonder if smashing the doll was really enough.
Some nights when I'm alone, I catch myself glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see those glass eyes watching from the dark. Maybe some things don't stay buried as easily as we hope. I never gave much thought to ghosts or haunted objects.
Those things felt like stories meant to scare kids, not something that could actually happen. That changed after I moved into my first real home. It was a small place on the edge of town, tucked between an overgrown lot and a stretch of woods.
The house had history. You could feel it in the uneven floors and the worn out wallpaper peeling at the edges. But I didn't mind.
I like the idea of fixing it up, making it my own. The first few nights were quiet until about a week in. I woke up to a sound just outside my bedroom.
Slow, heavy steps pacing back and forth. At first, I told myself it was just the house adjusting to the cooler night air. Still, something about the rhythm of those steps felt wrong, like someone thinking hard about something unpleasant.
When I finally got up the nerve to check, the hallway was empty. I tried not to dwell on it. Old houses make noise.
I had bigger things to focus on, like the attic that needed clearing out. That's when I found the box. It was shoved behind a few rotting suitcases.
Inside, buried beneath layers of faded cloth, was a doll. Porcelain, cracked around the edges, wearing a tattered blue dress. The strangest part was its eyes, glassy, staring just past me, but somehow making me feel like it was aware I was there.
I should have thrown it out. I didn't. I couldn't even explain why.
After that, little things started to happen. Keys disappeared only to turn up inside kitchen drawers I hadn't opened. The television would turn itself on in the middle of the night, blaring static.
Sometimes I would find the doll in different places. Once sitting at the top of the stairs. Another time on the bathroom counter.
It didn't feel like a prank and it didn't feel harmless. One night, I woke up again to the sound of footsteps. This time, they were heavier, slower, not pacing anymore, approaching.
I stayed in bed, holding my breath. The steps stopped right outside my door. Then there was a knock.
Not frantic, not soft, just steady, measured. I stayed frozen for what felt like hours. Then from the other side of the door, a voice, high-pitched and flat, almost like someone reading from a script, called my name.
It didn't sound curious. It didn't sound friendly. It sounded patient.
I should have called someone. I should have hidden. Instead, I stood up and reached for the door handle.
The second I touched it, the knocking started again. Faster, harder. I swung the door open, bracing myself for anything.
At first, there was nothing, just the dark hallway. Then I looked down. The doll sat in the middle of the floor, legs spled awkwardly, staring up at me.
It hadn't been there when I went to bed. My body moved before my brain did. I stepped back fast enough to trip over my own feet, landing hard against the dresser.
The doll didn't move. It didn't have to. Its painted mouth had changed.
Where before there had been a simple painted line, now there was a jagged, uneven curve, a mockery of a smile. I wanted to believe I was imagining it, but the air around me felt wrong, heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm. Without thinking, I grabbed the closest thing I could, a heavy glass paper weight from my nightstand and hurled it at the doll.
The impact shattered the porcelain head scattering shards across the floor. For a moment, I thought it was over. Then, from the pile of broken porcelain, something moved.
A twitch, a scraping sound as tiny, broken fingers pulled at the floorboards. I didn't wait. I grabbed a thick old book from the shelf, some forgotten atlas left by the previous owners, and slammed it down onto what was left of the doll.
Once, twice, until the pieces stopped moving. I stayed on the floor, gasping for air, heart hammering against my ribs. The house was silent again, but it didn't feel empty.
It never would. My name is Camila, and I lived in Texas for 2 years with my roommate. I've always been fond of dolls.
They comfort me and remind me of simpler times. So, when my best friend Sarah gave me a doll for my birthday, I was thrilled. But little did I know, this doll would turn my world upside down.
The doll was beautiful with big blue eyes that seemed to follow you and a delicate porcelain face. Sarah said she found it at an antique shop and thought of me immediately. I named her Hazel and she took her place on my bedside table.
At first, everything seemed fine. Hazel added a touch of charm to my room, and I loved having her there. But soon, strange things started happening.
Objects would move on their own, and I would hear whispers in the dead of night. I tried to ignore it, chalking it up to my imagination, but as the days passed, the whispers grew louder, and the feeling of being watched became unbearable. I couldn't shake the feeling that Hazel was somehow behind it all.
Desperate for answers, I turned to the church. I sought out Father Thomas, hoping he could offer some solace. When I told him about Hazel, his expression grew grim.
"Cama, some objects carry dark energy," he said, his voice low and serious. "They can bring about malevolent spirits. I shuddered at his words, feeling a chill run down my spine.
Father Thomas offered to perform a cleansing ritual, but something stopped me. Despite the fear, I couldn't bear to part with Hazel. She was a gift from Sarah, a symbol of our friendship.
So, I declined Father Thomas's offer and returned home, determined to confront whatever lurked within Hazel. As the nights passed, the activity only escalated. I would wake up to find scratches on my arms and bruises on my skin.
Sleep became a distant memory as fear consumed me. But amidst the terror, I couldn't help but feel a strange connection to Hazel. It was as if she was reaching out to me, begging for something I couldn't understand.
One night, as I lay awake in bed, I heard her voice for the first time. It was soft and gentle, like a whisper in the wind. "Cama, help me," she pleaded, her porcelain lips moving ever so slightly.
I froze, unsure of how to respond. "Was I losing my mind, or was Hazel truly speaking to me? " Drven by curiosity and a hint of madness, I began communicating with her.
We would talk for hours, sharing secrets and fears, and with each passing day, I felt myself growing closer to her. But as our bond deepened, so did the darkness that surrounded us. Strange symbols appeared on the walls, and the air grew heavy with malevolence.
I knew then that I had made a grave mistake. Hazel was not just a doll, but a vessel for something far more sinister. Terrified and alone, I reached out to Father Thomas once more, begging for his help.
This time, he didn't hesitate. He arrived at my doorstep with a team of experts ready to perform an exorcism. But as they attempted to banish the evil within Hazel, I couldn't bear to watch.
She was a part of me now, a twisted reflection of my desires. In the end, it was decided that Hazel would be placed in a museum far away from anyone she could harm. And as I watched her being carried away, a sense of relief washed over me.
But even now, as I sit alone in my empty room, I can't help but wonder, was Hazel truly evil, or was she just a victim of circumstance? Perhaps I'll never know. But one thing's for certain, I'll never forget the terror she brought into my life.
