Beady Eyed Doll

I wake up, cold and bruised. I wiggle my stiff toes. My hair feels like a bird’s nest and I reach up in attempt to detangle my tresses. I stand up to walk to the door and bang my fists on the broken plasters. A screen lights up in front of me. A voice says, “I see you’ve woken up. Be cautious. Some things are not as they seem.” I puzzle over the last sentence, what is that supposed to mean? Pressing the door lightly, I start to walk out. It’s quiet and deserted. My eyes dart around at every tiny sound. I start tiptoeing to a room labelled “Dinner Room”. I’ve lost track of time. I don’t even know if it’s morning or night! I rack my brain but it throbs like someone stabbed my head. I continue walking and nearly bash into a girl. She has dark hair, pulled into twin braids. She shows me her phone and points to a photo. It shows the screen that I saw in my room. “Did you have this too?” she asks. I nod. She points to one small detail in the screen that I didn’t see before.

There is a small girl on the top left-hand corner that I never noticed. She has platinum blond hair and hazelnut eyes that penetrated deep into your soul.

Then, the slightest hint of a breeze flows through my hair. My eyes widen. I look around, at the direction of the breeze. I can’t see anything. The windows are closed and there are no fans. The girl nudges me and points to the screen. “Look closely at the girl,” she says, motioning to the doll. “She looks vicious, doesn’t she?” I nod. But I’m not really listening to what she’s saying. I stare at the doll. Her platinum blond hair. I swear I’ve seen it before. I start shaking. My legs start to convulse. Somewhere, in the scrapbooks at home. I’ve seen it.

I then remember the mysterious breeze. I start walking cautiously towards where the breeze came. I stretch out my hands, feeling for anything. Then I grasp a wisp of smoke. It moves quickly and it starts crawling up my bones. I grab the smoke, which starts to take the shape of a doll.

Is it who I think it is?

I look into the eyes. Those beady little eyes. The same as the one on the screen. I start to piece everything together.

Memories flood my brain. Nanna telling us stories of curses of the Beady-Eyed Doll. The doll that sat next to me in bed, while I slept. The doll that I woke up screaming to, at midnight on Halloween. Her grin that always creeped me out. Every night, she was watching me. I remember now. Shaking, I look at the doll, now in smoke.

“It’s you,” I say.

“Let the nightmare begin” I hear a voice whisper.

I tense up as she counts down. 3…2…1

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