You moved into the house last week, .
In the attic: one chair, one doll.
Porcelain. Cracked smile. Missing an eye.
You left it there. Who cares about old toys?
But the next day, it was in the hallway.
You put it back. Locked the attic.
Next morning: it was on the kitchen table.
Its head tilted toward the stove.
That night, the burner turned on by itself.
The chair beside it was warm.
You burned the doll in the fireplace.
Watched it melt and crackle.
But the next morning: same chair. Same doll.
This time, it had both eyes.
You threw it away in the dumpster miles away.
It was back the next night — in your bedroom.
Sitting on the pillow beside yours.
Your alarm didn't ring. It smiled wider.
You were late to work. Fired the same day.
That night, your power went out.
By candlelight, you noticed something new on the doll.
A name stitched across the chest — .
You never told it your name.
You took the doll to a priest.
He refused to touch it. Called it "marked."
That night, he died in his sleep.
The news reported he died “peacefully.”
But you saw the doll on the TV behind him.
You smashed it with a bat.
Buried the pieces deep in the forest.
By the time you came home, the doll was on your chair again.
There was dirt under its fingernails.
You tried ignoring it. Talking to friends. Laughing.
But it started appearing in the background of selfies.
Until one day, it was right behind you — smiling into the lens.
The photo is no longer on your phone.
You stopped leaving the house.
It still moved — but only when you blinked.
Like an evil version of a childhood game.
Until one day… the doll didn't move at all.
You checked the attic. The chair was empty.
You turned around slowly, knowing what you'd see.
Not the doll. Just the chair.
But someone was sitting in it now.
And the porcelain wasn’t on the doll anymore — it was on you.