Scary Stories to Chill Your Bones – The Doll

I’ve been away so long, I hardly remember what to do, but stories do flow naturally from my fingers. I wrote this short while on one of my many walks in our local graveyard. Believe it or not, I find such inspiration for stories just reading the the tombstones. I see an unusal name and immidiatly craft a tale all around that character, or the monument itself sends my mind into another time. Plus, it’s quiet there, and our little graveyard gives a beautiful view of our little town.

So I hope you enjoy this Scary Story to Chill Your Bones…

The Doll

A porcelain doll with a cracked cheek sits inside a case of a local antique shop, next to a metal train, a gold watch, and another curly-haired doll much younger than itself. It watches, and it waits.

In 1874, the doll arrived as a birthday gift for one Matilda Hephzibah Crushing. That is when its life began. When it first remembers. The child must have loved it for it to be brought to some semblance of awareness. Those were happy times. The times of pretend, of tea, of crumpets, of sunshine, dresses, laughter…

In a blink, things change.

In what I could only describe as a horrific chain of events, a horse spooked by some unseen apparition tossed the drive from his seat and careened down a rocky ravine. It took with it its lone rider, clutching her doll. The child did not survive.

That’s when the crack developed.

After Matilda’s death, the doll sat on top of the family’s piano; a memorial to the child. This spot gave the doll a bird’s-eye view of the table where it once played with its child. The Crushing’s stopped touching it. A once beloved object now chilled the family, causing a terrible seed to lodge inside their hearts. 

In an attempt to replace their beloved Matilda, the Crushing’s had another baby. This child, Harriet, had her own dolls to play with, grander and more elaborate than the porcelain doll with the cracked cheek. Harriet reckoned the doll to be an evil witch that caused the death of her sister. That’s the way legends develop. Over time. A hair of truth, a sprinkling of lies, and time. The doll spied Harriet. Alone in its grief.

The story grew each passing year until at the age of twenty-eight, Harriet, while playing that same piano, clutched the doll and hurled it across the room. Again, the crack lengthened. Harriet met her sister in death that very evening.

Soon a note was attached to the foot of the doll.

Held in my children’s hands at their death.

I dare not destroy it.

I dare not touch it

I dare not want it.

Through an act of will, the doll tore off the note only to have the mother sew those words onto the doll’s corset. That dreadful seed had sprouted in the family’s hearts. Before, time crawled. Now it sped by at a head-splitting tempo. From house to house, the doll traveled. First, the owner would laugh upon finding the sewn note, but then an ominous happenstance would cause the owner to discard it. Some silly, some chilling: an unexpected illness, an egg turned with blood, a death…

Lots of deaths.

All after touching the doll.

I leave you to imagine the details, but the doll perceived it entirely. With each family, the doll’s ire grew, and it replaced Matilda’s happy memories with menacing recollections of shock, horror, and fear. At first, it despised fear, but soon the doll clenched it with a cold, hard embrace.  

The owners attempted to throw the doll away. They burned it, boiled it in oil, submerged it with rocks, but each dawn the doll returned; its cracked cheek ever-growing. It witnessed towns become cities. Dresses change from long to short, and cars replace horses.

All the while, it watched and awaited an owner. 

The doll.

It sits inside a case of a local antique shop now, next to a metal train, a gold watch, and another curly-haired doll much younger than itself. Alone. The cabinet’s fluorescent bulb blinds its eyes, but on occasion, a shadow passes over it, and the hope of a new owner stirs its spirit.

Oh, how it longs for a touch. For a grasp of flesh against its porcelain skin. To be embraced like Matilda once held it at that moment before death.

It is waiting.

Won’t you take it home?

Maybe you’re the one. 

Next Week –

I hope you enjoyed my little tale about Matilda’s doll. Would you touch her? Do you feel sorry for her? Do you think the deaths were the doll’s fault? I’d love to see what you think!!

And please return next week, October 8th, for more Scary Stories to Chill Your Bones. This one’s called – The Nightmare!