Book I: Susie Doll

The dim light of a single candle flickers against the ancient shelves of books in the grand, musty library. The air is heavy with the scent of aged paper and wax. At the center of the room, Master Renton Howling stands behind a wooden desk, his thin fingers gently clutching the delicate form of an old porcelain doll. Its glassy eyes stare blankly into the void, and its lips are painted into a faint smile.

Renton's eyes gleam as he holds the doll up, inspecting it with a slow, deliberate turn. "Ah, dolls," he murmurs, his voice rich and smooth, cutting through the thick silence. "They are our first companions, aren't they? Harmless little things, cradled in our arms as children. But not all dolls are so innocent."

His long fingers trail over the doll's face, his touch tender, but his smile darkens as he continues. "Some are vessels, you see, houses for things that should never be invited in. And once they've settled inside, they never leave. Not until they've taken everything."

He places the doll carefully on the desk, where it sits like a silent sentinel.

Renton steps back, his fingers brushing against the spines of the ancient tomes that line the shelves. "But now, let us begin our story. And remember, dear reader... next time you find an old toy at a flea market or garage sale, you may want to leave it where it sits. For you never know what it's hiding."

The candle flickers once, and Renton's smile lingers in the dim light before he fades into the shadows, the doll still sitting in its place, its glass eyes reflecting the candlelight.

Susie Doll

It was a warm, lazy Saturday morning, the kind of day where the suburban streets were lined with garage sales. "Emma Carter" walked from house to house, her eyes scanning tables of old books, forgotten toys, and chipped dishes. She wasn't looking for anything in particular, just browsing the remnants of other people's lives, hoping to find a quirky decoration for her new apartment.

She stopped at a small, quiet sale set up in the yard of an older woman's house. The woman herself sat in a folding chair, knitting in the shade, barely paying attention to the few passersby who picked through her things.

Emma glanced around, noticing the usual collection of trinkets and mismatched furniture. But then, something caught her eye, a doll, half-hidden beneath a pile of old linens.

It wasn't like the other things for sale. This doll was beautiful in a way that felt out of place at a dusty garage sale. It was delicate, with porcelain skin, bright blue eyes, and golden hair that framed its small, childlike face. Its dress was an old-fashioned lace, yellowed with age but still elegant.

Emma knelt down, pulling the doll free from the pile. She felt an odd connection to it, as though it had been waiting for her to find it. It was small, the kind of thing you'd place on a mantel or a shelf as a decorative piece.

"How much for this?" she asked, standing up and holding the doll out toward the older woman.

The woman glanced up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she saw what Emma was holding. For a moment, a shadow of hesitation crossed the woman's face, but it was gone in an instant.

"Oh, that old thing?" The woman waved her hand dismissively. "A dollar. It belonged to my grandmother. I've had it sitting around forever."

"A dollar?" Emma said, surprised. The doll looked like it was worth far more than that. She shrugged, digging into her pocket and pulling out a crumpled bill. "I'll take it."

The woman smiled faintly, accepting the money. "Be careful with it. It's old."

Emma laughed. "I will."

She placed the doll carefully into her bag and waved goodbye before heading back to her car. As she walked away, she could feel the old woman's eyes on her, but she didn't think much of it. It was just a doll, a harmless little piece of someone's past.

Emma's apartment was small but cozy, the kind of place she'd dreamed of when she first moved out of her parents' house. She had filled it with thrift-store furniture and quirky decorations, each piece reflecting her eclectic style.

The doll now sat on her mantel, its wide blue eyes staring blankly across the living room. Emma had cleaned it up a bit, brushing off the dust and carefully wiping its porcelain skin. It looked perfect there, a little piece of vintage charm amidst the rest of her mismatched décor.

Over the next few days, Emma didn't think much about the doll. Life was busy, work, errands, and the usual distractions kept her mind occupied. But every now and then, when she sat down to relax, her eyes would drift to the mantel, and she'd catch sight of the doll.

At first, it was subtle, a fleeting feeling, like the doll was out of place. Its eyes, though unmoving, seemed to follow her as she walked through the room. She told herself it was just her imagination. After all, it was just a doll.

But then, the dreams started.

The first night, Emma dreamed that the doll was sitting on her bed, its blue eyes fixed on her, its small hands resting gently on the sheets. In the dream, the doll's face was perfect, porcelain, smooth, and unblemished. But when Emma reached out to touch it, the doll's mouth twisted into a grin, and its skin began to crack.

Emma woke up in a cold sweat, her heart racing. She sat up in bed, looking around her dark bedroom, trying to shake off the dream. It had felt so real, so vivid, but when she glanced toward the living room, she could just make out the silhouette of the doll sitting on the mantel, exactly where she had left it.

She tried to laugh it off. "It's just a dream," she muttered to herself. "Get a grip."

But the unease lingered.

The days turned into a week, and the unsettling feeling in Emma's apartment grew stronger. The doll, once a quaint decoration, now felt like a presence, something that was always watching.

Emma couldn't explain it, but every time she looked at the doll, she swore something was different. Its dress seemed more tattered, the once-bright lace now fraying and yellowed further. Its porcelain face, which had been smooth and perfect when she bought it, now had tiny, almost imperceptible cracks around its mouth and eyes.

The worst part was the eyes. Those bright blue eyes that had seemed so lively at first were now dull, clouded, as if something had faded from within them.

It wasn't just the changes to the doll, either. Strange things started happening in the apartment, small things at first. Doors Emma swore she had closed would be slightly ajar. Objects on the table or counters would be in different places than where she had left them.

At night, the footsteps began. They were soft, almost imperceptible, but distinct enough to make her freeze when she heard them. They would start in the living room and slowly move toward her bedroom, stopping just outside the door.

Every time Emma checked, there was no one there. But the doll, its position on the mantel seemed to shift slightly each day, its head turned just a little further, as if it was watching her every move.

Over the next few weeks, Emma's life became a waking nightmare. The doll, once a simple decorative piece, had now become a source of constant dread. Its transformation was undeniable. The once pristine porcelain face had decayed further, the cracks widening and spider-webbing across its features. Its lace dress, once dainty and antique, now looked torn and soiled, as though it had been dragged through the dirt.

But it was the eyes that haunted Emma the most. The once bright blue glass had become dark, almost black, as though the doll was rotting from the inside out. And the worst part was that the doll seemed to move. At first, Emma had dismissed it as her imagination, a trick of the mind, the kind of thing you see out of the corner of your eye late at night.

But then, one morning, Emma woke to find the doll no longer on the mantel where she always kept it. It was sitting in the chair by the window, its head cocked slightly to the side, staring at her with those dark, dead eyes.

Emma's heart raced. She hadn't moved it. She was sure of that. And yet, there it was, sitting in the chair as if it had always been there. Trembling, she walked over to the doll, hesitating for a moment before picking it up. The porcelain felt cold against her skin, unnaturally cold, as though the doll had been left out in the freezing cold all night.

She shuddered, quickly placing the doll back on the mantel. It sat there, its vacant eyes seemingly fixed on her.

Emma tried to carry on with her day, telling herself it was just her nerves, but no matter where she went in the apartment, she could feel the doll watching her. Every time she glanced at it, she swore its position had shifted slightly.

That night, the nightmares returned, only this time, they were worse.

In the dream, Emma was lying in bed, paralyzed, unable to move as the doll climbed onto the foot of her bed. Its decaying face cracked open in a grotesque grin, revealing sharp, jagged teeth beneath the porcelain. The doll crawled slowly up her body, its cold, withered hands reaching for her throat.

Emma woke with a scream, gasping for breath. The room was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside her window. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sat up, trying to shake the lingering terror from the dream.

But when she looked toward the mantel, her blood ran cold.

The doll was gone.

Emma's fear reached a breaking point. She searched the apartment frantically, her mind racing with panic. She checked every room, every corner, but the doll was nowhere to be found. It was as if it had simply vanished.

Her breath came in shallow gasps as she backed into the living room, her eyes darting around the space. Her apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison, one where she was never truly alone.

Then, she heard it.

A faint, scratching sound. It was soft at first, barely noticeable, but it grew louder, more insistent. It was coming from the walls.

Emma froze, her heart pounding in her chest. The scratching was everywhere, surrounding her, like something trying to claw its way out from within the very walls of her apartment.

"No," she whispered, clutching her head. "This isn't real. This isn't happening."

But the scratching continued, growing louder and louder, until it was all she could hear. Emma ran to the door, her hands fumbling with the lock. She needed to get out, to escape this nightmare, but her fingers were shaking so badly that she couldn't turn the key.

And then, the voice came.

A low, guttural whisper. "Emma…"

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. The voice was coming from behind her.

Slowly, trembling, she turned around.

The doll was sitting in the middle of the room, its dark, dead eyes locked onto hers. Its mouth, cracked and jagged, twisted into a grin.

"Emma," it whispered again, its voice low and menacing.

Emma screamed, stumbling backward as the lights in the apartment flickered. The walls seemed to close in around her, the air thick with the scent of decay. The doll stood up, its limbs creaking as it took a step toward her, its eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Get away!" Emma shrieked, grabbing a nearby lamp and hurling it at the doll. The lamp shattered on the floor, but the doll kept coming, its grin widening.

Emma backed into the corner, her hands shaking as tears streamed down her face. The doll was right in front of her now, its cold, porcelain hand reaching out to touch her cheek.

The last thing Emma saw before the darkness consumed her was the doll's face, twisted and demonic, its eyes filled with malice.

Weeks passed before anyone found Emma's body.

By the time the landlord entered the apartment, following complaints from neighbors about the smell, it was too late. Emma had taken her own life, driven mad by the constant torment of the doll. She had left no note, but the scene in the apartment was enough to tell the story. The doll sat on the mantel, its face once again pristine, its eyes bright and innocent.

It wasn't long before the doll found a new home.

In a busy flea market on the outskirts of town, "Sophie", a young woman in her twenties, browsed the various stalls, looking for a gift for her niece. Her eyes fell on a beautiful doll sitting among a pile of toys. It was old-fashioned, with golden hair and bright blue eyes, dressed in a dainty lace dress.

Sophie smiled, picking it up and admiring its craftsmanship. "This would be perfect," she said, handing the vendor a few dollars. "She's going to love it."

As Sophie walked away, the vendor watched her with a knowing smile. "Be careful with that one," he muttered under his breath.

Sophie didn't hear him.

She placed the doll in her bag, already thinking about how excited her niece would be when she saw it. After all, it was such a cute doll, so innocent, so perfect.

Epilogue

Master Renton stands behind the old wooden desk in his library, the doll sitting in front of him once more. Its blue eyes gleam in the candlelight, and Renton's fingers trace the delicate lace of its dress as he speaks.

"And so, the cycle continues," he says softly, his voice carrying a note of dark amusement. "A doll that lures in its owners, charming them with its innocent face, only to slowly reveal the darkness within. You see, dear reader, it doesn't need to move or speak. It simply waits, waits for the right moment to push its owner over the edge."

Renton's smile widens as he steps back into the shadows, his fingers lingering on the doll for just a moment longer. "But don't worry, there are always more to take its place. Perhaps one day, you'll come across a charming little doll at a flea market, or a garage sale. And if you do… well, you'll know better than to take it home."

The candle flickers, casting long shadows across the library as Renton fades into the darkness.

"Won't you?"

The candle sputters out, plunging the room into total silence, leaving only the faintest glint of the doll's eyes visible in the dark.

The End