“Deep breath,” I say with the uncertainty wavering in my voice. “They’re just dolls.”
I stand in the doorway before realizing I haven’t moved. I force myself closer. The air feels thick as syrup, the attic light flickering like it’s afraid to stay on. The box’s edges look soft with age. The handwriting is faded but visible: Grandma’s Dolls. My trembling hands reach for the brittle tape. As I peel it off, the smell of something sweeter—rotting sugar, maybe—rushes out. A painted eye catches the light, and then another. For a second, I swear one of them blinks. I let my hands graze their brittle porcelain faces for only a moment. Not long enough for anything to happen. My shoulders shudder from a cold breeze that blows my hair into my face. A wave of panic washes over me as I struggle to shove it away.
When I finally untangle myself, the dolls are the same. “Nothing will happen,” I whisper. Another surge of cool air washes over me, and my head snaps to the right. A small window lies wide open. My mind starts to spiral. It wasn’t open before. Maybe the wind pushed it? But no, I would’ve heard that. Deep breaths. Nothing will happen.
I stand on wobbly legs and make my way to the window. The night outside looks wrong—darker than it should be. My reflection wavers in the glass, pale and distant. And behind it, something else moves. I whip around. The box is empty. The attic lights flicker once, twice—then dies. The room plunges into black. Something scurries behind me, fabric brushing against the creaky floorboards.
The air feels heavier now, like it’s holding something alive. I hold my breath, listening. For a second, only silence—then the soft click of porcelain against wood. My heart skips. I turn toward the sound. A sliver of pale face catches the light from the window, glassy eyes glinting like tiny stars.
I stumble backward, my foot catches on a loose board. The bulb sputters back to life for half a heartbeat—long enough for me to see them.
The dolls are out of the box. All of them. Lined in a perfect row at the attic’s edge, heads tilted at the same unnatural angle, painted lips curved in faint smiles.
The light goes out again. This time, I hear whispering. High-pitched. Childlike. Close.
The whispers multiply until the air feels crowded with tiny, secret voices. I can’t make out the words, only the rhythm—soft, sing-song, almost like a lullaby. My eyes strain against the dark. “Who’s there?” I whisper, though I already know.
Something tugs on my shirt. I freeze. The fabric jerks again, harder, and I stumble forward. My hand brushes something cold. Smooth. Porcelain. I back away, heart hammering. Another click echoes, and another, until the sound surrounds me—the delicate snapping of joints learning to move.
The bulb flashes again. They’re closer now. Much closer. One doll stands inches from my shoes, her cracked cheek reflecting the light like glass. Her painted mouth parts with a dry creak.
“Don’t leave,” she whispers, voice warped and echoing, half like Grandma’s, half like something else.
My breath catches. “You’re not real.” Her smile widens, splitting slightly down the side. “Neither are you.”
The attic light dies again, leaving only moonlight, faint and silver, spilling over rows of figures that aren’t still anymore. The whispering starts again, softer now, as my body begins to stiffen. My fingers feel heavy. My knees lock. Something smooth crawls up my arms. Porcelain, sealing me inside. I try to scream, but my voice breaks into a brittle sound, like a doll’s head cracking.
The last thing I see before my eyes glaze over is the empty box on the floor—waiting, open, like it’s ready for one more.
I felt them watching me. I heard their silent screams. Only now do I understand what they’re saying.