The house on the edge of the road was feared. It was revered. It was mysterious. It was dark. You wouldn't go in unless you were seeking horror. However, the pull was unbearable. Like unseen claws dragging you to the open door.
A key was still swinging, hanging in the lock. The floor mat was stained and disregarded. The door was ajar. An echo of a scream hung in the air. I stood in the doorway, eyes widened. My pulse quickened.
I stepped in the house cautiously and glanced around. The home seemed empty, and so, so quiet you could hear the scampering of mice’s claws. The wooden floorboards creaked faintly under my steps.
I crept into a room and my hands curled into fists. The birds stopped singing their merry songs. I stopped in my tracks, biting back my scream of terror.
There was a doll on the dining table. Staring into my soul with button-black eyes and grinning with its stitched mouth. Its hair, a faded amber, were like snakes of fire coiling around her patched dress. I backed out of the room, horrified. I could still feel the cold stare of the doll boring into me. Its arms outstretched, clasping for a victim. Me. I turned and ran, one foot after another. The hallways were adorned with young children with dolls. Petrifying dolls. Possessed dolls.
I didn’t stop sprinting until I had reached the main street. The sun was setting and a chill swept the air.
I’m almost home, I told myself.
As the sun disappeared under the horizon, I noticed a figure staring at me. I swear its eyes glinted red like rubies. Her hair was fiery. Her eyes were button-black. She was grinning wickedly. Her dress was stitched and patched. And she was coming for me.