The Doll That Followed Me Home

I should have left it there. I should have walked away the moment I saw it sitting on that dusty shelf in the old antique store. But something about its glassy blue eyes and delicate porcelain face held me captive. It wasn’t beautiful—no, it was unsettling, almost too lifelike.

The shopkeeper, an elderly woman with hollow eyes and thin lips, watched me as I traced a finger over the doll’s faded Victorian dress.

“Ah, that one…” she muttered. “A peculiar choice.”

I frowned. “Why?”

She hesitated before wrapping the doll in brown paper. “Some things don’t like being left behind. Be sure you don’t regret taking her home.”

I let out a nervous chuckle, shaking off the unease crawling up my spine. How ridiculous. It was just a doll. I handed her the money, turned on my heel, and left the shop without looking back. If only I had.

That night, as I placed the doll on the bookshelf in my bedroom, I swore its head tilted slightly when I turned away. A trick of the light, surely. Still, I found myself locking my door before I went to bed, something I hadn’t done in years.

Sleep did not come easily.

Somewhere in the dark, I heard a soft tap… tap… tap.

I shot upright in bed, heart pounding. My eyes darted toward the bookshelf, barely visible in the moonlight. The doll sat exactly where I had left it, staring ahead with its glassy, lifeless eyes.

I listened for a moment longer, but the room was silent. Eventually, I convinced myself I had imagined the sound and lay back down.

Then came the whisper.

A breathy, distant voice, barely audible:

“Why did you take me?”

I bolted upright again, hands clutching the blanket. My skin prickled with terror. It was the wind. It had to be.

But I did not sleep for the rest of the night.

By the third night, I was convinced something was wrong. Each morning, the doll had moved. Just an inch, but enough for me to know I wasn’t imagining things. I tested my sanity by placing it in the center of my desk before bed, only to wake up and find it perched back on the bookshelf, staring at me with its unblinking blue eyes.

I tried to ignore it. I did. But the whispers continued.

I began to feel watched, even when I was alone. Shadows stretched unnaturally in my room, twisting into shapes that didn’t belong. The air felt heavy, suffocating. Sleep became a distant memory.

I had to get rid of it.

The following night, I drove to a field miles away and buried the doll under the roots of a gnarled old tree. I patted the dirt down with shaking hands, whispering apologies under my breath, and then sped away without looking back.

For the first time in weeks, I slept soundly. There was no whispers. No tapping. No cold, watching eyes. Relief washed over me. It was over.

Until I woke up the next morning and found it sitting at the foot of my bed.

My scream tore through the silence. I threw the doll across the room, but the moment it hit the floor, something whispered my name.

I ran. Out of my apartment, into the streets, breath hitching in my throat. I didn’t stop until I reached a friend’s house. I stayed there for two nights, refusing to return home, but the dread never left me.

Then my friend heard it too. The whisper. The soft tap, tap, tap in the middle of the night.

The doll had followed me.

No matter where I went, it was always there. I burned it, drowned it, smashed it into pieces—but by morning, it was always whole again, waiting for me. Watching.

I grew weaker. My reflection in the mirror became a gaunt, hollow-eyed version of myself. My hands trembled. My mind frayed. The isolation was unbearable. No one believed me. How could they?

Then, one night, as I sat curled up in a corner, too afraid to close my eyes, the whispers grew louder. They weren’t words anymore. Just a cacophony of hissing, rattling voices that slithered into my ears. The doll sat on my dresser, its head tilted ever so slightly.

And then, for the first time, it moved.

Not a trick of the light. Not a dream.

I watched in horror as its tiny porcelain hand reached forward, fingers cracking at the joints.

My breath caught in my throat.

It crawled toward me.

I tried to move, but my body was frozen in terror. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The doll’s limbs twitched and jerked as if controlled by invisible strings. I wanted to scream, but my voice refused to come.

I scrambled backward as it inched closer, dragging its tiny porcelain body across the floor. Then, in one horrifying instant, it lunged.

The last thing I remember before everything went black was its lips parting—just slightly—revealing rows of tiny, jagged teeth.

They found me days later, curled in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, whispering nonsense. I don’t remember much after that.

The doctors say it was stress. That I had a break from reality. They don’t believe me.

But I know the truth.

And so does the doll.

Because last night, I heard the tap, tap, tap against the window.

And when I turned around…

It was waiting for me.

The doll is still here. Even now, in this sterile hospital room, where they watch me with pitying eyes. It sits in the corner, unseen by the nurses, untouched by time. It never leaves. It never sleeps.

One of the nurses, a kind woman with a worried gaze, sat beside me today. She whispered that I was lucky to be alive. I tried to tell her about the doll. She patted my hand and smiled sadly as if I were a child speaking of imaginary things.

But she doesn’t understand.

None of them do.

That night, as I lay in my hospital bed, I heard it again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Closer this time.

The air turned frigid, an unnatural chill creeping into my bones. I shut my eyes tight, praying for the morning.

But when I dared to look, my blood ran cold. The doll was no longer in the corner.

It was sitting on my chest.

And its blue eyes blinked.

They say I screamed so loudly the entire ward woke up. The nurses rushed in, but by the time they arrived, the doll was gone. Vanished. As if it had never been there at all.

They are watching me now, speaking in hushed tones about sedatives and stronger treatments. But I know the truth.

The doll is still here. It always will be.

Because no matter where I go, no matter how far I run, it will find me.

And this time, it won’t let me go.

Because I took it home.

And now, it’s taking me.