In a quiet, rain-soaked town on the edge of nowhere, Eleanor Grayson lived alone in a house too large for one person. She’d inherited it from her late mother, a woman obsessed with antiques and oddities. The house creaked incessantly, its warped wooden floors and peeling wallpaper whispering secrets Eleanor preferred to ignore. She wasn’t superstitious, not really, but she couldn’t deny the unease that clung to the place like damp rot.
It started with the doll.
Eleanor found it while clearing out the attic one dreary afternoon in late February. Buried beneath moth-eaten blankets and cracked porcelain teacups, it sat propped against a wooden beam, staring at her with unblinking glass eyes. The doll was small, no taller than her forearm, dressed in a faded blue pinafore with a lace collar yellowed by time. Its porcelain face was unnervingly lifelike—rosy cheeks, a tiny rosebud mouth, and those eyes, pale blue and piercing. A mop of brittle blonde curls framed its head, tangled as though it hadn’t been brushed in decades. Eleanor didn’t remember it from her childhood, but something about it felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream.
She should’ve left it there. But curiosity—or perhaps loneliness—compelled her to bring it downstairs. She set it on the mantel above the fireplace, where it could watch the room with its silent gaze. “You’ll keep me company,” she muttered, half-joking, as she turned away to make tea.
That night, she woke to the sound of scratching.
It was faint, a skittering noise like a mouse gnawing at the walls. Eleanor sat up in bed, her breath fogging in the cold room. The house was old; noises were normal. She waited, ears straining, but the sound didn’t repeat. Eventually, she drifted back to sleep, chalking it up to the wind or a rodent she’d need to trap.
The next morning, she found the note.
It was on the kitchen table, written in a shaky, childish scrawl on a scrap of yellowed paper she didn’t recognize. The ink was black, smudged at the edges as though applied with trembling fingers. It read:
“I see you.”
Eleanor froze, the mug of coffee in her hand trembling slightly. She lived alone. No one had been in the house. She checked the doors—locked. The windows—shut tight. Her rational mind screamed that it was a prank, but who could’ve done it? She had no neighbors close enough to sneak in, no friends who’d think this funny. She crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash, her heart thudding.
That day, she avoided the doll. She didn’t look at it, didn’t acknowledge its glassy stare from the mantel. But she felt it watching her. By evening, exhaustion won out over unease, and she convinced herself she’d imagined the note’s significance. Maybe she’d written it herself in a fugue state—sleepwalking wasn’t unheard of.
The scratching came again that night, louder this time. It wasn’t in the walls—it was closer, like fingernails dragging across wood. Eleanor bolted upright, fumbling for the lamp. The light flickered on, casting long shadows across her bedroom. Nothing. The room was empty. She held her breath, listening, but the house was silent again.
When she shuffled into the living room the next morning, bleary-eyed and on edge, another note waited. This one was on the coffee table, written in the same jagged handwriting:
“Why don’t you talk to me?”
Eleanor’s stomach dropped. She stared at the doll on the mantel. It hadn’t moved—or had it? Its head seemed tilted slightly, its eyes catching the morning light in a way that made them glint. She grabbed the note, her hands shaking, and stormed to the fireplace. “This isn’t funny,” she hissed, though she didn’t know who she was addressing. She shoved the doll into a drawer in the kitchen, slamming it shut, and locked the drawer with a key she kept in her pocket.
For two days, nothing happened. No notes, no scratching. Eleanor began to relax, convincing herself it was a fluke—some trick of her tired mind. She even laughed about it over the phone with a coworker, brushing it off as “old house nonsense.”
Then, on the third night, she woke to the sound of paper crumpling.
It was coming from the kitchen.
Heart pounding, she crept down the hallway, clutching a fireplace poker. The kitchen was dark, the only light a faint glow from the streetlamp outside. The drawer was still locked—she checked the key in her pocket to be sure. But on the counter, illuminated by that sickly yellow light, was a new note. The handwriting was angrier now, the letters scratched deep into the paper:
“You can’t hide me.”
Eleanor dropped the poker, the clang echoing in the silent house. She tore open the drawer—empty. The doll was gone. Panic clawed at her throat as she spun around, searching the shadows. A soft giggle, high and childlike, drifted from the living room.
She found it sitting on the couch, its little porcelain hands folded neatly in its lap. Beside it was a pencil, worn to a nub, and a fresh note:
“I’m lonely. Play with me.”
Eleanor didn’t sleep that night. She sat in the kitchen, lights blazing, clutching a knife she didn’t know how to use. The doll stayed on the couch, unmoving, but she swore its eyes followed her every time she dared to peek into the room. By morning, she’d made up her mind—she’d burn it.
She built a fire in the backyard, the flames crackling as she tossed the doll into the blaze. Its porcelain face blackened, its curls shriveled, and those glassy eyes melted into hollow sockets. Eleanor watched until it was ash, her hands trembling with relief.
That night, she slept deeply for the first time in days.
But the scratching returned.
It was louder now, insistent, coming from beneath her bed. Eleanor didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Something cold brushed her ankle, and a small, singed hand emerged from under the mattress, clutching a charred scrap of paper. The note was barely legible, the letters smeared with ash:
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
She screamed, scrambling out of bed, but the hand was gone. The note lay on the floor, a blackened fingerprint smeared across it. The doll—or what was left of it—wasn’t finished with her.
The next morning, Eleanor packed a bag and left the house. She didn’t look back, didn’t care where she went, as long as it was far from that place. The house sat empty for months, then years, its windows dark and its walls silent.
But the neighbors swear, on quiet nights, they hear scratching. And sometimes, if you peer through the grimy windows, you’ll see a small, charred figure on the mantel, writing.