In a village once nestled by shadows and clay,
The dollmaker’s house stood crumbling away.
Her dolls were a marvel, with eyes full of life,
But whispers grew darker of eerie strife.
“Her dolls,” they would say, “aren’t stitched just with thread,
But bound by the souls of the dearly departed instead.”
Through moonlit whispers, her windows would gleam,
A flicker of movement—a child’s muffled scream.
One fateful night, a traveler came,
Lured by the legend of her haunting name.
He sought to uncover her secrets untold,
And entered the house both daring and bold.
Inside, the air felt heavy and cold,
The dolls lined the shelves, their stares uncontrolled.
Their porcelain faces seemed carved with despair,
Yet their eyes held a glimmer of life—too aware.
The dollmaker appeared, her visage a mask,
Of wisdom and shadows, a haunted past.
“Choose one,” she cooed, “for my craft is divine.
But tread with care; their fates intertwine.”
The traveler laughed, “What harm could there be?
I’ll take this doll, the one staring at me.”
He held her with caution, her dress pale and neat,
Yet her glassy eyes wept—a sound soft and sweet.
That night as he slept, he dreamt of a song,
A mournful lullaby that dragged him along.
The doll on his bedside began to unfold,
Her limbs breaking free, her gaze dark and cold.
“You’ve taken me far from where I belong,”
She whispered, her voice a ghostly song.
“In life, I was cursed; in death, I’m confined,
But now I am free, and your soul shall be mine.”
The morning came, but the traveler was gone,
Replaced by a doll on the shelf, forlorn.
The dollmaker smiled, her task now complete,
Another soul captured, another heartbeat.
In that darkened house by shadows and clay,
Her collection grows still, with each passing day.
So beware of her dolls, for they watch and they yearn,
And those who disturb them may never return.