The Midnight Doll
Old towns have old tales, and the village of Dunwich was no exception. Nestled between shadowy pines and mist-laden moors, Dunwich whispered with secrets both ancient and eerie. Among them, the most unsettling was the tale of the Midnight Doll.
Lorraine Wilkerson moved to Dunwich to escape the relentless hum of city life. She rented an old, creaky house on the outskirts, eager to soak in the peace of rural England. The house, drenched in history, stood as a sentinel to time, its wooden beams echoing tales of generations past. Little did she know, she was about to become a part of its darkest story.
One crisp autumn evening, as the wind howled like an ancient spirit, Lorraine was rummaging through the attic. It was cluttered with dusted memories and forgotten objects – old gramophones, crumbling books, and antique furniture draped in cobweb blankets. She was drawn to a small chest covered in faded floral patterns. Opening it, she found an exquisitely crafted porcelain doll.
“Whose doll might you be?” Lorraine mused aloud, her fingers tracing the delicate contours of its face. The doll’s eyes, an unsettling shade of blue, seemed almost lifelike. Ruddy cheeks, painted lips curled into a slight smile, and a black satin dress completed its haunting allure.
She decided to place the doll on the mantelpiece, admiring it. As night fell, Lorraine retired to her room. Engulfed in the thick blankets, the howling wind was her only company. Or so she thought...
At midnight, an eerie creaking sound roused her from slumber. Groggy-eyed, she sat up in bed and listened to the silence that followed. Then came a soft, chilling giggle. Her heart raced as she strained her ears. The sound seemed to emanate from downstairs.
She descended the stairs cautiously, each step echoing like a harbinger of dread. In the dim light, she saw the doll on the mantelpiece. Or rather, she should’ve. It wasn’t there.
Lorraine’s breath hitched. Frantically, her eyes searched the room. The moonlight filtering through the window cast eerie shadows, but there was no sign of the doll. Gathering her courage, she turned to head back to her room.
There it was. At the foot of the stairs.
She blinked, trying to process how it had moved. A prank? she thought, though she lived alone. Her trembling hands picked up the doll and placed it back on the mantelpiece. Returning to bed, sleep did not come easy as her mind swirled with unease.
The next day, she shared the strange occurrence with Mrs. Craythorne, her elderly neighbor.
“Oh, my dear, you’ve found Evelina’s doll. Such a sad story,” Mrs. Craythorne’s voice quivered with age and forgotten sorrow.
Lorraine’s curiosity piqued. “Evelina?”
“Yes, poor Evelina Grimsby. She lived in your home over a century ago. A bright girl with a passion for doll-making. But one night, she vanished without a trace, leaving only that doll behind.”
The wind seemed to whisper Evelina’s name through the open window. That night, Lorraine found sleep elusive. She had placed the doll back in the chest, hoping that would lay the unease to rest.
But as the clock struck midnight, the giggle echoed once more. This time, it sounded closer. Lorraine’s pulse quickened as she peeked out from her bedroom. A shadow darted across the hallway. Goosebumps pricked her skin as she stepped out to investigate.
She found the doll at her bedroom door. Despite herself, a scream clawed at her throat, but she suppressed it. Picking up the doll, her fingers trembled as she felt it grow colder. The doll's eyes seemed to glint with malevolence.
“What do you want?” she whispered, hoping for no response.
The giggling stopped. An eerie silence filled the house, almost suffocating in its intensity. Lorraine returned the doll to the chest and locked it. As she turned, a cold breeze brushed past her, sending shivers down her spine.
The following days were strange. Lorraine would find the doll in different places, always at midnight. Her patience thinned as fear gnawed at her sanity. Mrs. Craythorne’s words haunted her.
Driven to desperation, Lorraine sought help from Father Abram, the village priest.
“These old places hold memories, some not so pleasant. Evelina's spirit may still be bound to this world, seeking closure,” he advised, handing her a vial of holy water and a worn bible.
Thanking him, Lorraine returned to face her unseen adversary. As midnight loomed, she sprinkled holy water on the doll, reciting verses from the bible. The air grew thick, stifling, and then, the giggling turned to cries – cries of a young girl.
“Please help me,” a voice echoed through the house, filled with sorrow and yearning.
Lorraine, though terrified, asked, “Evelina? What do you need?”
Through ethereal whispers, Evelina’s spirit revealed her fate. She had been trapped by the malevolent spirit of a doll-maker who wished to use her soul for his dark creations. Her only release was if someone willingly offered to stay in her place.
Lorraine felt the weight of the revelation. Could she sacrifice herself for a spirit trapped for over a century? Tears welled in her eyes as she faced the doll.
“If it sets you free, I will stay,” she whispered.
A cold embrace enveloped her, and darkness claimed her consciousness.
The next morning, Mrs. Craythorne found Lorraine’s house quiet. Inside, on the mantelpiece, was the doll – but it wasn’t Evelina’s. It was a new doll, one with Lorraine’s likeness, her eyes wide with eternal horror.
From that day, the village of Dunwich had a new tale to whisper – the tale of Lorraine Wilkerson, the woman who dared to face the Midnight Doll and became a part of its haunting legacy.
