Page 22

Twenty-Two

I didn’t want to search it.

Even as I typed, I kept glancing over my shoulder like someone might catch me in the act.

The laptop burned against my thighs, the only real warmth in the room. The couch creaked under every twitch of my legs. I was still in yesterday’s clothes. I hadn’t eaten. I didn’t feel hunger anymore. Just that cold ache in my spine, the one that whispered I was being watched.

I muted the TV and opened a private browsing window like I was about to look up porn. What I typed felt worse.

Can dolls be possessed?

Hundreds of links.

I clicked one.

Then another.

An article about Robert the Doll. A Buzzfeed Unsolved episode. A Reddit thread full of jokes. A woman on TikTok crying into the camera while a vintage doll twitched behind her.

But none of them said what I needed.

What if they love you?”

What if you love them back, and it’s killing you?

I opened another tab. Another. Clicked deeper.

Until I found it.

I don’t remember searching for it. Not exactly.

But my tabs were a mess—half-open pages of secondhand doll listings, eBay auctions with peeling porcelain smiles, Reddit threads about haunted object collections, a blog post titled Doll Vessels and Why You Should Never Keep One in Your Bedroom. I didn’t remember clicking that one. Or bookmarking it.

And then there was this.

boundbystitches.com

It wasn’t on any list. Not a forum I’d heard of before. It didn’t come up on Google. But there it was—open in my browser like I’d always known it was there.

The layout looked like it hadn’t been updated since 2006. Just a static-text background. No header images. Just pages of "confirmed" haunted places and objects, aliases, and dates.

And stories.

Endless threads of them—short ones, rambling ones, stories that read like cries for help and others that felt more like warnings. Haunted objects. Lost time. Dreams that bled into daylight. One thread just said:

something’s following me...

it knows my name.

I should’ve closed the tab.

Instead, I clicked “new post.”

I clicked “new post” before I could talk myself out of it.

The subject line came first:

I think my dolls are alive. Please tell me I’m not alone.

Then I started typing.

I ordered two antique dolls from a thrift store site—Claire’s Curiosities. They were listed as “vintage handcrafted” with no real backstory. I liked the look. Thought they’d be cool to draw.

But ever since they arrived, I’ve been… off. I keep losing track of time. Not like blackouts. Just… drifting. Whole afternoons vanish. I hear things. Feel things. Like I’m not alone in my own skin.

They sit on my shelf. They haven’t moved. But it feels like they’re watching me. Like I’m being… kept.

I know how it sounds. I know this is probably stress, or trauma, or brain chemicals misfiring. But if there’s even a chance someone else has been through this—I need to know.

I need to know I’m not the only one.

I stared at the post for a long time.

Then, I hit submit.

The page refreshed. My thread sat there, untouched. No replies. Not yet.

The forum post was still up.

No replies. No likes. No laughing emojis or trolls calling me crazy.

Just… silence.

It stared back at me, cursor blinking in the corner like a pulse. The thread title hovered at the top of the page like a threat.

I think my dolls are alive. Please tell me I’m not alone.

I shifted on the couch, the fabric cold under my bare legs. The laptop burned against my thighs, but I didn’t move. My fingers curled into fists on either side of the keyboard. I kept expecting something to happen. For someone to comment. For the dolls to answer.

For it to punish me.

But nothing came.

The stillness pressed against my ribs. Too heavy. Too still.

And that’s when I opened another tab.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I had to.

It was muscle memory—clicking the shortcut to Dr. Reynolds' portal like I’d done a dozen times before. But this time, I didn’t feel the usual dread. I felt… hollow. Like I’d finally scraped the bottom of whatever hope was left inside me.

My fingers hovered. Trembled.

Then typed.

One word at a time.

Like something sacred was unspooling through them.

Hey. I think something’s wrong with me. Really wrong.

I know we’ve talked about dissociation and trauma responses, but this feels different. I’m scared. I feel like I’m not in control of my body sometimes. Like something else is driving it. Like I’m not alone in my own head.

I keep hearing things. Feeling watched. I can’t explain it. And I know how that sounds. I know what you’ll think. I just… I need someone to believe me.

Please. I don’t feel safe. I think I need help before I hurt myself. Or someone else.

I didn’t breathe.

My cursor hovered over “send” for what felt like years.

Then I clicked.

My mouth went dry. My stomach rolled.

It was out there now. Someone knew.

A part of me expected the world to tilt. For sirens to blare. For it to scream through my skull.

But nothing happened.

Just the low electrical buzz of the laptop. Just the shallow thump of my heartbeat behind my ears. Just the wrongness of being in my own skin.

I closed the screen with shaking hands. Like slamming a book shut before the monster on the page could crawl out.

The moment the lid clicked, I knew I couldn’t stay in the room another second. I needed air. Space. Light. Something to make me feel real again.

I stood up too fast. The blanket slipped off my shoulders and pooled around my ankles like shed skin.

The room swam.

I grabbed the edge of the dresser to steady myself—and that’s when I saw them.

Perched above me. On the shelf.

Right where they always were.

Sun's golden face tilted ever so slightly downward, mouth frozen in that too-wide smile. Moon’s cracked porcelain almost shimmered in the dim afternoon light.

Still.

Watching.

“No,” I whispered, throat tight. “Not anymore.”

The heat behind my eyes surged. My fingers twitched like they wanted to claw the shelf off the wall. But I forced myself to turn. Snatched the throw blanket off the bed.

It was heavy. Too heavy. Thick, velvet-like. Meant for winter.

I wrapped it in my arms like I was gathering courage. It dragged against my legs as I turned back toward them.

“You’re just objects,” I muttered. “You don’t get to see me anymore.”

I raised the blanket— Clumsy. Off-balance. Still trembling. Reached up on my toes.

The corner snagged on the edge of the shelf.

My fingers slipped.

And then?—

CRASH.

Porcelain split the silence like a scream. The sound was so loud it rattled my teeth. Like the house itself flinched.

I watched as they hit the floor in slow motion, limbs splayed. Cracked. Shards of gleaming white scattered like bones across the hardwood. One of their heads rolled to a stop at my feet.

And the silence after was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that waits.

The kind of quiet that knows something just woke up.