The Doll

The Doll
I never meant for it to go this far. It was supposed to be a way to keep her close—just a little piece of Emma, something to hold on to when everything else slipped away. Her ashes were so small, so fragile, like she was slipping through my fingers all over again.

I didn’t even think about it at first. I took the clay in my hands, soft and pliable, and mixed her ashes in like I was crafting something simple, something that might make me feel better. It was my first attempt at creating something with her in it—something permanent.

I worked the clay for hours, shaping her tiny features. Her face, her little hands. I smiled as I did it. She was with me, somehow, in this doll. It was comforting. The smell of the clay, the feel of it beneath my fingers, the quiet hum of the house around me—it all felt normal. It felt like nothing had changed.

I finished the doll, and there it was, sitting on the shelf, staring back at me. I could almost see her in it. I leaned in close, touching the doll’s face gently, tracing its features. My eyes blurred with tears as I whispered her name.

“Emma…”

It felt like she was there. Maybe just for a moment. But she was there.

The next few days felt like a blur. I kept the doll in my room, near me. I could feel it watching me, but I thought nothing of it. I told myself it was just my grief, just the weight of losing her. Grief had its way of twisting things.

I thought I heard her voice. It was soft, barely audible at first.

“Mommy…”

I shook my head, dismissing it. The house was quiet, too quiet, and the grief was pressing on me like a heavy weight. I was probably imagining things. The doll couldn’t—wouldn’t—speak. It was just a doll.

But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered. I didn’t like that I’d heard her voice. It wasn’t right. I told myself it was just the silence playing tricks on me, but the doubt started creeping in.

That night, I woke to the doll sitting at the edge of my bed. I could’ve sworn it had been on the shelf. But when I looked again, it was right there, its eyes wide and glassy, staring at me. My heart stopped.

“Mommy?” The voice came again.

I blinked, confused. My throat went dry. I tried to swallow but couldn’t. There was something about the way it said it—so soft, so quiet. It was Emma’s voice. Or at least, it sounded like her. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. My mind was clouded. My eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

“I’m here, Mommy.”

The doll wasn’t moving, but it felt like it was looking at me.

I closed my eyes, forced myself to turn away. It was just a doll. Just a doll. But the weight of its stare lingered in the room, suffocating me. I pulled the covers tight around myself, hoping the night would pass.

The next day, I found the doll moved again. It wasn’t on the shelf where I’d left it—it was on the floor, sitting cross-legged, its head tilted at an odd angle. It looked almost… alive.

I picked it up, heart hammering in my chest.

“You didn’t want me to move, did you?” it whispered, though its lips didn’t move. The voice came from somewhere deep inside the doll, like it was trapped there, like it was speaking through the doll.

I froze, my hand trembling. The doll couldn’t talk. But it had. And I was starting to believe it. Something was wrong. It wasn’t just grief anymore. Something was happening to me.

Days passed, and I felt my grip on reality slipping. The doll stayed with me, never far from my side, its presence a constant reminder of everything I had lost. But now, it was more than that. It was something darker.

I started seeing things. The doll’s eyes followed me around the room when I wasn’t looking. It wasn’t just that it looked at me; it was like it knew things—things I hadn’t said out loud. It knew my thoughts.

“Don’t worry, Mommy,” it whispered one night, “I know what you’re thinking. You wanted me to stay small, didn’t you? You liked the idea of me as a doll, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t just a doll. It couldn’t be.

I stood there, staring at it. The room felt colder, and the air grew thick with something I couldn’t place. Something foul, like decay. I smelled it even when the doll wasn’t near me. It was in the air.

“Why don’t you smile anymore, Mommy?” it asked, its voice almost teasing. “Don’t you want to play with me? I’m here.”

I pulled away, backing toward the door. My mind was a haze, and I couldn’t tell if I was seeing things or if it was real.

The worst part was that I couldn’t leave it behind. I tried, once. I left the house and went to the store, but when I came back, the doll was waiting on the windowsill, staring at me as I walked through the door.

“Where did you go, Mommy? I missed you,” it said, its voice too sweet, too soft.

I reached for it, my hands shaking. There was no escape. It was always there.

I think I started to realize, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I wasn’t just grieving anymore. I was losing something. Or maybe I had lost it already, and this was just the beginning of the unraveling. But I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t know how to stop it.

The doll spoke again.

“You can’t leave me, Mommy. You promised. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

It wasn’t Emma anymore. I could see that now. It was something else. Something that had taken her place, and I had let it. I had let it take everything from me.

But even then, I couldn’t let go.

End