Behind Closed-eyes

The doll sat innocuously on the shelf, its glassy eyes reflecting the dim light of the living room. Maya stared at it, unease churning in her stomach. She had tried throwing it away twice now, but each time, it had reappeared—once on her nightstand and the second time on the kitchen counter. The return was always silent, unnoticed until she stumbled across it.

That night, sleep eluded her. The faint whispers began as she lay in bed, just as her consciousness started to slip into dreams. They were so faint she couldn't make out the words, but they tugged at her mind, dragging her awake. She turned on the bedside lamp, the soft glow illuminating her bedroom. The doll was there, perched on her dresser. She knew she hadn't left it there.

Maya's breath hitched. Gathering her courage, she grabbed the doll and stormed out to the backyard. She dug a shallow hole in the garden and buried it, the act bringing her a sliver of relief. She went back to bed, convincing herself that this time, it was gone for good.

But in the dead of night, the whispers returned, louder and clearer. They weren't just random murmurs—they were words, phrases she recognized from her nightmares.

"The door must open."

Her heart raced as she bolted upright. The doll was back, sitting at the foot of her bed. Its porcelain face seemed to twist into a sinister smile in the dim light, though she couldn't be sure if it was her imagination.

She grabbed it again, this time locking it in a wooden box and nailing it shut. Yet the whispers persisted, growing more insistent. By morning, the box was empty, and the doll sat on her kitchen table. A deep sense of dread settled over her—she was dealing with something far beyond her understanding.