It’s almost three in the morning again. They keep me up every night. I’ve tried boxing them up and sticking them in the attic. It doesn’t work. I can hear their little nails scratching the cardboard. They don’t like to be contained.
I get up and turn them to face the wall. No, that’s even scarier. Now they look as if they’re huddled together, planning my demise. I turn them back around. Great, now I can see their faces. Why do their painted smiles always seem so malicious?
I told my dad about my issue with dolls, but he just laughed and said I’d get over it. He doesn’t understand.
I can feel their beady eyes on me as I snuggle into bed. I stare back, never blinking. My vison become blurry. Soon I can see them moving. Ever so slightly...
My eyes start to sting, so I have to close them. I only shut them for a second. I hope they can’t see that I’m not looking. They notice. They always notice.
I remember the day my Aunt Marie gave me them. I liked them at first. They were beautiful antiques. That night, when I shut off the light, I noticed stark-white faces glowing in the darkness. I never played with them again.
They’re staring at me again. I wish they would stop. As I drift to sleep I can hear their chanting. Every so softly, they whisper my name.


Amelia…