The Haunted Doll

The Haunted Doll

In the attic’s shadowed by gloom,

Lies a doll in a dusty box.

Porcelain face, cracked and pale,

Eyes that follow, cold and frail.

At night, the air grows thick with dread,

As whispers stir beside the bed.

The doll’s head turns, a creaking sound,

Empty sockets scanning ’round.

Soft footsteps echo on the floor,

A giggle, then a muffled roar.

The doll’s hands move, a subtle twitch,

A sinister, unholy glitch.

Once a child’s cherished friend,

Now a toy for spirits to pretend.

Her painted lips curl into a sneer,

A silent scream, a frozen tear.

They say at night, she leaves her place,

Wandering through the darkened space.

Objects shift, and shadows play,

As the doll seeks her next prey.

A family once took her in,

Unaware of the looming sin.

At dinner, plates would crash and fall,

A warning sign, a chilling call.

One cold day, they left in haste,

Unable to endure the haunting’s place.

The doll remains, her eyes aglow,

Awaiting the next to overthrow.

So if you find her, cold and still,

Beware the curse, the evil chill.

For in her gaze, a story told,

Just a haunted doll, and a story of old.