I avoided discussing the doll with my husband, unsure of his reaction.
My daughter’s teachers mentioned her distracted mood, asking if something was wrong at home.
I hesitated, the weight of the unexplained sound pressing on me.
“She’s just adjusting,” I lied, hoping to deflect their concerns.
The doll’s crackling had become a nightly occurrence, a constant reminder of the unresolved mystery.
At home, I scrutinized the doll, finding tiny scratches along its back, marks I hadn’t noticed before.
My daughter watched from the doorway, her expression unreadable.
That night, the sound grew louder, persistent, echoing in the stillness.
“Mom, it’s doing it again,” my daughter whispered, standing beside me.
I placed the doll back on the shelf, uneasy but unsure of what to do next.
The flea market vendor called again, his tone urgent.
“I really think you should return it,” he insisted, offering no explanation.
“Why?” I asked, but he hung up, leaving my question unanswered.
As I lay in bed that night, the weight of the unknown pressed on me, the doll’s crackling a haunting lullaby.
With each passing day, the mystery deepened, a slow burn that refused resolution.
I found myself drawn to the doll, yet repelled by it, the catch-22 of curiosity and fear.
My daughter seemed distant, her usual spark dimmed.
The week ended, the tension unresolved, and I braced for what might come next.
In the quiet moments, I wondered if the doll held secrets I couldn’t yet comprehend, its porcelain face an enigmatic mask.
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