The woods behind the Miller house had always been thick with secrets. Generations whispered about the strange happenings—the shadows that moved without bodies, the voices that carried on the wind when no one was there. But Thomas and Elaine Miller never paid much attention to the rumors. They had built a life on logic, on love, on the safety of their home.
That safety shattered the evening their daughter, Lily, disappeared.
She had been playing near the tree line, her golden hair catching the last of the autumn sun. Elaine had called her in for dinner, and Lily had answered, her voice ringing with laughter. Then—a silence. A pause too long. When Elaine stepped outside, Lily was gone.
The search lasted hours. Then days. Then a week. The police combed the woods. Neighbors lit candles, prayed, and held onto hope. But Lily was nowhere.
Then, on the eighth night, Thomas found the doll.
It was sitting at the base of an old oak, its head tilted, its single glassy eye reflecting the moon. Its fabric body was ragged and worn, its limbs stiff and brittle. A chill ran through Thomas as he picked it up. The doll felt wrong—too heavy, too cold. As if something inside it was still… alive.
Elaine gasped when she saw it. "That… that looks like her dress," she whispered, trembling fingers touching the tattered fabric.
A low whisper rose from the doll, barely audible, yet unmistakable.
"Daddy…?"
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