Elise’s life was predictable—until the dolls started appearing. First on her doorstep, then inside her locked house. Every time she threw one out, it came back. For weeks, she questioned her sanity, until the night she caught a figure in her yard, clutching that same doll.
I never believed in ghosts until one showed up at my door.
A woman glancing to one side | Source: Midjourney
Not the transparent ghost kind, with clanging chains, but something much more personal—a reminder that no matter how many lives I saved, I couldn’t outgrow the ones I lost.
My name is Elise. At 37, I was exactly where I wanted to be: a top-notch pediatric surgeon at a prestigious hospital, with an office around the corner and a reputation for steady hands even in the worst emergencies.
My life followed a predictable rhythm that included surgery, paperwork, returning to the quiet townhouse, sleep, repeat.
A hospital corridor | Source: Pexels
No husband, no kids, no pets. Just me and the pager that never seems to stop ringing.
Most days began with me running through the halls, putting on medical pajamas, and focusing my mind on the little body I was about to cut open.
People sometimes told me I was cold. Detached. But when you’re trying to mend a heart the size of a small plum, detachment isn’t just helpful, it’s necessary.
Surgeons in an operating room | Source: Pexels
That Tuesday morning started differently.
I got up before my alarm, feeling strangely rested. I stretched, my bones creaking pleasantly, and went to open my window.
That’s when I saw her.
A woman looking out the window | Source: Midjourney
A doll sat right next to my window. She was old-fashioned, with a porcelain face and a faded blue dress. Her glass eyes caught the light, giving her an eerie, almost lifelike appearance.
I froze. “What the hell?”
I carefully lifted the doll. Up close, I could see the cracks in her porcelain face and the worn fabric of her dress.
A doll on a windowsill | Source: Midjourney
She looked like she’d been loved. Well used.
But it wasn’t mine. I lived alone and had no children.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
I threw it in the kitchen trash can, buried it under the coffee grounds and last night’s takeout containers, and went to work. By noon, I’d forgotten everything.
Tools prepared for a surgical operation | Source: Pexels
A week has passed. Seven surgeries, two losses, one miraculous rescue.
As per usual.
I came home late Thursday night, exhausted after a 14-hour shift. My feet dragged as I walked up the path to my front door. And there it was again.
The doll. Sitting on my doorstep, her glass eyes sparkling in the porch light.
A doll on the doorstep | Source: Midjourney
My stomach collapsed.
“It’s impossible,” I muttered, but picked it up anyway.
It was the same doll. She had the same cracked face and the same worn dress.
The doll I threw away a week ago.
A doll placed on the doorstep | Source: Midjourney
She should have been buried in a landfill by now. I glanced around, expecting some laughing teenagers to pop out from behind some bush or other and brag about how they’d pulled a prank on me, but the street was empty.
I walked straight to the trash can and threw the doll inside.
A strange sound echoed in the night. I turned around.
A woman looks around worriedly | Source: Midjourney
The neighbor’s dog let out a strange howl.
“Stupid dog,” I muttered, still anxiously scanning the darkness as I headed toward my door.
I went inside and quickly locked myself in. I tried to tell myself that the doll’s reappearance was just some kind of prank, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something more ominous was going on.
A nervous woman | Source: Midjourney
Another week passed. I glanced over my shoulder more often and checked dark corners before entering rooms.
The lack of explanation gnawed at me. I was a woman of science, of logic. Dolls don’t just appear and disappear like that.
Then came the morning when I woke up and found it placed neatly beside my bed.
A doll on a table | Source: Midjourney
I screamed.
I couldn’t help it. The sound escaped my throat before I could stop it. Because this time, the doll was in my house. In my locked house.
“This can’t be happening,” I told myself, my voice trembling. “You’re just tired. You’re having stress-induced hallucinations.”
But the doll felt solid in my hands when I picked it up.
A woman holding a doll | Source: Gemini
I threw it in my car and drove to work, tossing it in a hospital trash can on the way in.
But the doll came back a few nights later.
This pattern continued for two months. The doll would appear on my porch, in my kitchen, or by my bedroom window. I would throw it away, and it would reappear a few days later.
A disturbed woman | Source: Midjourney
I changed the locks and left my lights on all night. None of it mattered. The doll always came back.
Sleep became a luxury I couldn’t afford. Dark circles formed under my eyes. My colleagues noticed.
“Are you okay, Elise?” Dr. Chen asked me as we were scrubbing one day.
“Fine,” I lied. “I’m just tired.”
How could I explain that I was haunted by a child’s toy?
A surgeon wearing a scrubs | Source: Pexels
The breaking point came one cold November night.
I woke up with a start after having a nightmare in which I saw a child’s face, pale and lifeless on an operating table. In the dream, I tried to save her, but my hands wouldn’t move. I could only watch as life slipped away.
My heart was still pounding when I heard a noise outside my window. A scraping sound, like footsteps on gravel.
Someone wearing boots standing on gravel | Source: Midjourney
Someone was outside.
I grabbed my phone and a heavy flashlight from my nightstand. Fear tightened in my chest, but a strange calm also filled me.
No matter what happened, I was going to get answers.
I rushed outside.
A street at night | Source: Pexels
The beam of my flashlight cut through the darkness. And there, at the edge of my yard, stood a figure. A man, tall and thin, silhouetted against the moonlight.
He was holding the doll.
“WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT?” My voice came out louder than I felt, echoing through the silent street.
The man flinched but did not run away.
A man standing in a courtyard at night | Source: Midjourney
He took a step forward, into the glow of my porch lamp.
He was about forty years old, wearing a dark jacket and a black mask that covered the lower half of his face. But his eyes—his eyes were hollow with grief.
“You don’t remember me,” he said, his voice rough. “But I remember you.”
He took off the mask.
A man wearing a hoodie | Source: Midjourney
His face was gaunt, marked by grief. Something in his features reminded me.
“My daughter,” he said softly. “She died on your table.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Memories of a little girl rushed to the emergency room after a car accident came flooding back. She had multiple internal injuries. They’d operated on her for hours, trying to stop the bleeding.
A woman staring in shock | Source: Midjourney
But it wasn’t enough. She went into cardiac arrest, and I brought her back. Then I brought her back again, but the third time… she was so small, and her injuries were just too severe.
“I remember,” I whispered. “I remember her.”
The man approached, the doll clutched in his shaking hands.
“It was hers,” he said. “Sophie loved that stupid thing. She took it everywhere.” His voice broke. “I just wanted… I wanted you to feel what I feel. I wanted you to hurt like I do.”
An emotional man looking at someone | Source: Midjourney
I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes.
“Do you think I don’t have any?” The words came out raggedly. “I remember every child I’ve lost. I dream of their faces. I woke up tonight because I dreamed of your daughter again.”
For the first time, I saw his pain mirrored in mine. We were two sides of the same coin—both trapped in a moment we couldn’t change.
A woman standing in a front yard at night | Source: Midjourney
“I fought so hard to keep her here,” I said, my tears falling freely.
He began to sob, his shoulders shaking.
Without thinking, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He didn’t resist. We stood there, two strangers bound by the same unbearable loss.
Two people hugging | Source: Midjourney
“Come inside,” I said softly. “Please.”
His name was Noah. We sat across from each other at my kitchen table, the cups of tea growing cold between us.
The doll lay on the table, its glass eyes reflecting the light from the ceiling.
A doll lying on a table | Source: Midjourney
“We tried everything,” I told her softly. “Sophie was just too badly hurt. Sometimes… sometimes medication isn’t enough.” I hesitated, then added, “But the guilt never goes away. I carry them all with me. And I always will.”
Tears streamed down Noah’s face. He nodded.
“I wanted to hate you,” he confessed.
A sad man in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
“For months after her death, I convinced myself you could have saved her. That you hadn’t tried hard enough.” He looked down at his hands. “But maybe… maybe I just needed someone to remember her with me.”
As dawn breaks, painting the sky soft pinks and oranges, Noah finally asks, “Would you like to… have coffee with me tomorrow? Talking to you tonight… helped me a lot.”
I blinked in surprise. And then, for the first time in months, I smiled. “Yes.”
A smiling woman standing in a front yard | Source: Midjourney
Two years later, I stood in a quiet hospital room, cradling a newborn baby in my arms.
Noah stood beside me, his hand resting on my back. Our daughter, Lily, cooed softly, her tiny fingers curling around my thumb.
I gently placed a familiar, well-worn doll in its bassinet. The same doll that once haunted me. The same doll that symbolized loss.
A newborn in a bassinet | Source: Pexels
Now she represents something else: healing. Love. A second chance.
“Sophie would have loved her,” Noah whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
I nodded, leaned against him, and smiled as I watched our daughter fall asleep, the old doll silently watching by her side.
A happy couple in a hospital room | Source: Midjourney
The world was still full of pain and loss—I knew that better than anyone. But now I understood something else, too.
Even in the darkest times, light finds a way to shine through.
Here’s another story : When I introduced my fiancé to my children, I expected a warm evening—not the stunned silence, the hands clenched around the cutlery, or the way he paled at the sight of them. Then my eldest spoke up, his voice shaking: “Mom… you can’t marry him.” The reason? A devastating secret they had kept from me.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the story. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims regarding the accuracy of events or character portrayals and are not responsible for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and all opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the opinions of the author or publisher.
Để lại một phản hồi