It was
dark by the time Ruby made her way outside, clutching a flashlight in one hand
and the doll in the other. A chill wind tugged at her hair as she crept toward
the back of the garden, where the gnarled oak tree stood silhouetted against
the moonlit sky. It was one of the oldest trees on the property, its twisted
branches reaching like skeletal fingers toward the heavens.
She
hesitated for a moment, the flashlight beam wavering over the roots, before she
dropped to her knees and started to dig. She didn’t have a shovel, so she used
her hands, scraping at the dirt with a frantic desperation that left her
fingernails caked with mud. The soil was cold and unyielding, but she kept
going, her breath hitching with every movement.
Then,
with a dull thud, her fingers hit something hard. She paused, heart hammering,
and cleared away the dirt to reveal a small, weathered wooden box. It was old,
much older than anything she had seen before, and the wood was rotting from
years of being buried.
With
trembling hands, Ruby pried the lid open.
Inside
was a bundle of faded cloth, and as she unfolded it, a wave of icy air seemed
to rush up from the ground. There, wrapped in the tattered remains of what
looked like a child’s dress, was another doll—identical to the one Ruby now
held in her arms. The same glassy eyes, the same golden curls, but this doll
was cracked and stained, as if it had been left to rot for years.
Her
flashlight flickered, and Ruby froze. A cold, bone-chilling wind swept through
the garden, and she thought she heard the faint sound of laughter—high and
childlike, echoing around her.
“Ruby…”
The
whisper came from behind her, and she spun around, but there was no one there.
Only shadows and the creaking branches of the old oak.
Suddenly,
the doll in her arms grew unbearably heavy, as if it had turned to stone. She
looked down, and the crack on its face split open, revealing a sliver of
darkness that seemed to writhe and shift like something alive. The cold air
thickened, pressing in around her, and she felt the overwhelming urge to throw
the doll away, to bury it with the one she had just unearthed.
But she
couldn’t move. It was as if the doll’s eyes were holding her in place, binding
her to the spot.
Then, in
a voice that was both a whisper and a scream, she heard it again:
“Don’t
leave me, Ruby… We belong together.”
She
stumbled back, dropping the doll into the open grave, and the weight lifted.
Her breath came in short, panicked gasps as she slammed the wooden box shut and
pushed the dirt back over it with frantic hands. She filled the hole as quickly
as she could, her movements clumsy and desperate, until the earth was packed
down and the box was hidden from sight.
Only then
did she feel the presence fade—the weight of the cold, oppressive air lifting
as if a shadow had passed over her.
She sat
back on her heels, covered in dirt, and clutched the journal to her chest. Her
heart pounded, and she could hardly breathe, but she knew one thing for
certain:
The doll wasn’t gone. It had never truly left.
