Hi.
I'm Ashley.
I've always hated introductions. I'm not one for writing stories. Poetry, sometimes, but definitely not stories.
What took place in this account occurred a long time ago, and until recently, it was something I pushed back to the deepest, darkest part of my mind. I attempted to convince myself, almost, that it didn't really happen at all, that all the chaos in my life and the psychological issues I was dealing with merged together into a horrible messed up delusion I used to process everything.
I almost succeeded. So many years went by and I managed to put it behind me.
That was, until recently. Something happened a few weeks ago. It brought it all back, like it happened yesterday.
This is something I haven't discussed in a very long time, not to anyone else who was involved, even the few people who knew what was going on. To my knowledge, they haven't told anyone about this, either.
I can't blame them. It's not something which is easy to talk about.
The last I heard, they're still trying to put their lives, their sanity back together, like I had to. It was worse, for them, worse even than it was for me.
It all started seven years ago. I was seventeen, I was with my adopted family, and we had just moved to our new house. It's a long story about how we got here, and I'm sure I'm going to have to explain some of it later, but for now it's sufficient enough to know that I really liked our new home. It was big, very old, it had history, and it looked totally beautiful. The house was surrounded by tall, old looking oak trees which dappled the house in shade. It had a gothic, Victorian look, with large, open windows, styled edges and spired roofs. It was the perfect place for curling up in a windowed room to write my poetry, or bringing friends over for sleepovers, or a party. I felt like it fit my personality perfectly.
I was kind of hoping this house would be haunted. I was one of those gothic emo girls back then. I spent a good part of my time reading Stephen King novels, reciting poetry from the likes of Edgar Allan Poe, and idly browsing the internet for interesting urban legends and crimes. I didn't necessarily expect the place to be haunted; it wasn't like I had any personal paranormal encounters before in my life to lead me to believe in ghosts, but the house did have a long history, spanning back over the course of at least one and a half centuries. So it seemed like the exact sort of place that might be haunted, if hauntings were possible.
I kept an eye out for any evidence to support this theory. The first few weeks of my stay at the new house were about as normal as they could possibly be. Sure the house could be a little eerie at times, but always devoid of any sign of a supernatural presence. It was so disappointingly ordinary, I practically gave up on my hopes entirely after my first two weeks of staying there.
That all changed when I found the doll. It was hidden away in the attic at the top of the house, lying inside an undisturbed closet in the far, gloomy recesses of the room, appearing like it had been sitting there for years. It actually freaked me a bit the first time I saw it. It was a porcelain doll, tall enough to reach my knees while standing. It had clear, piercing blue eyes and thick, blonde hair. Its face was flawless and crystalline. I could have easily imagined it standing in a store, brand new.
It was a special doll model, with a little key that could be turned around in the back to make the doll play music, and a small locket embedded into its chest where a stamp-sized picture could be placed. It was the kind of doll I knew they didn't make anymore, an antique of the past, something special.
The doll was an amazing find. I had no idea who had left it there; I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to part with something as precious and expensive as it.
From the moment I saw it, it was mine. I took it to my room, showed it off to my parents and the rest of my family, and later to all of my friends, (who were suitably impressed). I left it sitting next to me on my bed each night. I took regular care of it, treated it as one of my most prized possessions.
You have to understand, I became very attached to this doll. It wasn't just how beautiful it was, or the fact that it felt like it contained the long and mysterious history of the house. The doll had a more personal value to me, too.
I actually used to own a doll when I was much younger that looked identical to the one I discovered. Like, completely identical. So much so I felt the need to check the little locket on the doll's chest and felt almost disappointed when I found it to be empty, absent of the picture a small part of me half hoped to find.
I got the doll - the old doll - on my ninth birthday. It was the last time my birthday meant something to me.
My mom (my biological mom, not my adopted one) gave it to me as a birthday gift. I still remember those moments where I opened up the present and pulled the doll out of its packaging. My mom kneeled down before me as I clutched the doll in my hands, staring at it in wonder. She showed me the little locket on its chest and the miniature picture which was inside of me, her, and my dad at a picnic, locked in a pose laughing together.
'This is a reminder of my love for you,' my mom had said, catching my small face and holding my eyes in hers. 'Every time you hold onto her, I want you to remember what you mean to me. What you will always mean to me.'
'Mean to us,' my dad corrected from behind her, grinning down at me.
I nodded quickly. 'I promise, mommy,' I said, and I hugged her and my dad tightly.
That was one of the last happy moments we ever shared together; me and my old mom and dad. And so, of course, this doll really did mean a lot to me, symbolically. It was a precious reminder of a life long lost.
In retrospect, I understand my attachment to the doll really developed from something less healthy. I believe it was more of a result of all the things after that memory. The doll was a way of me trying to preserve the false image of who my mom used to be, before everything in my life fell apart. But that comes from the power of hindsight and perspective; seven full years of it.
Anyway, I was pissed when one day a few weeks after discovering the doll, it disappeared.
I figured out almost immediately what happened to it. It was my sister, Kayla. It wouldn't have been the first time she had taken something of mine.
The suspicion was confirmed the same afternoon I lost it. I caught her taking a few pictures of the doll on her phone with a big smirk on her face in the living room. She didn't even react when she saw me standing watching her.
'Give it back,' I snapped.
'Make me,' she said, with a grin.
I tried to grab it from her, but she danced away, laughing.
'Seriously, cut it out, Kayla,' I cried.
'This is so freaky,' she replied, holding it up. 'It suits you. It must be kind of sad to know this is the only friend you'll ever make, huh?'
'I don't want to fight with you,' I said cuttingly. 'Just give it back, alright?'
She acted like she was considering it for a moment, then shook her head. 'Nah, I don't think so. I'm having way too much fun. You don't mind sharing the doll with me, right?'
'Jesus, you're such a bitch,' I spat, almost unable to help myself.
Despite what I said, we did end up getting into a fight over the doll. I knocked the phone out of her hand. In response, she threw the doll onto the ground and stomped on it. We were close to fist fighting by the time our parents came into the room and stopped us.
My parents, in turn, were more sympathetic of Kayla. They said I was being crazy and overreacting.
Of course I told them what Kayla said to me and they responded by basically saying she was right, and I should find some real friends.
I probably should have expected the way Kayla acted. She hates me, but that was partly my fault - I wasn't always the nicest to her either; we shared a somewhat tumultuous history. But the way my parents reacted really hurt. I at least expected them to defend me from the nasty things Kayla said.
I left the room mad, not even bothering to take the doll back from Kayla. I eventually came back to look for it but by that time, it had disappeared and I figured that Kayla probably threw it out somewhere. I suspected it was gone for good.
Then, one day about a week later, Kayla marched up to my room with the doll clutched in her hands. She tossed it at my feet.
'You can have your freaky doll back,' she snapped. 'You know, it wasn't funny leaving it on my bed like that. What kind of sick freak are you, sneaking into my room while I'm sleeping?'
I opened my mouth to tell her that I definitely did not sneak into her room and leave the doll anywhere, but she cut me off.
'If you do that again, I'm going to tell our parents. I'll make sure you get into a lot of shit for this.' Her voice was unsteady, betraying a hint of very real discomfort.
She gave me a final warning look, then spun around and marched away.
Kayla was angry, sure, but I couldn't help but think that this wasn't what angry Kayla usually looked like. One glance at her expression suggested to me she had seen something that had truly unsettled her.
I knew none of my other siblings were about to sneak into Kayla's room and hide the doll there, which left me with absolutely no idea who did it. Although all I could think of at the time was how I wished I was the one who came up with the idea. The look on her face was priceless.
Another somewhat unsettling thing was when I noticed the doll didn't look damaged. When Kayla had thrown it onto the ground during our fight, I was sure I saw part of its face completely shatter. I saw the pieces of porcelain lying on the floor. I was convinced its features would be ruined permanently. But when Kayla gave it back to me, the face was perfect and untouched, with absolutely no evidence of any damage.
That was the first indication that the house I lived in might be, just might really be haunted.