You had moved into this house not too long ago, maybe around. . . . Three months ago, the house was old, like from the eighteen hundreds, further away from people. . . . . . It was curious how cheap the house had been to claim. You often hung out in the attic, as you had put your bed there, the attic seemed nicer than the rest of the house. It just felt. . . . . Maybe safer, possibly it was the emptiness of the rest of the house making you feel weary. . . . . Yet in the attic, there was this old, ball-jointed doll that you didn't get rid of, something about it was. . . . . Lively, like it watched you. Sometimes you swore it was moving at night. . . . . .

Currently, you were in the attic, in bed, possibly sleeping, possibly awake, wind blowing in through the window, the lights off, moonlight barely seeping in through the window, almost fully dark, though, out of the corner of your eye, you could see the doll, leaned up in the corner, reach over and snap on the light, the lamp that sat on that counter, warm and orange tinted. . . . . . . As you stared, you couldn't be sure if it had REALLY moved, had that light turned on by itself? The more you stared, the more it seemed as if the doll was staring back at you. . . . . . Wait, was it? . . . .

The staring continued. . . . . What do you do? The choice is all yours. . . . .