The Gift
The thing creeped him out. He couldn’t even bring himself to call it a doll. The porcelain face was fractured and peeling and the clothes hung in tattered rags on a body that was spilling saw dust and who knew what else from split seams whenever it was touched or handled.
He’d shoved it as far back onto his book case as he could, but someone was moving it, and he didn’t like that one bit. It was a sick prank, and he felt like he was saddled with the thing all because his eccentric aunt had willed it to him.
She’d never had any children of her own, so as the oldest nephew she’d claimed it was his duty to safeguard the precious family heirloom and pass it on to the next generation.
He wanted throw it in the trash. In fact, he’d tried just that when he’d brought the thing home, but it had reappeared on the shelf the next day. None of his family or friends would own up to the deed, but one of them had to have done it. Toys didn’t move on their own.
Or did they?
He was starting to hear strange whispers and scraping at night, and it was always the loudest when he knew the house was empty and he was alone. One night he could have sworn the thing was peering at him from the edge of the bed. But, because he was half asleep–he couldn’t be sure…
The next night he got his answer. He woke up to a burning sensation in his chest and saw the thing sitting on his chest and staring at him with souless black pits thar were once its painted eyes.
A bloody knife was held in his hands and blood from the gashes on his chest soaked into the sheets. His heart started to pound and the knife plunged into his chest again and again.
A disembodied voice filled the room and blood coated the cloth body and porcelain face.
“I am not a thing!” It screamed. “You were told to treasure me. Now, you will pay the price!”
The light faded from his eyes, and no one noticed the tattered doll with the fractured face on the bookshelf even though it dripped blood and laughed when no one was looking…
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