Rachel’s heart skipped a beat when she saw it.
A dollhouse, an exact replica of her own home, stood in the middle of her bedroom floor, illuminated by the dim glow of her bedside lamp. It hadn’t been there moments before. She was sure of it. Yet now, there it was, each detail painstakingly recreated—the worn patches on the carpet, the chipped paint on the walls, even the tiny cracks in the floorboards. Her breath caught in her throat as she knelt down, compelled to inspect it closer, her fingers hovering just above its roof.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled with an unnatural chill as she leaned forward, her face inches from the dollhouse. There were small, delicate figures inside—dolls, each one posed in various rooms, each one a strange, unsettling reflection of someone she knew. The likenesses were uncanny, right down to the expressions on their faces, frozen in lifelike expressions of fear and despair.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the roof of the tiny house, her heart pounding with a sickening sense of dread. She peered inside the living room where she saw herself—a doll with her features, her clothes, her hair—standing in the middle of the tiny room, facing away, just like she was now.
A chill ran down her spine. She could see the miniature version of her own bedroom down the tiny hall, a perfectly recreated mirror of her own room. And as she looked closer, she saw another Rachel doll standing there, staring directly at her.
The doll moved.
Rachel sucked in a sharp breath, her body freezing as she watched the tiny doll tilt its head, ever so slightly, the lifelike eyes—her eyes—locking onto hers with a chilling intensity. She could hear it now, the faintest whisper, echoing from within the walls of the dollhouse, a sound like wind moving through dead leaves, but speaking. The voice was distorted, fractured, like something pressing through the walls from another world. It spoke her name, over and over, a soft, insidious whisper.
“Rachel… Rachel…”
The doll raised its hand, pointing toward something inside the dollhouse. Rachel’s stomach twisted as her gaze followed the doll’s gesture. Her tiny likeness was pointing to a room at the far end of the house, a small, dark space with a flickering light casting long, ominous shadows across the walls. She could just make out the details—a closet, half-open, with something crouched inside.
A figure sat within the shadows, half-hidden, its face obscured but its eyes glowing with a faint, unnatural light. It wasn’t a doll. It was something else. Something alive.
Her heart pounded faster as she watched the figure inside the dollhouse slowly lift its head, its twisted, inhuman smile stretching wider, revealing rows of jagged, yellowed teeth. Its eyes were black pits, empty and bottomless, and yet, she could feel its gaze on her, cutting through the veil of reality between them.
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She tore her gaze away, her breath quickening as she looked around her own bedroom, her hands clammy and shaking. The dollhouse had somehow dragged her into its sickening reality, its macabre scene of horror that mirrored her own life. She could feel the malevolence radiating from it, a tangible, dark energy that filled the air, making her lightheaded, dizzy.
She turned back to the dollhouse, and her heart stopped.
The Rachel doll was moving again, turning away from the figure in the closet and walking slowly, deliberately down the narrow hallway, each tiny step taking it closer to the bedroom where she was crouched. Her breaths came in shallow gasps as she watched, helpless, as the miniature version of herself approached the door, inching closer and closer, like it was being pulled toward some terrible fate.
The figure in the closet began to move as well, its limbs jerking with an unnatural, puppet-like motion as it crawled out of the shadows, inching its way down the hallway, following the tiny Rachel doll. Its body twisted and contorted with each step, its head lolling at a sickening angle as it dragged itself closer.
Rachel’s blood ran cold as she realized what was happening. The scene in the dollhouse wasn’t just a reflection. It was a premonition, a twisted mockery of what was about to happen to her. She was watching her own death, unfolding right before her eyes.
The whispering grew louder, filling her ears, the sound escalating to a maddening cacophony of voices—her own voice, echoing back to her in broken, disjointed fragments.
“Rachel… it’s coming… you can’t hide…”
The miniature Rachel doll reached her bedroom door, her tiny hand reaching out to push it open. She watched, paralyzed with terror, as the door swung inward, revealing the dark, looming figure standing just behind it.
The real Rachel jerked back, her heart racing as she scanned her own room. Her bedroom door was slightly ajar, casting a sliver of darkness into the room. She could feel something watching her from the other side, waiting.
She forced herself to move, her limbs trembling as she reached for the door, pushing it closed. But as she placed her hand on the door, she felt something cold, clammy, alive brush against her fingers. She yanked her hand back, her pulse skyrocketing, the fear clawing at her mind.
In the dollhouse, the tiny Rachel doll turned, as if sensing her, its face twisted in a look of sheer terror as the figure behind it lunged, reaching out with clawed hands. The doll’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the figure’s twisted, jagged fingers closed around its throat, squeezing, digging into its flesh.
Rachel gasped, feeling a cold, suffocating grip around her own neck, as though the tiny figure’s fate was becoming her own. Her vision blurred, her breath catching as the grip tightened, an unseen force choking the life out of her. The room spun, and she collapsed to her knees, clawing at her throat, gasping for air.
The dollhouse trembled, the tiny Rachel doll convulsing as the figure in the dollhouse twisted and tore, ripping into the doll’s neck. Blood began to pour from its tiny form, staining the delicate furniture, pooling around its feet. Rachel’s own skin burned as though her flesh was tearing open, blood trickling down her neck as the invisible grip tightened.
The whispering voices grew louder, mocking, hateful.
“You’re next, Rachel… you’re next…”
With a final, desperate gasp, she pushed herself away from the dollhouse, scrambling backward, her heart hammering in her chest. Her vision swam, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as the whispering faded, leaving only the stillness of her empty room.
The dollhouse stood silent once more, its twisted scene frozen in place.
But Rachel knew it was only a matter of time.
The Crawler had seen her.
And now, it would not stop until it claimed her for its own.