In the days that followed, Jezebeth could no longer find peace.

She would turn her back, only to find the doll in unexpected places-on her pillow, on the dining room table, even once cradled in her father's arms as he napped.

The blood appeared everywhere. It seeped from the walls in thin, slow rivulets, pooling at her feet. Her dresses, folded neatly in her wardrobe, were stained with dark handprints too small to be her own. The metallic stench clung to her skin no matter how hard she scrubbed.

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At night, the doll giggled from unseen corners, its voice soft yet sharp as a blade. "I'm still here," it whispered. "I'II always be here."

Jezebeth begged her parents for help, but they only grew more irritated. Her father, Jebediah, dismissed her as hysterical, while her mother began whispering about sending her away to a relative's home.

"Jezebeth, enough," her mother snapped one evening. "You're embarrassing yourself. And us."

The next night, Jezebeth locked her door and stuffed towels under the crack, desperate to keep the doll out.

It didn't matter. When she turned around, Sarah Lee Wonder was already there, sitting on her vanity. In its tiny porcelain hands, it held a bloodied boar's ear.