The village of Oldwood Hollow was a place most people avoided. Tucked deep in a forgotten forest, its crumbling houses and twisted, overgrown paths gave it an eerie, abandoned air. Yet there were always whispers—about the dolls.
No one knew where they had come from or how many there were. The dolls were scattered throughout the hollow: perched on windowsills, nailed to fences, hanging from tree branches by fraying strings. Each one was unique, lovingly detailed, and disturbingly lifelike.
Children from neighboring villages dared each other to venture into Oldwood Hollow, to pluck a doll from its perch and bring it back as proof of their courage. But the stories always ended the same way: the children returned pale and silent, the dolls left behind where they had been found.
----------------------------------------
When seventeen-year-old Clara Merrick heard the stories, she dismissed them as nonsense. She had grown up on tales of witches and ghosts, but Oldwood Hollow was just another superstition. At least, that’s what she told herself.
Her little sister, Evie, had gone missing three days ago. The villagers searched the woods tirelessly, but Clara had heard the murmurs: She must’ve gone to the hollow.
Clara’s mother, inconsolable and sick with worry, begged Clara to stay away from the cursed place. But Clara couldn’t just sit and wait. Evie was out there somewhere, and Clara intended to bring her home.
----------------------------------------
The path to Oldwood Hollow was overgrown, the trees so densely packed that they blocked out most of the sunlight. As Clara walked, a heavy silence settled over the woods, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or snap of a twig.
She arrived at the edge of the hollow just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The village was smaller than she had imagined, no more than a dozen buildings clustered around a square. The air was thick and still, and the hollow seemed frozen in time.
And then she saw them: the dolls.
Dozens of them lined the windows of the abandoned houses, their painted eyes gleaming in the dim light. Some sat propped against doorways, their porcelain faces cracked but strangely expressive. Others hung from the gnarled branches of the trees that surrounded the hollow.
Clara shivered but pressed on. “Evie!” she called, her voice echoing through the empty streets. “Evie, are you here?”
A faint sound answered her: a child’s giggle.
----------------------------------------
Clara spun around, her heart racing. The giggle came again, soft and fleeting, like the tinkling of a wind chime. She followed it, weaving through the hollow until she came to the largest house.
It was a grand, sprawling structure, its once-beautiful facade now crumbling with age. The door hung slightly ajar, and the sound of the giggle seemed to come from within.
“Evie?” Clara called, stepping inside.
The interior was dim, lit only by the fading light streaming through broken windows. Dust coated every surface, and cobwebs draped the furniture like veils. The dolls were here, too—sitting on chairs, perched on the mantelpiece, even arranged in a semicircle on the floor.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Clara’s stomach twisted as she realized each doll was positioned as if frozen mid-action: one held a teacup to its lips, another extended a hand as if reaching for something. Their eyes seemed to follow her as she moved.
“Evie?” she called again, her voice shaking.
This time, the giggle was closer, coming from upstairs.
----------------------------------------
The staircase creaked under Clara’s weight as she ascended. The upper floor was darker, the air colder. At the end of the hallway, a door stood slightly ajar, and Clara could see the flickering glow of candlelight.
She pushed the door open and froze.
The room was filled with dolls, far more than she had seen elsewhere. They lined the shelves, the walls, even the ceiling. In the center of the room was a low table, and sitting at it was Evie.
Clara’s heart leapt with relief. “Evie!” she cried, rushing forward.
Evie looked up, a smile on her face. “Hi, Clara,” she said cheerfully.
Clara knelt beside her, pulling her into a tight hug. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Are you okay? What happened?”
Evie pulled back, her expression oddly serene. “I was playing with my new friends.” She gestured to the dolls.
Clara’s relief turned to unease. “Evie, we have to go. Now.”
Evie didn’t move. “But they don’t want me to leave.”
----------------------------------------
A soft whisper filled the room, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Clara’s skin prickled as the dolls seemed to shift, their painted eyes glinting in the candlelight.
“Evie,” Clara said firmly, grabbing her sister’s hand. “We’re leaving.”
As she pulled Evie toward the door, the whisper grew louder, a chorus of voices murmuring in a language Clara didn’t understand. The room seemed to tilt, and the air grew heavy, making it hard to breathe.
The dolls began to move.
It was subtle at first—a tilt of the head, a turn of the hand. But soon they were crawling, climbing down from their shelves and staggering toward Clara and Evie.
Clara screamed, scooping Evie into her arms and bolting from the room. The hallway stretched endlessly before her, the walls twisting and closing in. Behind her, the sound of tiny feet and creaking joints grew louder.
----------------------------------------
Clara burst out of the house and into the village square, gasping for air. The dolls didn’t follow, but she could feel their eyes on her, watching from the windows and doorways.
Evie squirmed in her arms. “Clara, put me down!”
Clara hesitated but set her sister on the ground. Evie immediately turned back toward the house.
“No!” Clara grabbed her arm. “We’re not going back.”
“They won’t let us leave,” Evie said, her voice flat.
As if on cue, the dolls in the village began to move. They stepped off their perches, their limbs jerking unnaturally as they closed in.
Clara’s mind raced. She remembered the old stories, the warnings about the hollow. The dolls weren’t just dolls—they were vessels, traps for those who entered the village.
And now, they wanted Evie.
----------------------------------------
Clara looked around desperately, her eyes landing on the twisted tree in the center of the square. Hanging from its lowest branch was a single doll, larger than the others, its face carved from dark wood and its eyes made of polished obsidian.
It seemed to radiate power, and Clara knew instinctively that it was the source of the curse.
She darted toward the tree, snatching the doll from the branch. The whispering stopped abruptly, and the dolls froze mid-step.
“What are you doing?” Evie cried, her voice panicked.
Clara didn’t answer. She gripped the wooden doll tightly and hurled it to the ground, smashing it against the cobblestones.
A deafening wail filled the air, and the village seemed to shudder. The dolls collapsed where they stood, their porcelain and wood crumbling to dust.
----------------------------------------
When the silence returned, Clara turned to Evie, who was staring at her with wide eyes.
“Come on,” Clara said, taking her hand. “We’re going home.”
As they left Oldwood Hollow, Clara didn’t look back. She didn’t need to—the village was already fading into the shadows, its curse broken, its secrets buried once more.