She was a quaint doll that sat on the top shelf of my great grandmother’s display cabinet as she seemed to stare down at me. Raven hair in long curls and enchanting blue eyes made of glass beads; I was mesmerized by the little doll who was dressed in white. To this day, I still remembered how much I had loved to admire her as she sat daintily in her red miniature armchair, her oddly bright eyes shining. I knew that I could never have the lovely doll, for she was an antique worth a fortune equivalent to the posh bungalow my great grandparents had owned.
The doll was handmade by my great grandfather, who had the talent of making the finest dolls, to be given to my great grandmother as a wedding gift. Since then, the doll was kept in the display cabinet to be admired by all, until my cousin had announced her wedding plans. It was then decided by my great grandmother that the doll was to be given to my cousin as a wedding gift, the same way she had received it when she had gotten married with my great grandfather. I was quite envious, but nevertheless happy for my cousin.
It was only a few months later that I heard the news of my favourite uncle was injured. He had fallen down the stairs and twisted his ankle, but the story behind it was rather far-fetched. It seemed that the maid had the intention to steal the valuable doll and panicked when she heard that it was going to be given away, my uncle explained, his chapped lips twisted in a silent sneer.
The next day, however, my uncle was found murdered along the deserted roads of the private housing estates. The very doll that I had loved as a child was seen daintily sitting beside his corpse, her white dress slightly ruffled but without scratches and permanent scars. No one knew the cause or the reason for his sudden death, at least that was what everyone in the family wanted me to believe. In spite of their efforts to keep the truth under wraps, I overheard the insensitive gossips of my uncle’s friends and acquaintances during his funeral.
My favourite uncle, who had always shown me magic tricks and takes me out to play on certain weekends, turned out to be a gamble addict and had debts to clear, thus, his plausible reason for stealing the doll. Despite the awful rumours, I was strangely neither shocked nor surprised, as if a part of me knew it from the very beginning
I now sat in the living room of my recently deceased great grandmother, stiffly sipping the tea I was served with. The same pair of glass eyes seemed to stare down at me from the top shelf of the display cabinet as it always did, but I never once looked back at it after my uncle’s funeral. The happiest moments I spent gazing at the doll had now been replaced with a creeping dark presence that made my blood run cold whenever I looked at it.
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I officially admit, this an exaggerated version of the original ‘story’. My favourite uncle did NOT die! I merely added some drama to the whole thing so it wouldn’t be boring -_- and about the doll, it really creeps me out now that I’m older and all <_<…
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