Fear replaced curiosity.
Miriam locked the doll in her closet. But at midnight, the door creaked open. Slow. Deliberate. Intentional.
The apartment smelled of candle smoke and wet soil. Miriam huddled under her blanket, trying not to breathe.
Tiny footsteps tapped across the floor. Pressure pressed on her bed. Not hands — something heavier, purposeful, and observing.
She peeked. The doll sat on her chest. Its eyes were no longer glass; inside them, shadows twisted and swirled like smoke trapped in water.
"I… I don't understand…" she whispered.
The doll's voice — soft, clear, impossible — echoed inside her mind:
"You ask God for protection… and I answer."
She threw it across the room. Porcelain cracked. Its head tilted unnaturally. The doll didn't fall. It smiled.
The air grew heavier, sacred and profane at once. Shadows lingered in corners, whispering indistinct prayers back to the doll. Miriam realized: it wasn't just moving. It understood faith. And it was studying her.