The doll was a gift. Bright orange leotard, bubblegum pink slides, synthetic smile that never faded.
Cassie, age 7, named her Lulu. They practiced gymnastics in the living room. They danced. They whispered. Cassie said Lulu was her "forever friend."
Then one night, Cassie asked if Lulu could sleep in the closet.
"She watches too much," she said.
The next morning, Lulu was back in the bed.
Cassie started changing her. First the clothes. Then the hair. Then the face. Markers. Paint. "She wants to look how she really feels," Cassie whispered.
Lulu's smile was gone. So were her bright eyes.
One day, Cassie disappeared.
They found the doll sitting on the floor, covered in red.
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The Truth
Cassie's drawings told the rest. Scribbled pages of Lulu whispering secrets at night. Teaching her "the bendy dance" and how to stretch without breaking. How to stay quiet when crawling under beds.
Lulu wasn't just a toy.
She was a vessel.
A shell from a batch of dolls recalled decades ago after "unusual behavior" and unexplained injuries. But some weren't returned. One was buried with its last owner. It never stayed buried long.
The manufacturer denied everything. Said the model number didn't exist.
But sometimes, when parents check the toy box at night… they find a doll that doesn't match what they bought.
And it's always watching.