“The Doll That Breathed”

When I was twelve, my grandmother gave me a porcelain doll.

It was beautiful in a strange, old-fashioned way—glass-blue eyes, red painted lips, and golden curls that looked too perfect to be real. It wore a faded lace dress, the kind you’d only see in black-and-white photographs.

“Her name is Clara,” my grandmother said, as if the doll already had a life of its own. “She’s been in the family for generations. Take care of her.”

I didn’t want to take care of her. To me, dolls were creepy. Their eyes followed you, their frozen smiles never matched the room’s mood. But my grandmother looked so serious that I nodded, hugged her, and placed Clara on a shelf in my bedroom.

That was when the nights started changing.

At first, it was little things.

I’d go to bed with Clara sitting neatly on the shelf, only to wake and find her on my desk chair. Once, she was even tucked under my blanket beside me. My mother swore I probably moved her in my sleep, or maybe forgot where I left her. But deep down, I knew I hadn’t touched her.

Then came the breathing.

The first night I heard it, I thought it was my imagination. A faint rhythm in the dark: soft inhale, slow exhale. I held my own breath, thinking maybe it was just me echoing against the pillow. But no—it kept going, steady, like someone else was in the room.

And the sound was coming from Clara.

I pulled the covers over my head, sweating, whispering to myself that it wasn’t real. But no matter how tightly I shut my eyes, I could still hear it. The soft rise and fall of air.

Like lungs.

I told my best friend, Maya, about it at school. She laughed at first, but when she saw how pale I looked, she leaned closer.

“Maybe it’s not the doll,” she said. “Maybe something’s using the doll.”

That night, her words echoed in my head. I set Clara on the floor, face down, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t afraid. I even whispered, “Goodnight,” trying to be brave.

At 3:11 a.m., I woke to the sound again.

This time, it wasn’t just breathing. It was a sigh. A long, tired sigh, like someone waking up from a long nap.

I sat frozen, staring at the silhouette of the doll against the faint moonlight. And that’s when I saw it—Clara’s chest, tiny and porcelain, moving. Up. Down. Up. Down.

I swear it wasn’t a trick of the shadows. The lace dress rose ever so slightly, then fell.

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. All I could do was pray for the morning to come.

The next day, I begged my mother to throw the doll away. She refused. “That doll is part of our family history,” she said firmly. “Your grandmother would be heartbroken.”

So I tried to live with it. But the nights got worse.

Clara began changing places more often. Sometimes she’d sit on my desk, facing me directly. Sometimes she’d be on the floor, her glassy eyes tilted upward. Once, I found her perched on my pillow, lips only inches from my ear.

I barely slept. Every creak in the house, every gust of wind, felt like her moving again.

And then came the whisper.

It was a stormy night, rain lashing against my window, when I heard it.

“Anna…”

My name. Soft, drawn out, spoken in a child’s voice.

I sat up so fast I nearly fainted. Clara was still on the shelf. But her head had turned. She wasn’t facing forward anymore. She was facing me.

I clutched my blanket to my chest, shaking so hard my teeth rattled. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Just stop it!”

But Clara only stared. And in the silence, I could hear her breathing again. Slow. Patient. Alive.

The breaking point came a week later.

I woke up to the sound of humming. A lullaby, one my grandmother used to sing. The sound was coming from right beside my bed.

When I turned, Clara was sitting there. Her porcelain hands rested neatly on her lap, but her lips were slightly open.

And she was breathing.

Not the faint, whispering breaths I’d heard before—this was real, loud, human breathing. Her glass chest expanded and fell, again and again. Her lips curved upward into the faintest smile.

I screamed and hurled her across the room. She shattered against the wall, pieces scattering across the floor. For a moment, I thought it was over.

But as I collapsed on the bed, gasping, I heard it again.

The breathing.

Coming from the broken shards.

The next morning, I begged my mother again. This time she agreed. We buried the doll deep in the woods, far from the house. I thought I was free.

But last night, as I was drifting off, I heard it again.

That soft, steady inhale. That slow, patient exhale.

And when I looked at my shelf—Clara was back.

Whole. Watching.

Breathing.