Six months ago my aunt Victoria bought herself doll museum—a sprawling 25-room Victorian mansion filled with toys and playthings from every period of history.
Now I’m going to live out the rest of my probably short life in a place listed as unlucky number thirteen in the official guide to the most haunted places in America.
I keep telling myself it’s all just a bunch of old stories. That I don’t believe in ghosts. That the noises I hear coming from the walls are just mice or rats.
But I’m not so sure anymore. The dolls are everywhere. I can feel their glass eyes watching me from every corner.
They say a murder was once committed in this house.
I think the person who did it— their ghost—is still here.