Through the Eyes of Eloise the Doll
The Doll's Eyes
The antique shop stood quietly at the corner of Willow Street, forgotten by most and noticed only by the few who still believed that every object had a soul. Its windows were fogged with dust and age, yet inside, countless curiosities whispered to those willing to listen. Among them, nestled between a porcelain music box and a rusted brass lantern, sat a doll.
Her name was Eloise. At least, that’s what the faded tag around her neck said in fraying cursive. Her dress, once white, had yellowed with time, and her red yarn hair fell in uneven strands over her small shoulders. But it was her eyes that caught attention — glassy, almost too lifelike, reflecting light in a way that made people uncomfortable. It was as though they were watching… or remembering.
“It’s just a doll,” Max muttered as he stepped inside the shop, brushing rain off his jacket. The bell above the door jingled like a whisper. He was a college student, new to town, hunting for props for his short horror film. The store had appeared on his Google Maps almost like magic — he didn’t remember typing anything when it suddenly blinked into existence.
The shopkeeper, an elderly man with silver hair and an unreadable smile, emerged from behind a shelf. “Looking for something unusual, I imagine?”
Max blinked. “Uh, yeah. Something creepy, maybe antique. For a film.”
“Then perhaps Eloise is what you seek.”
Max followed the man’s gaze to the doll. The moment their eyes met — his and the doll’s — something inside him shifted. The air in the shop felt thicker, like the walls had leaned in a little.
“How much?” he asked, half-expecting the doll to blink.
“Ten dollars,” the shopkeeper replied. “But she comes with one rule: Never look directly into her eyes at night.”
Max laughed. “That's perfect. Thanks, old man.”
The shopkeeper didn't laugh.
Back in his apartment, Max placed the doll on his desk and immediately started recording some test footage. As his camera zoomed in on Eloise’s face, a flicker passed through the frame. He paused. Rewound. Play. Flicker again. It wasn’t a glitch — it was something... shifting. Her mouth?
“Must be the lighting,” he muttered. Still, he turned her to face the wall before going to bed.
That night, Max dreamed he was drowning in a dark, endless room. Shadows clung to the ceiling like vines, and faint music echoed from nowhere. In the distance stood Eloise, her eyes gleaming. She didn't move — but the room spun around her.
He woke in a cold sweat.
Morning brought some clarity. Max laughed at himself. “Creepy doll dreams. Classic.”
He turned the doll to face him again, planning more test footage. But something was wrong. Her head was tilted now. Slightly — just enough to be unnerving. And one eye seemed… different. Wider.
He checked his camera. In last night’s footage, her eyes were dull. Now, they glimmered like polished obsidian.
Still, Max pressed on. He filmed scenes. Day after day, the doll’s appearance subtly shifted. Not dramatic — but enough. A slightly different expression. A flicker of teeth. Once, he swore her arms were in a different position.
Then came the whispering. At first, it was just static in his audio recordings. Then, full words: *“Don’t turn away.”* And worse — *“She remembers you.”*
Max began to sleep less. Shadows clung to his apartment, even in the daylight. He stopped answering texts. His walls were now lined with pages torn from books, scribbled notes, even prayers. Still, Eloise watched.
One night, drunk and desperate, Max stared straight into her eyes. He was testing a theory — or trying to prove he wasn’t insane. The moment he met her gaze, the room froze.
“You’re not real,” he whispered.
The doll blinked.
Max screamed, knocking her off the table. She hit the floor, face-down. But when he dared look again — she was sitting upright. Her head tilted. Smiling.
He ran.
Max crashed through the antique shop’s door the next day, breathless and pale. “Take her back! Please!”
The shopkeeper didn’t look surprised. “Eloise doesn’t belong here anymore.”
“What do you mean?! You sold her to me!”
“No,” the man replied. “She chose you.”
Max didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. The doll was gone from his apartment, but her reflection remained — in mirrors, in windows, even puddles. Her eyes followed him in shadows. In dreams, she whispered stories of others before him — others who disobeyed the rule. Others who stared too long.
He smashed his mirrors. Burned his footage. Moved apartments. Changed his name. But it was never enough.
One day, in a town far away, a little girl found a doll in a box left at her front door. She was beautiful, dressed in white with red yarn hair and shiny, mesmerizing eyes. There was a tag around her neck that simply read: “Eloise.”
Her mother called out from the kitchen, “Sweetheart, where did you get that?”
The girl smiled. “A man dropped it off. He said she needed a new friend.”
And deep inside the doll’s glass eyes, something ancient and patient waited.
That girl’s name was Lila, and for the first few weeks, Eloise was her favorite companion. She talked to the doll, dressed her up, and even made a tiny cardboard bed for her. At night, she placed Eloise next to her pillow and whispered secrets into her unhearing ears.
Then the dreams began — deep, eerie dreams of a burning nursery, of eyes watching from under floorboards. Lila woke each morning more exhausted than the last. Her drawings grew darker. She sketched long hallways, broken faces, and always — always — a pair of glowing eyes.
Her parents noticed. “Maybe we should take that doll away for a while,” her mother suggested gently.
Lila screamed. “You can’t! She’ll get mad!”
That night, her mother crept into Lila’s room to remove the doll. She reached for Eloise… but her fingers froze an inch away. The doll’s eyes caught the moonlight — and it was like they were alive. Breathing. Pulling.
She left the room without touching it. She didn't even remember why she had gone in.
Meanwhile, Max, now going by the name Alex Morris, saw a familiar post online: a blurry photo of a doll someone claimed was cursed. The caption read: “My niece won’t sleep unless this doll is beside her. She says the doll shows her things.”
Max's heart stopped.
He contacted the poster anonymously. His message was simple: *Burn it. Immediately. Don’t let her look into the eyes.*
No reply ever came.
That night, Max dreamed of fire — a crib burning, laughter echoing from the flames, and Eloise standing untouched in the middle, her glass eyes glowing red.
There are those who say objects hold memories. That certain dolls, shaped by human hands, can collect sorrow, anger, and worse. Eloise wasn’t always this way. She was once a comfort, a gift. But something found her. Or perhaps she found something.
What’s certain is this: she always returns. Left behind, mailed, buried, even tossed into rivers — Eloise finds her way to someone. And that someone always thinks they’re in control. Until the dreams start. Until the whispers come. Until they look into her eyes and realize — she’s remembering them too.
She always remembers.
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