I don’t know where girls got the idea of not revealing their age; but it saves me every year during the obnoxious birthday song where I have to reveal my age.
27th October, 2000 is the day I came into this dark world. I don’t like parting like my friends. I love horror movies and watching people fall on their faces. I hate writing love letters to boys, instead I sit in the dark basement plotting how I’ll break someone’s heart into pieces. That brings me joy and pumps the adrenaline in my veins.
That day on my birthday, my mother gave me a doll. I was pissed. Who gives a doll to a 23 year old woman? I didn’t want to accept it but she insisted. Apparently, it was because I didn’t have a boyfriend and she worried that I’d end up single.
The doll had a terrible smile on its face like that of a clown. Its eyes shone devilishly like it hid a dark secret. Suddenly, I liked it, maybe because it was dark… like my personality.
My first night with it was somewhat awkward. I couldn’t sleep with it on my bed as that would be childish; so I threw it on the rocking chair and slept.
At 03:15hrs , I woke up because I heard a noise in the hallway. The door was wide open, I saw a shadow moving along the wall. I thought it was my mother because the shadow clearly had long hair.
There wasn’t a response when I called out to her. I marched out into the hallway but didn’t find anyone. I returned to my bedroom and found the damn doll on my bed. I was spooked. I couldn’t scream but its sudden appearance got under my skin. I pulled it from the bed and threw it on the floor. Yes, I loved it because it was dark but not because it was creeping me out.
Early in the morning, I told my mother about what happened. She didn’t believe me. She said I was just hearing things. I could see it in her eyes that she was pissed with my stories. It wasn’t the first time she heard about my horror narrations.
I spent the day gazing into the doll’s eyes like it held the secret to success. Funny that I actually caught myself talking to myself trying to talk to it. I believed that the doll moved from the chair to the bed. But I didn’t know how?
My phone vibrated. It was a call from my friend, Anastasia. We were at the same school for three years and went to college together. We talked about a reunion. I was down for it because I yawned for some sunshine on my skin. I walked out to the kitchen to grab a cup of water. When I returned to the bedroom, I never found the doll. I searched high and low for it but it wasn’t there. Somehow I got worried. What if it was cursed? I saw those things happen in horror movies and read about them in novels.
I pattered down the stairs to my mother to question her about the history of the doll. She told me that it was a gift from a local shopkeeper around the block. It was passed down from his great grandmother.
That information didn’t do me any good. I told her that the doll was missing. She was stubborn and sent me away. Fortunately, I was determined to get to the bottom of it. That day I literally acted like a child and asked her to follow me to my bedroom. She reluctantly agreed after a few pokes… to stop my nonsense which I believe was getting on her nerves.
When we entered my bedroom, we found the doll exactly where I left it: on the floor. She scolded me for wasting her time and tasting her patience. She further said I would have told her if I never wanted the doll other than making a fool out of myself.
The truth is that I never wanted to hurt her feelings. So I picked it up and locked it away in my closet. My phone vibrated again. It was my friend. She had called to tell me that I should meet her to celebrate before the reunion.
I wore my prettiest dress (scratch that, it was my best dress because I’m not a princess ) and told my mother about the prior celebration. She agreed citing it was good for my mental health because I was worrying her.
A reporter on the news caught my attention when he announced the death of my old classmate, Muyunda whom I hated. He used to bully me in front of everyone and made me lose a competition once.
Once again, my phone vibrated. It was still Anastasia’s call. I was probably getting late. But the voice on the other side was of a man. It was a police officer. He called to inform me about Anastasia’s sudden death.
I staggered back to the bedroom in shock. The officer told me that Anastasia was involved in a car accident. Apparently, she wasn’t alone in the car. There were two men in the car. One of them died in the accident while the other one confessed how they planned on killing me after meeting Anastasia.
It turned out that it was a setup. Apparently, Anastasia was jealous because I stole her boyfriend, when frankly, I wasn’t even interested in her boyfriend. He was the one who stalked me endlessly.
What shocked me the most was how the accident occurred. The officer explained that the survivor saw a mysterious woman. She was everywhere they drove to; at home, at the pub and supermarket. It was like she was following them in the shadows. When the officer described the woman… it matched my doll’s appearance: mud stained dress, barefoot, pigtails and a stale smile.
My heart drummed against my ribs, as though trying to escape its cage. I raced to my closet but didn’t find it. Creaking sound echoed in the tranquil air, its persistence irritated me and shook my bones. When I turned around, I saw the doll on the rocking chair. I gazed at the doll as the officer narrated how the woman suddenly walked in front of Anastasia’s car, prompting Anastasia to swirl and flip multiple times before coming to a stop. The officer also explained that the woman who caused the accident was the same woman who murdered Muyunda, according to a witness’ report.
My soul transiently left my body. As I stood in the bedroom, I thought about how I could have died. It hurt me that my friend would have been responsible. What puzzled me the most was that someone saved my life… and maybe I was looking at it.
Two days later, the shopkeeper paid my mother a surprise visit. This gave me the opportunity to explain to him about what happened. Mother chuckled and thought I was making up stories. She whispered the famous “grow up” phrase under her breath. I didn’t blame her but I wanted her to believe me. Even though the shopkeeper didn’t admit it, I know he knew that there was something wrong with the doll.
That same night, I heard sobbing echoing from the basement. I rolled out of bed and descended to the basement. The floorboards creaked while water pattered into a half filled bucket (or half empty). The sound reverberated in the air and created an ominous groan. My eyes rolled sideways searching for anything unusual but I didn’t find anything. Then an inhuman voice spoke to me in a language I couldn’t comprehend. It was loud and monstrous.
At the far end, someone gazed at me through the dusty shelves, it was the same woman the officer spoke about. Exactly like my doll. When her mouth moved, the monstrous sound resumed. I tried racing out of the basement but a force grabbed my leg before I could reach the door, forcing me to release a blood curling scream.
The next thing I saw was my mother looking down at me from the basement door. She complained about the noise I made. My eyes darted around the room but couldn’t see the woman. I hurried past my mother to my bedroom then searched for doll. My mother’s voice followed me like my shadow while hurling about my disturbing behavior.
Early that morning, I burned the doll at our backyard the next day without the knowledge of my mother: because it was still a present from her. However, I’ll never forget the horrible things I saw when I burned that doll to ashes: faces of people I’ve never seen before and the screams that pierced my ears and shook my sanity. One thing is certain: the doll was cursed!
Mubita’s fiction has appeared on Academy of the Heart and Mind, Ariel Chart, Short-story.Me. His latest short story is forthcoming in Twisted Dreams Press. He was shortlisted for the 2026 African Authors Recognition Awards. More on his website: mubita.author-pages.com
