Author's Note: There is a ghost story upon which this is based, but it lacked in plot detail. I wrote a slightly better story about the Doll three years ago for some English coursework and got an A for it. And now, this is the very same doll, but what I hope is (will be) a scarier tale behind it. Enjoy! Chapter 1 will be up shortly!


He worked as gently as he could. He did so with every project he undertook, yet he was being particularly assiduous on this occasion as it was what he believed the biggest assignment of his entire life. It was difficult as his hands trembled with every new stitch and his breath came out in short, sharp gasps. His eyes watered constantly, and although he mentally tried to excuse it as a result of the poor light quality in the room at the back of the shop where he was working, he knew full well that he was sobbing.

It had been five days since his wife's death.

Over that period, he had managed to craft the face, the hands and the feet for his project. He had used clay, and had put it into smart metal moulds and baked it in the furnace. Then it had taken him a few acrylic paints and a shiny gloss to make the face look beautiful. Then he had attached the appropriate piece of clothing to the appropriate part. Now he was working on the dress, sewing the small sleeves to the body, making the thing a whole.

Pull over, thread through, pull over, thread through…

He cried out as he accidentally drove the needle into his finger, as at the same moment a crystal-clear image blazed before his eyes as if it was that rainy Monday all over again.

The pavement, glistening darkly in the fresh rain. Against the curb, a woman's body, twisted and bent at strange angles, lying on its front but the head turned grotesquely up…Its glazed, surprised eyes staring forever upwards into the sky. Blood spotting the pavement. Blood trickling down from her lips. Blood coagulating in her dark hair, blood oozing from her broken nose, blood on the windscreen and the bonnet of the car…

His head jerked and he bit his lip. Anger and self-loathing was boiling through his veins like tar. He knew that he had to concentrate, as he licked gently the blood away from the shallow cut on his finger, but all he could think about was


how he should have been quicker and he could have prevented the accident from happening at all, if he'd reacted sooner to the approaching car…

I mustn't think about that. He reached over the desk and pulled out a thimble from the small sewing basket that had once belonged to his wife and placed it on his injured finger. He then continued sewing. Pull over, thread through, pull over, thread through, pull over – ('Pull over! Elizabeth LOOK OUT!'), thread through. It was largely a monotonous but necessary job. He only needed four more stitches to have completely attached the sleeve to the dress (he had used the machine to make the dress' seams). Three more stitches. Two more. One.


Placing the thing on the desk he stood to get a box off of one of the shelves that ran along all four walls of the office. Inside the box was a small wig of brown hair he had constructed by sewing hair he'd collected from the barber's across the road to a net made of cotton string. John the barber had not minded giving him the hair. Because this particular project was the most special he would ever undertake.

He sat back down, setting the wig gingerly on the desk so it lay flat. He got the thing titled against his lap, and put a thin ring of superglue on the top of the clay head. Then he picked up the wig in both of his hands and brought it gently down over the glue, pressing lightly to make it stick well.


It could be said that the thing looked quite pretty now. It resembled a small girl, no longer an image of some horribly bald dwarf as it had done up until a few seconds beforehand. The man carefully raised the clay hands in his own, like a father consoling his child. It was time to add the finishing touch; the doll's name on the label.

Then it would be done.

The he would

(I'll make them pay)

Have his revenge.