Dear Diary, or whatever you wish to be called,

We have moved. From one house to the next in my life, but this one doesn't suit me. As we'll put it: It doesn't like me, I don't like It. My room smells funny. Like mold. And the dolls.

As I am looking up right now, I can count fourteen porcelain dolls staring at either me or the wall. I only trust two, and they are the dolls that I've had since birth: the rag doll my mother made for me, and my rag doll I made myself. All other dolls are porcelain, owned by the last people who lived here about sixteen years ago.

The doll my mother gave to me is a girl. She has black yarn for hair, and a lilac dress hanging down to her knees. Her eyes are black buttons that are too old to glint in the sun anymore. She has never had a permanent name; they keep changing. Right now it's Nakita. I think I'll stick with that one.

She's about a foot tall, maybe a few inches more.

The one I have made for myself is a boy. His name is Bob. Simply Bob, named after Spongebob Squarepants. He has faded blue pants on, not denim, and a white jacket that goes on and off depending on the season. He has white button eyes, the pupils (string) a pretty shade of jade, making them look real. Sort of.

He's the same height as Kitty (Nakita), a little taller.

These dolls have gone with me even to school; I don't care what anybody else thinks. I don't give them enough time to get to me. But there's always been something about Bob and Kitty, like they're really alive. Sometimes I like to think that.

Once again, I don't like this house. I believe in spirits, see. There was one house that we moved into that was haunted by a little boy; he kept moving my toys at night. One night, I woke up to him trying to sleep with me, and screamed my throat mute before Momma and Dad came in.

Of course, by then, he was gone.

That was four years ago. I am now nine and a half, and have lived in eight different houses (that I can remember) in my lifetime. Dad has a job that makes him trav

I am in the bathroom. I had a small panic attack. It's because of those dolls. It's something about them, something I don't trust. Then again, who would? They're creepy moldy dolls, and I've seen enough horror movies to know that having them in your room doesn't end up so well.

Wish me luck, Alice