The news hit him hard. He had been at work, when his boss came over and told him there were a couple of officers waiting for him in the lobby. They had something to tell him.

He was confused, but started walking to the lobby. As he moved through the hallway, he noticed everyone had stopped talking. Everyone just stared at him. He hated it. Being short and stocky, with close-cropped black hair, he was always self-conscious of his appearance. He tried to pick up the pace, but his gait made it difficult. Walking was always hard, especially with people watching.

When he reached the lobby, he saw the two officers immediately, and walked up to them. “Did I do something wrong, officer?”, he asked the first one, trying to keep a cool voice.

The solemn look in their eyes made him think this wasn’t about any crime.

“Caleb Marsh?” The first one said, soft but firm. “I’m sorry. There’s been an accident. A few hours ago, your parents were driving back home when a flash storm hit. Sudden downpour. A lightning strike brought down a tree in front of their car. Your father tried to swerve, but he lost control. They collided with another tree. They both died instantly at the scene. I am very sorry for your loss.”

Caleb blinked twice, tears forming in his eyes. He wailed and shouted no a few times. His boss came to him, gave him a hug until he had cried out. ”Take all the time you need,” his boss said in a soft voice. “When you are ready, we will be here.”

Caleb sobbed and thanked him. What was he going to do now? His mother had been his rock. His father his guiding star. Now he had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Losing his sister when he was the tender age of seven had been devastating, but his parents had helped him through it. Who was going to help him now?

He went to his desk, found his jacket through the blur of tears, and made his way to his car.

I still have my key to the old Marsh house, he thought to himself. I will head out there, and give them a memorial they deserve.

The drive to his parent’s house had always calmed him. The road was lined with mighty trees, a comforting tunnel of green and gold. There was a time when arriving at the house meant a warm meal and a hug. A smile waiting at the porch. But not this time. Not ever again.

He drove to the side, parked, and cried. This was one of the worst days of his life – almost as hard as the day he found Debbie’s lifeless body.

They had been playing outside. Caleb got thirsty and ran inside for a glass of orange juice.

Meanhwile, a storm rolled in. Fast. Loud. Flash-flood rain. His father had looked out, and said to Caleb,”Why don’t you and Debbie go sit in the couch and watch a movie? Maybe that muppet movie with the songs she likes so much?” Caleb nodded and went to the living room and diligently found the movie.

Meanwhile, Debbie had tried to run back home, but in the massive downpour, she had slipped. Hit her head on a rock. Unconscious, the rain pooled around her face. She had drowned before anyone realized she hadn’t made it back inside.

The family had been shattered. Caleb had blamed himself. His parents did too – for a while. Then they saw him slipping into depression, and instead of blaming, sought help for him. They forgave him. It was no one’s fault. Just a really terrible and unlucky moment.

After a few minutes, Caleb got himself together, wiped his face and continued the drive. As he turned onto the street, memories came flooding back – his parents waiting on the porch, waving, smiling ready to make his visit a good one. He parked in front of the house. He looked at the house. It looked the same as always. Red walls, white roof. The chimney stood firm in all of this chaos. Always on duty. Caleb tried to smile at the thought, but he just couldn’t. Not today. It was not a day for smiling.

He opened the door. The entre was small and cozy – exactly as he remembered it. He hung his jacket, took off his shoes, and looked into the kitchen. Everything was pristine. His mother had always kept a clean home. He opened the fridge – stocked. He let out a big sigh of relief. At least he didn’t have to go out. He didn’t feel like seeing people. He needed some quiet and space. Time to remember the ones he had lost.

He sat on the couch in the living room. Looked around. His eyes settled on the shelf of photo albums. He pulled one out. The first pages were filled with old pictures – Caleb as a baby, a toddler, growing up. He smiled. Then he turned the page. There she was. Debbie. Also very young. God, he did miss her. She was taken from them too soon.

He remembered how much they enjoyed playing in the woods around the house. Their own little world. Why had he gone in for that orange juice? Why didn’t she follow him?

All these questions drained him. His eyes grew wet again. He closed the photo album and took a long, steady breath.

He stood up and went for the stairs, slowly climbed them. At the top, he turned right and looked into his parent’s bedroom. Nothing was out of place. He stepped in and took a deeper breath. He could almost smell his mother’s perfume – light, floral, clinging to the air like a ghost of times past. On the nightstands were a few framed pictures – the two of them, smiling. In the center frame: Caleb between them, maybe ten years old, his mother’s arm around his shoulders. His eyes looked sad. He remembered he still carried the weight of his sister’s death like a pile of bricks on his shoulders.

He sighed and stepped out into the hallway. It was getting late. He decided to look into his sister’s room, for old times sake. He opened the door and looked inside. Pristine.

Mom has done a good job of keeping Debbie’s room clean, he thought. Then he saw something in the far corner. A small table. Behind it, a small chair and in it – a doll. Debbie’s favorite. Old Tabitha.

Carved from wood – stiff, wooden, so smooth. It almost looked new. Pristine, shining almost, like it had just been made.

Her eyes were wide, perfectly round, painted a pale glass-blue. They reflected the room with unnatural clarity. Her smile was carved too deep, stretching unnaturally across her face – too wide, too permanent – not resembling a human smile even closely.

Tufts of curly blonde hair crowned her wooden head. The curls were too neat, too fixed – like they’d been frozen in place decades ago. Strands of it clung to her face. To Caleb, it looked like they moved sometimes – though he could never catch them in the act.

She wore a bright red dress, still vibrant, the edges crisp and untouched. Her arms were long wooden rods ending in painted white gloves, smooth and round like a mime’s hand, smooth, expressionless, creepy. Her legs, stiff and narrow, ended in dainty black shoes, scuffed just enough to suggest use.

Caleb stared at Old Tabitha for a moment. Cold shivers ran down his spine. That doll looked so uncanny – and it had always creeped him out – but Debbie loved it. That had been enough. He said nothing, closed the door, and headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, he made a simple meal. He didn’t feel like doing anything much tonight. As he ate, a noise stopped him mid-chew. Light footsteps – quick, skittering. Like a child running – or something smaller. He froze.

The attic? He certainly hoped not. The attic had always scared him, ever since he was around four, and innocently poked his head through the hatch – straight into a spider’s web. He screamed as he could feel tiny legs crawling over his face. His father pulled him down, cleaned him off and killed any invading arachnids. He never went up there again.

He shuddered at the thought of it. He slowly climbed up the stairs. It seemed to come from his sister’s room. He let out a sigh, and stopped at the door, hand on knob. Carefully, he opened the door – ready to confront any intruder, be it animal or worse. But the room was the same. Except. Except now, the doll was sitting on it’s doll chair, in front of the small table. Odd. He was sure it had been behind the table before.

He stood in the doorway and put his head inside the room, just to get a peek. Nothing. He sighed. Great, now he was imagining things. As if he couldn’t have it any worse. He closed the door and went back downstairs. Finished his meal in silence, thinking about this chaotic day. He sat on the couch for the remainder of the evening, flipping through photo albums, reminiscing. When it was time for sleep, he grabbed a blanket from the closet and curled up on the couch.

As Caleb slept, dreams did not come for him. It was only darkness. But in the darkness, he could feel a presence. It did not feel like a benevolent one. He felt unsafe, felt as if he was being watched, and wanted to run away – but his legs wouldn’t move. He had no idea which way was forward. Or even if there was a forward.

Caleb woke up early next morning. He felt exhausted, as if he had just been sleeping for twenty minutes. He yawned and stretched, and decided for a hearty breakfast.

Eggs, bacon, sausages and bread. Something to ground him. As he was preparing his meal, he heard creaking from above. He looked up, and frowned. It is probably just the house shifting. Normal old-house sounds.

He finished cooking and dived in. It tasted so good. Almost as good as mom made it. Used to make it. He stopped. That thought had crawled in – unwelcome and heavy. He felt as the sadness wash over him. The creaks were louder it seemed. He shrugged it off. Just another trick of the mind. He finished his meal and thought about what he wanted – or needed – to do today.

Caleb decided he wanted to talk to mr. Holmes, their next-door neighbor. He walked over, rang the bell, and waited. After a moment, the door opened. Mr. Holmes saw Caleb, and his face lit up in a smile. “Hi Caleb. What brings you here?” Mr. Holmes said.

Caleb tried to give him a smile, but didn’t quite manage it. ”I… I don’t know how to say this.” He said softly. “My parents were in an accident yesterday. They… they died.”

Mr. Holmes gasped, as his smile faded, and then said in a lower voice,”Oh no… Caleb, I… I’m so so sorry. Come in, please. I can’t imagine how you are feeling right now. I have some cookies in the oven. We can talk while they bake.”

Caleb nodded and stepped inside. The smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies filled the air. His mouth watered. “Come on,” Mr. Holmes said. “Let’s sit down in the living room. Talk about… whatever you feel like.”

Caleb took off his shoes, hung his jacket and followed mr. Holmes into the living room. He sat on the couch, while mr. Holmes sat in his usual chair.

They talked for a while – about Caleb’s parents, their life, what they meant to him. After a few minutes, Mr. Holmes excused himself and went into the kitchen. He brought back a tray with a bowl of warm chocolate chip cookies and two glasses of milk. “I was feeling a bit bored,” he said with a smile. “Figured i’d bake a batch. Still using the old recipe.”

Caleb took a bite, closed his eyes. ”Mmmm… just like I remember.” he said. “So tasty.”

They sat in silence for a while, enjoying the cookies and letting the quiet stretch. After a bit, Caleb stood up. “I should be heading back. Thank you for everything, Mr. Holmes.”

”Of course. And Caleb…” Mr. Holmes paused, his voice softer. “You are always welcome here. And if you need anything, anything at all – just knock.”

Caleb nodded and stepped outside. He felt… a bit better. Not whole. But not empty, either. He got back to his house, and went to the living room. He sat on the couch, and started flipping through the photo albums, looking at pictures of Debbie. How much he mi- a sound interrupted the thought. The sound of a child’s laugh. It came from upstairs. His heart kicked harder in his heart. He stared at the ceiling, as if he could see through it. Slowly, he stood up. His voice barely a whisper. “Hello?”

No response. He made his way up the stairs carefully. At the top, he tried again. “Hello?”.

Just as soft. And unanswered again.

He was breathing hard now. His nerves were fraying. He turned to his parent’s room. Empty. Nothing out of place in there. He closed the door and let out a sigh.

Then he crossed to his old room. Also empty. He closed his eyes. Please let Debbie’s room be normal. His hand wrapped around the doorknob. Did he really want to do this? Slowly, he turned it. Cracked the door open. Everything looked the same. Immaculate. The small doll table and chairs in the far corner.

Wait. Old Tabitha was now sitting on the bed. She… it had been sitting in one of the chairs earlier… hadn’t it? Had he imagined it? Or put it on the bed and forgotten about it?

No, this was getting too strange. He picked up the doll. Its painted eyes staring right through him. Glaring at him. Cold. Glossy. Still wearing that uncanny smile.

He made his way to the closet, opened it, and placed the doll inside. “No more doll shenanigans,” he muttered to himself. He’d had enough of this. He stepped out of the room, shut the door behind him, let out a long sigh of relief.

Downstairs, he heard the first taps of rain against the windows. He looked outside. It was pouring. A flash of lightning cut across the sky. Great, a storm. Then again, it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go.

He decided to make himself a cup of hot chocolate. Something his mother used to do for him during thunderstorms. Cup in hand, he went back to the living room. As he sat himself in the couch, his hand knocked his cup over, spilling hot chocolate all over the photo album. He just stared at it in disbelief. It felt like a metaphor for his life – a small accident that ruined everything. He crumbled and cried. After a while, he pulled himself together, found a washcloth, and tried to clean up the mess. Maybe he could find a photo shop that can restore old or ruined pictures. At least he hoped he could.

It was getting dark outside. He started making some dinner. He sat down to eat, thinking about the day’s events. The meal was going smoothly, until he heard it.

A child’s laughter. Again. From upstairs. Caleb froze. He felt as if he was losing his grip on reality. Was he imagining things?

He slowly got up, and made his way to the base of the stairs. “Hello?” He called out, in a low, uncertain voice. No answer. Not that he had expected one.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each step louder than the last. There was only one room it could come from. The only room he didn’t want to explore right now. Debbie’s room.

He stood in front of the door and stared at it. He took a deep breath as his hand wrapped around the doorknob. This was it. Either he was losing his mind – or someone, or something, was waiting for him, inside. He slowly turned the doorknob and cracked the door open.

As the door opened up, he could see Debbie’s room. Still so immaculate. He didn’t look at the small doll table and chairs in the far corner. He didn’t look at her nightstand. His eyes were fixed on Debbie’s bed.

Where on it sat Old Tabitha. That creepy, old doll. He let out a short gasp. This couldn’t be. He had put it in the closet. He was sure of it. No matter. He would do it again. And this time, the closet door would stay shut this time.

He stepped forward and grabbed the doll – but instantly felt a sharp pain running down his forearm. He screamed, spooked by both the pain and the shock. He looked at his arm. Three claw marks ran down his forearm. He looked at Old Tabitha. The doll stared back at him. With those damned glossy eyes. He slowly backed away, wondering how he had managed to get scratched. Had Old Tabitha attacked him? But that was just nonsense. Wasn’t it? Dolls are not alive. Yet Old Tabitha kept moving. Unless… he had imagined everything. He circled carefully around Old Tabitha. And Old Tabitha kept her eyes on him – it’s head turning to track him. He stopped in his tracks and let out a short, terrified scream. What was going on?

As he looked at her creepy smile and glossy eyes, the power went out. He let out another scream. Lightning flashed through the window, illuminating the room. In the flicker, it looked as if Old Tabitha was standing up. He backed up until he hit the wall. The door slammed shut.

There was no escape.