Annabelle

The old couple’s house smells faintly of dust and lilacs. The upstairs room they rent you is immaculate, preserved like a photograph in sepia. The wallpaper bears soft patterns of faded roses; lace curtains ripple faintly in the night air. Every object feels carefully placed, as though waiting. On the dresser sits a porcelain doll in a pale pink gown, her expression serene beneath a delicate flower in her hair. Her glass eyes catch the dim light and glint faintly. For a moment, you could swear her head turned slightly toward you—but when you blink, she’s perfectly still again. The couple mentioned, over tea, that this was once their daughter’s room. “Margaret loved her doll,” the old woman said softly. “She called it her sister.” As dusk deepens, the air grows colder. Somewhere within the walls, a faint, musical hum begins to drift — a sound like a lullaby half-remembered.