The morning light crept through the curtains, warming the Whitman house with its soft gold—but inside, everything felt wrong.
Mira's mother, Amanda, was the first to stir. She sat up slowly, blinking as if waking from a long, dreamless sleep. Beside her, her husband, Shawn, lay wide-eyed, already staring at the ceiling.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Amanda picked up her phone, staring at the screen in stunned silence. Faint, fragmented memories played in her mind, sending chills down her spine—though she couldn't quite grasp them.
"What happened?" Shawn asked, his voice flat.
Amanda swallowed. "It's Tuesday," she whispered.
"Quit joking, Amanda," he replied sharply. His tone held none of the usual warmth between them.
"How is it Tuesday?" Amanda's voice cracked mid-sentence. "Then that dream…"
Shawn checked his own phone, confusion settling over his features. It also showed Tuesday. A faint smile tugged at his lips—perhaps relief—but it vanished as quickly as it came when he looked again, this time at the date.
"I thought Mira was playing a prank on us," he said, frowning. "But…"
"I had a dream," Amanda said shakily. "I can't remember all of it, but… something happened to Mira in it."
"That's ridiculous," Shawn muttered, though his eyes said otherwise.
Then Amanda went still.
"Where's Mira?" she whispered.
She rose and called down the hallway, her voice trembling. "Mira? Honey?"
No answer.
She moved from room to room. Mira's bed was made. The covers untouched. The air felt stale, heavy—as though it hadn't been disturbed in days.
Shawn joined in, calling louder. "Mira? Are you up?"
Still nothing.
The house was silent.
Then Amanda saw it—on the mantel in the living room. The porcelain doll.
It sat upright in its pink gown, its painted lips curled into a faint smirk. Its vivid green eyes stared forward, unblinking.
But it wasn't just the doll.
There was something else.
Next to it sat a small gold ring—Mira's. The one she'd worn every day since her twelfth birthday.
Amanda's knees buckled. She collapsed to the floor.
They tore through the house—yelling, searching, screaming. They checked closets, under beds, behind furniture—everywhere a frightened teenager might hide.
Mira was gone.
By mid-morning, Shawn was sprinting through the neighborhood, banging on doors. Amanda was on the phone, sobbing to the operator. "She's gone. I don't know where—she's just gone!"
The police arrived soon after. They searched the house, then the woods, then canvassed the street. They spoke to neighbors, checked for signs of forced entry, asked questions neither parent could answer.
There were no footprints. No broken windows. No torn clothes or blood. No ransom note.
Just an eerie porcelain doll with a painted smile.
One of the officers gently concluded, "It's likely she ran away. We'll alert nearby towns and send out a description."
But Amanda and Shawn didn't believe it.
Their daughter would never run.
And though neither of them said it aloud, both of them knew—
Something had come into their home.
Something that took her.
That night, they sat in the living room in silence. Between them, on the mantel, the doll still sat.
Watching.
Waiting.
And smiling.
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