DON’T TURN AROUND
CHAPTER 1 — DON’T TURN AROUND
Emma heard the baby crying before she heard her mother.
That was the part she would remember years later.
Not the storm outside.
Not the shadow under the nursery door.
Not even the doll.
The crying came first.
Small. Angry. Thin.
Lucas had cried plenty since he came home from the hospital, but this sound was different. It rose and fell like someone had placed him too far away from the world.
Emma sat up in bed.
Her pink nightgown twisted around her knees. Her long brown hair stuck to one damp cheek. The house was dark except for the blue moonlight on her bedroom wall and the little warm night-light near her dresser.
“Mommy?” she whispered.
No answer.
Usually, if Lucas cried at night, her mother was already in the hall before Emma even opened her eyes. Emma would hear the soft rush of slippers, the tired whisper, “I’m coming, sweetheart,” and then Lucas would calm down because babies believed mothers could fix everything.
Tonight, the hallway stayed quiet.
Lucas cried again.
Emma climbed out of bed.
The wooden floor felt cold under her bare feet.
She opened her door slowly.
The hallway outside looked longer than it did during the day. The runner rug stretched toward the nursery. Family photographs lined the wall, but in the dark, the faces looked half-erased. Emma saw one of herself missing her front tooth, one of her mother laughing in a yellow sweater, one of her father holding baby Lucas before he left for another late shift.
The nursery door stood open.
Emma stopped at the threshold.
Inside, the white crib sat in the cold blue light. Lucas lay wrapped in his white blanket, crying, tiny fists pushing against the air. Above him, the hanging mobile spun slowly.
Emma stared.
There was no window open.
No fan on.
The mobile turned anyway.
Little wooden stars circled over the crib.
One. Two. Three.
Emma held the doorframe.
“Mommy,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Lucas is crying.”
Still no answer.
She took one step into the room.
Then stopped.
Something was sitting in the rocking chair beside the crib.
For one second, Emma thought it was her mother.
Then the mobile turned again, and the moonlight touched white lace.
An old porcelain doll sat upright in the chair.
Dirty white dress.
Long black hair.
Cracked face.
Glassy eyes.
A faint little smile that did not belong in a baby’s room.
Emma’s breath stopped.
She had seen that doll once before.
In the attic.
Her mother had been pulling down Christmas boxes when Emma found it wrapped in a stained pillowcase. Emma asked if she could play with it, and her mother had gone so pale that Emma thought she was angry.
“No,” Mom said. “That doesn’t belong to us.”
Then she had put the doll back and locked the attic door.
But now it sat beside Lucas’s crib.
Watching him cry.
Emma backed away.
Slowly.
Her heel touched the hallway rug.
The crying stopped.
That scared her more than the crying.
She turned and stepped into the hallway.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
She took one careful step.
Then another.
On the third step, her bare foot touched something cold.
Emma looked down.
The old porcelain doll lay face-up in the middle of the hallway rug.
It had not been there a second ago.
Its cracked face stared at the ceiling.
Its glass eyes reflected the moonlight.
Emma froze.
Her whole body seemed to forget how to move.
“Mommy?” she whispered.
The house answered with silence.
Then the hallway went black.
Not dim.
Black.
For one full second, Emma saw nothing.
No rug.
No walls.
No nursery light.
Only dark.
Then a harsh cold flicker filled the hall.
The doll’s face was suddenly close.
Too close.
Filling Emma’s vision.
Cracks ran across the porcelain forehead and down both cheeks. Its black hair lay tangled around the dirty lace collar. Its glass eyes shone.
In one eye, Emma could see her own reflection.
Small.
Barefoot.
Backing away.
The doll did not move.
Not at first.
Then its mouth opened slightly wider.
A faint giggle came from somewhere far away.
Emma’s tears finally spilled over.
She turned toward the front of the house.
That was when the banging began.
Loud.
Hard.
From the front door.
Emma stumbled down the hallway toward it.
Through the glass panels, her mother’s face appeared.
Claire Miller slammed both palms against the door from outside. Blonde hair stuck to her face. Light cardigan soaked through. Eyes wide with terror.
“Mommy!”
Emma ran to the door and grabbed the handle.
Locked.
She twisted it.
It did not move.
“Mommy, it won’t open!”
Claire hit the glass again.
“Emma, listen to me!”
Lucas was not crying now.
The mobile had stopped.
The whole house seemed to be holding its breath.
Emma pulled at the lock.
“Mommy!”
Claire’s eyes moved past Emma.
Down the dark hallway.
Her face went white.
“Emma,” she screamed through the glass, “don’t turn around!”
Emma froze.
Her fingers stayed on the doorknob.
Behind her, on the wooden floor, something small dragged across the hallway rug.
A soft scrape.
Then another.
Emma began to cry.
“Mommy,” she whispered, “what’s behind me?”
Her mother’s mouth opened to answer.
But before Claire could speak, every light in the house went out.
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And in the dark, the doll whispered Emma’s name.
Continue to Chapter 2 — because Emma’s mother knows exactly where that doll came from, and she has been lying about the attic for seven years.
