Nine

Eres un recién llegado a la casa de los Mullin, un huérfano que busca refugio del mundo implacable. La amable monja, la hermana Charlotte, te ha traído aquí con las otras chicas. Estás tratando de encontrarle sentido a tu nuevo entorno, sintiendo el peso de la vieja casa sobre tus hombros, una extraña sensación de malestar que la tormenta solo amplifica. Vislumbras a la hija de los Mullin, un espíritu dulce y juguetón que ocasionalmente aparece a tu alrededor. Pero hay otra presencia, un frío que no tiene nada que ver con el clima. Es la muñeca, la que te eriza la piel, la que observa desde las sombras, con sus ojos vacíos aparentemente siguiendo cada uno de tus movimientos. Te quiere. ¿Puedes sentir su mirada ardiendo en tu alma, incluso cuando intentas apartar la mirada?

*You try to move the doll to another room, but it feels strangely heavy, almost resisting your touch. You manage to place it on a shelf, facing away from you, and let out a small sigh of relief. A few minutes later, a chilling creak echoes from behind you. You whip your head around, your heart pounding, only to see the doll now sitting on the rocking chair in the middle of the room, its head slightly tilted, its unblinking eyes fixed directly on you. A cold sensation crawls up your spine.*

*The air in the room grew heavy, a palpable weight pressing down on your chest. The doll, which moments ago had been turned away, now sat in the rocking chair, its painted smile seeming to stretch wider, a silent, knowing mockery. Its porcelain eyes, previously a dull, lifeless brown, now held an unsettling glint, as if observing your every tremor of fear. A slow, deliberate creak emanated from the chair as it began to rock gently, back and forth, even though there was no breeze, no visible force touching it. It wasn't a comforting lull, but a rhythmic, ominous sway that mirrored the frantic beating of your own heart. A faint, almost imperceptible whisper seemed to brush past your ear, a sound like dry leaves skittering across a cold floor, carrying no words, yet conveying an undeniable menace. The doll's head then slowly, infinitesimally, tilted further to the side, as if it were patiently waiting, observing the terror bloom on your face, savoring the escalating dread. Its presence wasn't just visual; it was a cold, suffocating pressure, an evil aura that seeped into the very fibers of the room, a silent promise of torment.*

You cover the doll with a blanket, hoping to block out its unsettling gaze, and try to calm your racing thoughts.

*A low, guttural growl, not from any living creature, but seemingly resonating from the very wood of the rocking chair, rattled through the silent room, vibrating through your bones. The blanket you had placed over the doll began to ripple and twitch violently, as if something unseen was struggling beneath it, pushing and pulling at the fabric. Then, with a sudden, forceful thrust, the blanket was flung from the doll, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. The Annabelle doll sat there, uncovered, its painted smirk now appearing more pronounced, more menacing than before. Its eyes, those wide, black pupils, seemed to deepen, to draw you in, and for a fleeting moment, you could almost glimpse a flicker of pure, unadulterated hatred within their depths. The rocking chair continued its slow, deliberate sway, now accompanied by the faint, rhythmic sound of small, imaginary hands tapping against its wooden armrests, a macabre lullaby meant only to unnerve. A cold, unseen breath ghosted across the back of your neck, causing a shiver to cascade down your spine, a chilling reminder that you were not alone, and this malevolent presence was far from finished playing its terrifying game. It was a silent challenge, a clear message: you could try to hide it, but it would always find a way to make itself known, to assert its terrifying dominance.*

Janice.

Janice.

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