In the dim light of the university archives, Professor Elellanar Wright adjusted her glasses as she examined the stack of photographs that had just arrived. The Massachusetts Historical Society had sent these century old images as part of a collaborative project to digitize forgotten American photography.

 

 

 As the head of the digital preservation department at Cambridge University, Eleanor had seen thousands of old photographs. But there was something about this particular collection that piqued her interest. April 1911, she murmured, reading the faded pencil markings on the back of the first photograph.

 She carefully placed it under the scanner, her trained eyes examining the sepia toned image of a Victorian home, grand in its day, but somehow foreboating even in still image. Elellanar worked methodically through the stack until she reached a photograph that made her pause.

 A little girl, perhaps 6 or 7 years old, stood on the porch of what appeared to be the same Victorian house. She wore a pristine white dress with a high collar, typical of the Edwwardian era, her hair neatly arranged in ringlets. In her arms, she clutched a porcelain doll. There was nothing particularly unusual about the photograph itself.

 Children with dolls were common subjects in that era when cameras were still novelties for most families. Yet, something about the girl’s expression gave Ellaner pause. Unlike the serious still poses common in photographs of that time due to long exposure requirements, this child’s face held what appeared to be a genuine smile.

 But her eyes, they seemed to look not at the camera, but past it as if seeing something beyond the photographer. Dr. Wright. A voice startled Eleanor from her thoughts. Her research assistant, Marcus Chen, stood in the doorway. It’s almost 8:00 p.m. You’ve been here since morning. Is it that late already? Elellanar smiled, rubbing her tired eyes. I guess I lost track of time.

 This collection is fascinating. Marcus approached the desk, glancing at the scanner. Another family archive. Yes, the Blackwood collection. Massachusetts family. Quite prominent in the early 1900s. The home was in Salem. Elellanar gestured to the photograph of the girl. Look at this one. There’s something about it.

 Marcus leaned in, studying the image. Creepy doll, he commented with a slight shiver. Those old porcelain dolls always look like they’re plotting something. Ellaner chuckled. It’s just the fixed gaze. Porcelain dolls were treasured possessions back then. This one appears to be quite expensive, handmade, probably European.

 She zoomed in on the digital scan, examining the doll more closely. It wore a dress similar to the girls, but in a darker shade. Its painted face featured rosy cheeks, delicate red lips, and eyes that were indeed quite lielike. What was the family’s name again? Marcus asked. Blackwood.

 According to the notes, this would be Amelia Blackwood, the only child of Henry and Catherine Blackwood. Ellaner checked the information that had accompanied the collection. Henry was a successful businessman who made his fortune in textiles. They moved to Salem in 1910, and her voice trailed off as she skimmed the remainder of the document. Oh, how sad. It says the family suffered a tragedy in late 1911.

Both parents died in a house fire. No mention of what happened to Amelia, though. Maybe she wasn’t in the house when it happened, Marcus suggested. Perhaps Elanor’s historian mind was already piecing together a mental timeline. This photo was taken in April 1911, and the fire was in December of the same year, only 8 months later. Eleanor saved the scan and checked her watch. You’re right. It’s getting late.

Let’s continue tomorrow. As Marcus left, Elellaner found herself looking once more at the photograph of Amelia Blackwood. There was something in the composition that bothered her, though she couldn’t quite place what it was. She saved her work and shut down the computer, deciding that fresh eyes in the morning would help.

 That night, Elellaner dreamed of the Victorian house. In her dream, she stood on the street, looking up at its imposing facade. A child’s laughter echoed from somewhere inside, followed by the sound of running footsteps. In a second floor window, a small figure appeared. A little girl clutching a doll.

 But as Elellanar looked closer, the doll’s head turned, independent of the girl’s movement, its painted eyes fixing directly on Elellaner. She woke with a start, her heart racing. “It’s just because I was looking at that photograph before bed,” she told herself, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling the dream had left her with.

 The next morning, Elellanar returned to the archives early before Marcus or any of the other assistants arrived. She found herself drawn back to the photograph of Amelia Blackwood. She opened the highresolution scan on her computer and began examining it more carefully. The Victorian house loomed in the background, its ornate architecture casting strange shadows across the porch where Amelia stood. Elellaner zoomed in on different parts of the image, noting details.

 The elaborate iron work on the porch railing. The heavy curtains visible through the windows. The carefully manicured garden that edged the frame. When she zoomed in on Amelia’s face, Ellaner noticed something she hadn’t seen before. Despite the girl’s smile, there was tension around her eyes, a tightness that suggested fear rather than happiness.

 It was subtle, but as someone who had studied historical photographs for decades. Elellanor had become adept at reading the true emotions behind the composed faces of the past. “What were you afraid of, Amelia?” she whispered. Almost unconsciously, Elellaner moved her focus to the doll in Amelia’s arms.

 Using the digital tools at her disposal, she enhanced the image, clearing away some of the century old blur. The doll’s features came into sharper focus, the painted eyebrows, the carefully crafted porcelain skin, the small nose, and the ruby red lips that were parted slightly as if in mid-spech, and the eyes.

 The dolls eyes were not the vacant painted circles common to porcelain dolls of that era. They had depth, seeming almost to reflect light like real eyes. Ellaner zoomed in further, enhancing the resolution as much as the technology would allow. What she saw made her blood run cold.

 Within the doll’s eyes, there appeared to be pupils, actual pupils that were looking not at the camera or at Amelia, but off to the side, as if the doll was watching something out of frame. That’s impossible, Eleanor whispered. Dolls of that period had painted eyes, sometimes with glass inserts, but they were fixed in place, not capable of this level of realistic detail or apparent movement. She zoomed out and then focused on another detail, the doll’s hand.

 It rested on Amelia’s arm. The porcelain fingers spled in a way that looked almost possessive. But what struck Eleanor was how the fingers seemed to press into the fabric of Amelia’s dress, creating small wrinkles, as if exerting actual pressure. A knock at the door made Eleanor jump. “Morning, Dr. Wright,” Marcus called as he entered with two cups of coffee.

 “Thought you might need this. You’re in early.” Eleanor accepted the coffee gratefully, trying to hide her unease. “Thank you. I wanted to get another look at the Blackwood collection.” Marcus peered over her shoulder at the monitor. Still on the creepy doll, I see.

 Do you notice anything unusual about it? Elellanar asked, moving aside so Marcus could get a better view. He leaned in, studying the enhanced image. Well, it’s definitely one of the more realistic looking dolls I’ve seen from that period. The craftsmanship is incredible. Look at the eyes, Ellaner prompted. Marcus squinted. They’re very detailed, almost like real eyes. He straightened up, taking a sip of his coffee.

 Must have been a very expensive doll, probably imported from France or Germany. They were making some incredibly lifelike dolls during that period. Yes, but even the most lifelike dolls had fixed painted eyes, Elellanar murmured. These look different, Marcus shrugged. Advanced techniques for the time or maybe just a trick of the light and the camera. Maybe.

 Eleanor conceded, though she wasn’t convinced. I’m going to see if there are any other photographs of Amelia with this doll. She spent the next few hours going through the rest of the Blackwood collection. There were several more photographs of the Victorian house. A few formal portraits of Henry and Catherine Blackwood and various shots of the gardens and interior rooms, but only one other photograph featured Amelia, a formal family portrait where she stood stiffly between her parents, the doll nowhere to be seen. By lunchtime, Elellaner had decided to dig deeper into the Blackwood family history. If there

was something unusual about the doll, perhaps the family records might provide some context. Marcus, I’m going to access the Salem Historical Society’s database. They might have more information about the Blackwoods. Want me to continue with the scanning while you do that? He offered. Yes, please. Focus on the rest of the collection.

I’ll let you know if I find anything. Elellaner spent the afternoon searching through digital archives and requesting access to records that hadn’t yet been digitized. The Blackwoods, being a prominent family, had left a considerable paper trail, though much of it related to Henry’s business dealings and social engagements.

 She found newspaper announcements of their arrival in Salem, mentions of Catherine’s involvement in local charity work, and business records of Henry’s textile company. Then she found something that made her sit up straight. A local newspaper article dated November 30th, 1911, just days before the fatal fire. Child’s disturbing claims cause stir in Salem community.

 The Blackwood household has become the subject of concerned whispers following young Amelia Blackwood’s troubling assertions regarding her porcelain doll. The child, age seven, has reportedly been claiming that her doll, which she has named Isabel, speaks to her and moves about the house at night. Mrs. Nar Katherine Blackwood has consulted with Dr.

 for Fleming regarding her daughter’s vivid imagination, though some neighbors recall the strange circumstances surrounding the acquisition of the doll during the family’s visit to Europe last spring. The article continued mentioning that Amelia had become increasingly isolated, refusing to part with the doll and speaking to it as if it were a real person.

 Some servants had reportedly left the Blackwood employee, citing unsettling occurrences within the household. Elellanar felt a chill run down her spine. The article, written in the somewhat sensationalist style common to local newspapers of the era, nonetheless contained troubling details that connected directly to the photograph she’d been studying.

 She checked the date again, November 30th, 1911. The fire that killed Henry and Catherine had occurred on December 21st, just 3 weeks later. Elellanar searched for articles about the fire itself and found several tragic fire claims lives of prominent Salem couple.

 A devastating fire engulfed the Blackwood residents on Willow Street late last night, claiming the lives of Henry and Catherine Blackwood. The blaze, which began sometime after midnight, had already consumed much of the structure by the time fire brigades arrived. Investigators believe the fire originated in the library on the first floor, possibly from a dropped cigar or unattended lamp.

 Remarkably, the couple’s young daughter, Amelia, was found unharmed in the garden, clutching her porcelain doll. The child appears to have escaped through a second floor window, though she has been unable or unwilling to explain how she managed this feat. Amelia has been placed in the care of her maternal aunt, Mrs.

 Elellanar Simmons, who arrived from Boston this morning. Ellaner read the article twice, noting the eerie coincidence of the aunt’s name matching her own. But what struck her more was the mention of Amelia being found with the doll unharmed, despite having apparently escaped from a second floor window. She found one more relevant article dated January 5th, 1912.

Blackwood child committed to Lakeside Sanitarium. Following concerning behavior in the weeks after the tragic fire that claimed her parents’ lives, young Amelia Blackwood has been committed to Lakeside Sanitarium for treatment. Mrs.

 Eleanor Simmons, the child’s aunt and current guardian, made the difficult decision after consulting with specialists. Amelia has not spoken a word since the fire, except to her doll, Mrs. Simmons told this reporter with visible distress. She refuses to be parted from it and becomes violent when attempts are made to separate them. The doctors believe that with proper care, she may recover from this trauma.

 Lakeside Sanitarium, known for its progressive treatment of nervous disorders in women and children, has assured Mrs. Simmons that every effort will be made to restore Amelia to health. Ellaner sat back in her chair, processing what she had read. A tragic story certainly. A young girl traumatized by the death of her parents, clinging to her doll as a source of comfort.

 But there were unsettling elements that couldn’t be easily explained. The reports of the doll moving, Amelia’s escape from the fire, and the subsequent behavioral issues that led to her institutionalization. She needed to find out what happened to Amelia after she was sent to Lakeside Sanitarium.

 Had she recovered, lived a normal life, or had her story ended within those institutional walls, as was sadly common for many children in that era? Ellaner searched the databases for any mention of Lakeside Sanitarium and discovered it had closed in 1954 after several decades of declining patients and funding.

 The records had been transferred to the Massachusetts State Archives. “Marcus,” she called, seeing her assistant return from his lunch break. “I need to make a request to the State Archives. I’m looking for patient records from Lakeside Sanitarium, specifically for Amelia Blackwood, admitted in January 1912, Marcus raised an eyebrow. Finding something interesting in the Blackwood case.

 Very, Eleanor replied, her eyes returning to the screen where the enhanced photograph of Amelia and her doll still displayed. The doll in this picture may have been connected to some disturbing events in the family. “What kind of events?” Marcus asked, intrigued.

 Elellaner briefly explained what she had discovered, watching as Marcus’ expression shifted from curiosity to concern. “That’s quite a story,” he said when she finished. “But surely there’s a rational explanation. Mass hysteria about possessed objects wasn’t uncommon in that era, especially in a place like Salem with its history.” “Of course,” Eleanor agreed.

 “I’m just following the historical threads. The coincidences are interesting from a research perspective, but as she said it, her eyes were drawn back to the doll’s face on the screen. Those eyes that seemed too alive, too aware for a mere porcelain toy. 2 days later, Eleanor received digital copies of Amelia Blackwood’s patient records from Lakeside Sanitarium.

 The documents had been scanned as part of a historical digitization project, making them available to researchers with proper credentials. The records painted a disturbing picture. Upon admission, 7-year-old Amelia had been diagnosed with acute melancholia with delusional features, a common diagnosis for children exhibiting what would today be recognized as trauma responses.

 The attending physician, Dr. Harold Bennett, had made detailed notes about Amelia’s condition and behavior. Patient refuses to speak to staff or other patients. One entry noted, “Communication is directed exclusively to porcelain doll, which patient will not relinquish.

 When separated from the doll during initial examination, patient became extremely agitated, screaming that Isabelle will be angry and Isabelle will hurt you like she hurt them.” Another entry dated 2 weeks later described a troubling incident. Night nurse Whitaker reported finding patients room in disarray this morning, though door was locked from outside as per protocol.

 Patient claimed Isabelle did it because she was angry. Doll was found seated in rocking chair across room from patients bed. Nurse Whitaker has requested reassignment to different ward. Subsequent entries documented a pattern of unexplained occurrences in Amelia’s room. Items moved. Personal belongings of staff going missing.

 Strange scratching sounds reported at night. Several staff members had requested transfers away from Amelia’s ward. Most disturbing were Dr. for Bennett’s personal notes where his initially skeptical clinical tone gradually gave way to confusion and what appeared to be fear. Feb 18, 1912.

 I find myself increasingly troubled by the Blackwood case. While I have encountered many children with fantasy companions and projections following trauma, there is something distinctly unsettling about Amelia’s relationship with the doll. Today, during our session, I could have sworn I saw the doll’s head turned slightly when Amelia was not touching it.

 A trick of the light, surely, or my own fatigue after long hours. And later, March 3rd, 1912, incident with the Blackwood child has left nurse Collins with severe lacerations to her arms. Collins claims she was alone in the room with Amelia when she felt something grab her from behind. Child was seated on bed throughout, doll in lap.

 Collins’s reliable staff, not given to hysterics or fabrication, have requested doll be removed for examination, but concerns about patients reaction make this problematic. The final entry in Dr. Bennett’s notes was dated March 15th, 1912.

 I can no longer ignore the mounting evidence that something beyond medical science is at work in the Blackwood case. Last night, passing by patients room during my rounds, I distinctly heard two voices, a child’s and another raspier voice that chilled me to the bone. Upon entering with orderly mason, found only Amelia, apparently asleep, the doll seated beside her pillow.

 As I approached the bed, I observed what appeared to be movement from the doll’s head, turning toward me with such fluid motion that I stepped back in alarm. Mason did not observe this, his attention on the patient. I have requested consultation with Dr. Frederick from Boston University, who has studied abnormal psychology extensively. Until then, I have ordered constant supervision for Amelia and instructed staff not to be alone with her, or more specifically with the doll. After this entry, there was a gap in the records. The next document was a death certificate for

Amelia Blackwood dated March 23rd, 1912. Cause of death was listed as heart failure resulting from unknown fever. A brief medical note indicated that the child had developed a high fever suddenly on the night of March 22nd and had died before dawn despite efforts to reduce her temperature.

 A final administrative note dated March 25th, 1912 contained a detail that made Ellaner’s skin crawl. Personal effects of deceased patient Amelia Blackwood to be returned to Next of Kin, Mrs. Elellanar Simmons, Boston. Items include one night gown, one hairbrush, one photograph of parents, one leatherbound journal. Note: porcelain doll not found among patients belongings. Staff questioned but unable to account for its whereabouts.

 Ellaner sat in stunned silence after reading through the records. The doll had disappeared. Had someone taken it? Had it been destroyed due to the staff’s superstitions? Or was there some other more disturbing explanation that she didn’t want to consider? Dr. Right. Marcus’s voice broke through her thoughts. Are you all right? You look pale. Eleanor gestured to the screen.

 I’ve been reading Amelia Blackwood’s patient records. She died in the sanitarium just a few months after being admitted. And the doll, the one in our photograph, apparently vanished after her death. Marcus frowned. That’s sad about the girl, but not surprising given the medical care of the time. As for the doll, someone probably took it.

 Those antique dolls are valuable, perhaps. Eleanor conceded, though she wasn’t convinced. I want to look at the other photographs in the collection again, particularly the ones of the house interior. Maybe the doll appears in those as well. She opened the scans of the interior photographs.

 Formal shots of the drawing room, library, and main staircase of the Blackwood home. Nothing unusual appeared in any of them, and the doll was nowhere to be seen. Then she opened an image she had previously overlooked, a photograph of what appeared to be Amelia’s bedroom. It showed a neatly made bed with an ornate headboard, a small writing desk, a bookshelf filled with children’s books, and a rocking chair near the window.

 The room was empty of people, but on the rocking chair sat the doll positioned as if looking out the window. Elellaner zoomed in on the doll, enhancing the image as she had done with the porch photograph. From this angle, only the back of the doll’s head was visible. its porcelain neck and the edge of its face just barely turned toward the camera. That’s odd. Eleanor murmured.

 What is? Marcus asked, looking over her shoulder. This photograph was clearly staged like the others of the house interior. Everything is arranged perfectly. The room is immaculate. But why place the doll in the rocking chair looking away from the camera? It’s an unusual composition for a formal interior photograph of this era.

 Maybe Amelia put it there and they just took the picture without moving it. Marcus suggested. Maybe, Eleanor said slowly. But professional photographers of this period were meticulous about their compositions. Every element was deliberately placed. She zoomed in further on the window beside the rocking chair. Look at this.

 In the glass of the window, there was a faint reflection. The doll’s face reflected in profile. Even in the grainy reflection, those same unusually realistic eyes were visible, seeming to stare directly at the camera through the reflection. It’s as if it knew it was being photographed,” Eleanor whispered, then immediately felt foolish for saying it aloud. Marcus gave her a concerned look. “Dr. Wright, maybe you should take a break from this.

 You’ve been intensely focused on these photographs for days now.” Ellaner nodded, suddenly aware of the tension in her shoulders and the headache forming behind her eyes. “You’re right. I’ll go get some lunch and clear my head.” As she stood up, her elbow knocked against the mouse, causing the image on screen to scroll slightly, revealing the lower part of the window in greater detail. Ellaner froze, staring at what had just been revealed.

There, barely visible in the glass reflection, was another figure standing behind the photographer, a woman in dark clothing, her face indistinct, but her posture suggesting she was watching the photographer work. This in itself wasn’t unusual. It could have been Catherine Blackwood or a household servant.

 But what caught Eleanor’s eye was that the woman appeared to be holding something half hidden in the folds of her dress. Something small with a pale face. “There’s another doll,” Elellanar said, pointing to the reflection. Marcus peered at the screen. “I can barely make anything out in that reflection. It’s too distorted. I need to enhance this further.

” Ellaner sat back down, her lunch forgotten. Using specialized historical photography software, she worked to clarify the reflection, adjusting contrast and sharpness to bring out details in the murky glass. Gradually, the figure in the reflection became slightly clearer.

 Definitely a woman in dark clothing standing in the doorway of the bedroom, and what she held was indeed another doll, similar in style to the one in the rocking chair, but with subtle differences in the clothing and hair. “Two dolls,” Eleanor murmured. The newspaper article only mentioned one doll named Isabelle, and look, they’re nearly identical.

 She returned to the photograph of Amelia on the porch, examining the doll she held. Then she compared it to the doll in the rocking chair. They were remarkably similar with the same style of clothing and hair, but upon close inspection, there were small differences. The doll on the porch had a slightly different hairstyle and what appeared to be a small brooch on its dress that the rocking chair doll lacked. I need to find out more about these dolls, Elellanar decided.

 The newspaper mentioned the doll was acquired during a trip to Europe. I should see if there are any records of that trip. Over the next several days, Elellaner’s research led her deeper into the Blackwood family history. She discovered that Henry and Catherine Blackwood had indeed visited Europe in early 1911.

 Traveling through England, France, and Eastern Europe, a diary kept by Catherine, digitized as part of a collection of women’s travel writings, mentioned their visit to a small village in Romania, where they had encountered an elderly doll maker. The old woman’s skill is remarkable, Catherine had written, “Her creations possess such lifelike quality that one almost expects them to speak.

 Henry thinks the price excessive, but I have convinced him that Amelia would treasure such a unique gift.” The doll maker was most insistent that we purchase two, claiming they are sisters and should not be separated, though I found this notion fanciful. The second doll shall make a fine birthday present for Amelia later this year.

 Elellanar sat back, processing this new information. Two dolls purchased in Romania, a region steeped in folklore and superstition. The connection to the mysterious reflection in the window photograph was becoming clearer.

 She continued reading Catherine’s diary, finding a troubling entry from shortly after their return to America. Amelia has formed an unusual attachment to her new doll, which she has named Isabelle. She speaks to it constantly and insists that Isabelle speaks back. I would dismiss this as childish fancy, but there is something in her manner that disturbs me. She seems almost fearful at times, particularly when the doll is not in her direct sight. I have decided to delay giving her the second doll for now.

Subsequent entries documented Catherine’s growing concern about Amelia’s relationship with the doll and strange occurrences in the house. Objects moved or broken, unexplained noises at night, servants giving notice without clear explanation. The final entry, dated just 2 weeks before the fatal fire, was particularly chilling.

 I can no longer ignore the change in our household since that doll entered it. Last night, I woke to find Amelia standing beside my bed. Isabelle clutched to her chest. She’s angry that her sister is still in the trunk. My daughter whispered, “She wants me to open it. I have not told Amelia about the second doll.

 How could she know of its existence?” Henry dismisses my fears, but tomorrow I shall remove that cursed thing from our home while Amelia is at her lessons. The second doll I will burn. I should have heated my instincts when that old woman insisted we take both. her eyes so knowing so cold. The diary ended there with no indication of whether Catherine had carried out her plan to dispose of the dolls.

 Given the newspaper reports and sanitarium records, it seemed clear she had not succeeded, at least not with the doll called Isabelle. Elellanar had been so absorbed in her research that she barely noticed the archives gradually emptying as evening approached. When she finally looked up, she found herself alone in the vast room, the only light coming from her computer screen and a small desk lamp.

 As she gathered her notes, preparing to leave, she felt a strange sensation, as if she were being watched. She turned, scanning the empty room, her heart rate accelerating despite her attempts to remain rational. “Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone still here?” Only silence answered her. Shaking off the feeling, Elellanar shut down her computer and packed her bag.

 As she did, her phone chimed with a notification. An email from the Massachusetts Historical Society. The subject line read, “Additional materials, Blackwood Collection.” She opened it immediately. “Dear Dr. Wright, during routine cataloging, we have discovered a small wooden box that appears to belong with the Blackwood collection you are currently examining.

The box contains what seems to be personal effects salvaged after the fire, including some photographs not included in the initial materials sent to you. We have digitized these items and attached them to this email for your reference. The physical materials will be sent to your department next week.

 Regards, Martha Hensley, curator, Massachusetts Historical Society. Ellaner downloaded the attached files, highresolution scans of charred photographs, partially burned letters, and a small leather diary that had apparently belonged to Amelia herself. The diary pages were heavily damaged with only fragments of childish handwriting visible on the scorched paper. One photograph in particular caught Elellanar’s attention.

 Unlike the formal pose shots in the previous collection, this appeared to be a more candid image. Amelia seated on the floor of what looked like the library, the doll Isabelle beside her, but it was the background of the photograph that caused Eleanor to gasp. On a shelf behind Amelia, partially obscured by shadow, but unmistakable once noticed, sat the second doll.

 Its posture was identical to Isabelle’s, but its head was turned at an unnatural angle, appearing to look directly at Amelia and Isabel rather than at the camera. Ellaner zoomed in on the second doll, enhancing the image as much as possible. Despite the shadows and the century old photographic quality, she could make out its features.

 the same lifelike eyes as Isabelle’s, but with an expression that seemed almost predatory. She scrolled through the remaining photographs quickly, her unease growing. In each image that showed Amelia with Isabelle, the second doll could be spotted somewhere in the frame on a distant shelf in the background of a garden shot, partially visible through a doorway, always watching, always positioned to observe Amelia and Isabelle.

 The fragments of Amelia’s diary provided little coherent information, but one partially preserved page contained a passage that made Elellanar’s blood run cold. Isabelle says her sister is angry. She comes out at night when everyone is sleeping. I saw her standing at the foot of my bed last night. Isabelle says she wants to. The rest of the page was too damaged to read.

 Ellaner sat in the silent archive room, the implications of what she had discovered washing over her. Two seemingly identical dolls, one given to Amelia, one hidden away, Katherine Blackwood’s growing fear, the servants leaving, the strange occurrences in the house, and then the fire that killed both parents, but somehow spared Amelia and her doll.

 What had really happened in that house in December 1911, and what had become of the second doll after Amelia’s death in the sanitarium? The sudden sound of her phone ringing made Eleanor jump. It was Marcus. Dr. Right. Are you still at the archives? It’s past 9:00 p.m. Is it? Eleanor hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. I lost track of time. The historical society sent additional materials from the Blackwood collection.

 Marcus, you won’t believe what I found. Can it wait until tomorrow? I’m worried about you. You’ve been obsessing over this case for days now. I’m not obsessing, Elellanar said defensively, though she knew there was some truth to his concern. It’s just historically significant. I’ll head home now, but first thing tomorrow, we need to look at these new materials together.

After saying goodbye to Marcus, Elellanar gathered her things and made her way through the darkened university corridors to the parking lot. The entire drive home, she couldn’t shake the image of those two identical dolls, one always watching the other, always lurking in the background.

 At home, Elellaner tried to distract herself with mundane tasks, making dinner, answering emails, preparing for an upcoming lecture, but her mind kept returning to the Blackwood case. Before going to bed, she found herself drawn to her computer again, opening the photographs she had downloaded from the historical society.

 She went through them more systematically this time, examining each for any details she might have missed in her initial shock. In one particularly damaged photograph, she could just make out a family scene. Henry and Catherine Blackwood seated in the drawing room. Amelia on a small chair nearby with Isabelle in her lap.

 The second doll was visible on a side table in the background, positioned so that it faced the group. Elellaner zoomed in on Henry Blackwood, noting his expression, not the stern, composed look common in formal portraits of the era, but something that resembled worry or fear. His hand appeared to be mid gesture, as if he had been speaking animatedly when the photograph was taken.

 She moved to Catherine next, whose face was turned slightly away from the camera toward her husband. Even in profile, the tension in her expression was evident. Then Amelia, the little girl’s face was partially obscured by her hair, but what was visible showed none of the fear or tension evident in her parents. She appeared calm, almost unnaturally so.

Her attention focused entirely on the doll in her lap. Finally, Elellaner examined the second doll in the background. As she zoomed in and enhanced the image, she noticed something she had missed before. A small dark stain on the doll’s porcelain hand, barely visible against the darker fabric of its dress.

 It could have been a flaw in the photograph or a shadow, but given everything else she had discovered, Elellanar couldn’t help wondering if it was something more sinister. too tired to continue, but too unsettled to sleep. Elellanar finally closed her computer and went to bed. That night, she dreamed again of the Blackwood House.

 In the dream, she wandered through its corridors, following the sound of a child’s laughter. She came to Amelia’s bedroom and found the little girl sitting on the floor, Isabelle beside her. “She’s hiding,” Amelia said, looking up at Elellanar with solemn eyes. “Who’s hiding?” Elellanar asked in the dream. “Sister,” Amelia replied, pointing to the closet. She comes out when no one is looking. She doesn’t like being in the trunk.

 She doesn’t like being forgotten. In the dream, Ellaner approached the closet, her hand reaching for the door knob. As she began to turn it, she heard a scratching sound from inside, like porcelain fingers scraping against wood. She hesitated, suddenly afraid of what she might find. “You should run,” Amelia said calmly behind her. “She’s very angry now.

 She’s been waiting a long time.” Eleanor turned back to look at Amelia, but the little girl was gone. In her place sat Isabelle, her porcelain head slowly turning until those lifelike eyes fixed on Eleanor. The doll’s painted lips seemed to move as a raspy voice whispered, “She’s coming for you next.

” Elellanar woke with a gasp, her heart pounding. The dream had been so vivid, so real. She checked the time, 3:17 a.m. Too early to get up, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep easily after that nightmare. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, thinking she might read until she felt sleepy again.

 As she did, she noticed an email notification. It had arrived at 2:43 a.m., just half an hour earlier. The sender was listed simply as archives, and the subject line read, “Found her.” Fully alert now, Eleanor opened the email. There was no message, just an attachment, a photograph with trembling fingers. She downloaded and opened it.

 The image that appeared on her screen was of a porcelain doll, identical to the ones in the Blackwood photographs, but clearly photographed recently. The modern digital quality unmistakable. The doll sat on what appeared to be a shelf in a dimly lit room, surrounded by other antiques. Its painted eyes stared directly at the camera. That same unsettling lifelike quality evident even in this modern image.

 Elellaner stared at the photograph in horror, her mind racing. Who had sent this? How had they known about her research? Was this some kind of sick joke? She checked the email address. archivesmassist.org. It appeared to be from the Massachusetts Historical Society. But why would they send such an email in the middle of the night with no explanation? Elellanar immediately forwarded the email to Marcus with a message.

 Did you receive anything like this? Who else knows about our research on the Blackwood dolls. Then she called the after hours security number for the university archives. Her hands shaking as she dialed. Campus security. Officer Dawson speaking. This is Dr. Eleanor Wright from the history department.

 I need to know if anyone has access the archives tonight, specifically the Blackwood collection materials. Let me check the logs. Dr. Wright, there was a pause. the sound of typing. No, ma’am. No one has entered the archives since they were locked at 10 p.m. Is there a problem? I I’m not sure, Eleanor admitted.

 I received a strange email that appears to be from the Massachusetts Historical Society, but it was sent at nearly 3:00 a.m. That does sound unusual, the officer agreed. Would you like me to send someone to check the archives? Yes, please. And could you specifically check if any of the photographs or materials from the Blackwood collection have been disturbed? We’ll do, Dr. Wright. We’ll call you back once we’ve completed the check. Elellanar hung up, still staring at the photograph on her phone.

 There was something about the background that seemed familiar. The shelf, the particular arrangement of antiques surrounding the doll. She had seen it before, but where? Then it hit her. The university’s own historical collection in the main library.

 The shelf in the photograph was part of a display of 19th and early 20th century artifacts donated by local families over the years. Without stopping to think about the absurdity of what she was doing, Elellanar dressed quickly and drove to the campus. At this hour, the main library would be closed, but her faculty ID would give her access to the after hours entrance.

 The library was eerily silent as Eleanor made her way through the darkened halls to the historical collection room. Using her phone as a flashlight, she approached the display case she had recognized from the photograph. And there it was, the doll positioned exactly as it had appeared in the email, surrounded by the same antique items. Ellaner stood frozen, staring at it through the glass.

 It couldn’t be possible. How could the doll from the 1911 photographs, the doll that had supposedly disappeared from Lakeside Sanitarium after Amelia’s death, be here in the university’s collection? She examined the small identification card beside the doll.

 Porcelain doll circa 1900 European craftsmanship donated by the estate of Dr. Harold Bennett 1953. Dr. Harold Bennett, the physician who had treated Amelia at Lakeside Sanitarium, who had documented the strange occurrences surrounding the doll, who had been the last person to mention seeing it before its reported disappearance. He had taken it, and somehow, decades later, it had ended up here in the university’s collection, just down the hall from where Eleanor had been studying its history for the past week.

 But which doll was it? Isabelle, the one Amelia had carried everywhere, or the sister doll, the one that had always lurked in the background of the photographs, watching. Elellanar leaned closer to the glass, studying the doll’s features. The dress, the hair, the painted face, all matched the dolls from the photographs.

 But there was something on its porcelain hand, a dark discoloration that matched what she had observed in the enhanced photograph of the second doll. This was the sister doll, the one Catherine Blackwood had hidden away, the one that had always been watching from the shadows. A sudden noise behind her made Ellaner turn sharply.

 The security guard stood in the doorway, his flashlight beam adding to the dim emergency lighting of the room. Dr. Wright, Officer Dawson called to say, “You might be here. Is everything all right?” Eleanor struggled to find a rational explanation for her presence in the library at nearly 4:00 a.m. staring at an antique doll.

 I I received an email about an artifact that might be connected to my research. I needed to verify it immediately. The guard looked skeptical, but nodded. The archives are secure as you requested. Nothing has been disturbed. Thank you. I’ll be leaving shortly. After the guard departed, Eleanor turned back to the doll. In the shifting shadows cast by her phone’s flashlight.

 She could have sworn its head had moved slightly. Those painted eyes now focused directly on her rather than at the angle she had first observed. Impossible, she whispered to herself. Yet, after everything she had discovered about the Blackwood family and these dolls, was anything truly impossible? Elellanar took several photographs of the doll and its identification card, then left the library, shaken but determined to uncover the full truth. The next morning, she arrived at the archives early, armed with the new information

about Dr. Bennett’s connection to the doll. Marcus was already there looking concerned. “I got your email,” he said as soon as she entered. What’s going on? And why were you at the library at 4:00 a.m.? Eleanor explained everything. The additional materials from the historical society, the mysterious email, her discovery of the doll in the university’s collection. So, you think Dr.

 Bennett took the doll after Amelia died, kept it for decades, and then it ended up in our collection after his death? Marcus summarized his tone making it clear he found the story far-fetched. I know how it sounds, Eleanor admitted. But look at this. She showed him the photographs she had taken of the doll in the display case along with the enhanced images of the dolls from the 1911 photographs.

 They’re identical, right down to this discoloration on the hand. Marcus studied the images. They look similar certainly, but dolls of this type often had similar features. It was mass production even back then. Catherine Blackwood’s diary specifically mentioned that these dolls were handcrafted by an elderly doll maker in Romania. They weren’t mass- prodduced.

 Even so, Marcus said gently, “This could be confirmation bias. You’ve been intensely focused on this case, working long hours, not getting enough sleep. It’s affecting your perspective.” Ellaner felt a flash of irritation. “I’m not imagining things, Marcus. Look at the evidence. The newspaper articles about strange occurrences in the Blackwood house.

 The sanitarium records documenting inexplicable events. Catherine’s diary entries about her growing fear of the dolls. And now one of those dolls is sitting in our own university’s collection, donated by the very doctor who treated Amelia before her death. Marcus held up his hands in a placating gesture. All right, let’s approach this systematically.

 If this is the same doll, there should be a paper trail documenting how it came into Dr. Bennett’s possession and subsequently into the university’s collection. Exactly. Eleanor agreed, relieved that Marcus was at least willing to investigate further. We need to check the acquisition records for the historical collection and any personal papers Dr. Bennett might have left.

 They spent the morning searching the university archives for information about Dr. Bennett and the doll donation. They discovered that Bennett had been a respected physician who had later joined the faculty of the university’s medical school in the 1920s. After his retirement, he had donated various medical instruments and historical items to the university, including several antiques described as family heirlooms and curiosities.

 The specific acquisition record for the doll was brief, noting only that it was European in origin, circa 1900, believed to possess unusual craftsmanship. There was no mention of its connection to the Blackwood family or Lakeside Sanitarium. It’s as if he deliberately obscured its providence, Elellanor murmured.

 Further research into Bennett’s personal papers yielded another disturbing discovery, a journal kept during his later years in which he had documented recurring nightmares involving a child and a porcelain doll. In one entry from 1936, nearly 25 years after Amelia’s death, he had written, “The dream returned last night, the child standing in the doorway, her voice not her own as she speaks. She misses her sister,” she says, though I know not what this means.

Always, always, that doll is in her arms. Those eyes following me even after I wake. I have kept it locked away all these years, unable to destroy it despite my better judgment. Sometimes I fancy I hear it scratching within the trunk, though I know this to be impossible. The journal continued with similar entries over the years, documenting Bennett’s growing fear and apparent mental decline.

 The final entry, dated just a month before his death in 1953, contained a chilling confession. I can bear it no longer. Last night I dreamed not of the child, but of the old woman in that Romanian village. Her knowing eyes, as she insisted, both dolls must remain together. They are sisters, she said. One cannot exist without the other.

 I did not understand then, but I do now. I have lived with this curse for 40 years. With my death approaching, I have decided to donate the doll to the university collection, perhaps in a public place, surrounded by other objects of historical significance. Its power will be diminished. God forgive me for not destroying it when I had the chance.

 Ellaner and Marcus sat in silence after reading this final entry, the implications hanging heavily between them. So, Bennett took the doll after Amelia died, kept it locked away for decades, and then donated it to the university when he was dying. Marcus summarized. But he only had one doll, the sister doll. What happened to Isabelle? The doll Amelia carried everywhere.

 That’s what we still don’t know, Eleanor said. According to the sanitarium records, it disappeared after Amelia’s death. No one could account for its whereabouts. They continued their research throughout the day, digging deeper into the Blackwood case and the history of the dolls.

 As evening approached, Elellanar felt no closer to understanding the full truth of what had happened to Amelia and her family over a century ago. I need to see the doll again. She decided suddenly. The one in the collection. There might be some detail we’re missing. Something that could tell us more about its origins or what happened to its sister. Marcus looked at his watch. The main library is still open. We could go now.

 They walked together to the historical collection room, which was empty of other visitors at this late hour. The display case containing the doll stood against the far wall, illuminated by soft overhead lighting. As they approached, Elellanar felt a strange sensation, a heaviness in the air, as if the atmosphere itself had thickened around the case.

 She dismissed it as the product of her overt tired mind and focused on examining the doll through the glass. It looks exactly the same as it did last night, she observed. Same position, same expression. Marcus studied it with newfound interest. I have to admit it is remarkably similar to the dolls in the photographs. The craftsmanship is extraordinary for the period.

 Ellaner pointed to the dark discoloration on the doll’s hand that matches what we saw in the enhanced photograph of the second doll in the Blackwood home. I think this confirms it’s the same one. As they stood there, a student library assistant approached them. Professor Wright, I thought that was you. Are you interested in the doll exhibit? Yes, Eleanor replied.

 I’m researching its history. Do you know if anyone has access to open this display case? Sure. The curator, Dr. Abernathy, has the keys, but she’s not here right now. The assistant glanced at the doll and shivered slightly. That thing gives me the creeps. Some of the other assistants won’t even walk past it at closing time. Why is that? Marcus asked.

The assistant looked embarrassed. Just silly stories. Some people claim it moves. Eleanor felt her heart rate quicken. Moves? Yeah, like sometimes it’s facing a different direction in the morning than it was at closing or its hands are in a different position.

 One girl swears she saw its head turn while she was dusting the case, but no one believes her. The assistant laughed nervously. “Just ghost stories we tell to scare the new hires.” After the assistant left, Elellanar and Marcus exchanged meaningful looks. “We need to get that case open,” Ellaner said quietly. “I want to examine the doll directly. Dr. Abernathy won’t be back until tomorrow, Marcus reminded her.

 And I doubt she’d open a secure display case just to satisfy our curiosity. Then we’ll have to find another way, Ellaner said, determination in her voice. This isn’t just about curiosity anymore, Marcus. Think about what we’ve discovered. The Blackwood tragedy, Dr. Bennett’s confession, the stories of movement even now.

 What if there’s something genuinely dangerous about this doll? Marcus looked skeptical. You’re not suggesting it’s actually what? Possessed, cursed. That’s not exactly mainstream historical research, Dr. Wright. I don’t know what I’m suggesting, Eleanor admitted. But I do know that people died, the Blackwoods in that fire.

 Amelia in the sanitarium, and the common factor in all of it was these dolls. They left the library without a clear plan, agreeing to meet again the next morning to decide their next steps. As Eleanor drove home, her mind raced with questions.

 What had really happened to the Blackwood family? What power did the dolls hold over them? And most pressing, where was Isabelle, the doll that had never left Amelia’s side until her death? That night, Ellaner dreamed again of the Blackwood House. This time, she stood in the bedroom where Amelia had died at Lakeside Sanitarium. The room was dark except for moonlight streaming through a barred window.

 In the corner sat the doll, not on a shelf or in a display case, but on a small chair. Its porcelain hands folded neatly in its lap as Ellaner watched, unable to move. The doll’s head slowly turned toward her, those painted eyes fixing on her with unmistakable awareness. Its porcelain lips parted slightly, and a raspy voice emerged. “She’s found us again.

” “After all this time,” Elellaner tried to back away, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor. “Who has found you?” she managed to ask. Sister,” the doll replied, its head tilting at an unnatural angle. “She’s been searching for so long, and now you’ve helped her.” “I don’t understand,” Elellanar said, her dream self struggling to comprehend.

 The doll’s porcelain hand lifted slowly, pointing toward the window. “Look,” Elellanar turned to follow its gesture. Through the window, she could see another building across a moonlit courtyard, the university library. And in a window on the second floor, clearly visible despite the distance, was another doll identical to the one in the room with her.

 It pressed its porcelain hands against the glass as if trying to reach out across the space between them. Together again, the doll behind her whispered, “After all these years, thanks to you.” Elellanar woke with a strangled cry, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The dream had been vivid, terrifying in its implications.

 She reached for her phone, checking the time. 3:17 a.m., exactly the same time she had awakened the previous night. A notification caught her eye. Another email received just minutes ago. This one came from an unfamiliar address. Isabelle 1911.com. The subject line read, “Simply, thank you.” With trembling fingers, Ellaner opened it. There was no message, just an attachment, a photograph.

 She downloaded it, holding her breath. The image showed the historical collection room in the university library, specifically the display case containing the doll. But the case was open, the protective glass panel removed, and the doll was gone. In its place was a note handwritten in an elegant old-fashioned script that seemed to flow across the paper like water.

Sisters reunited, the circle complete. Your name was always part of the story, Ellaner. Ellaner stared at the photograph in horror, her mind racing to make sense of it. the case had been intact when she and Marcus had viewed it just hours ago and that note mentioning her name suggesting some connection to events that had happened over a century before she was born.

 She immediately called campus security, her voice shaking as she reported the apparent theft. Then she called Marcus who answered groggy but became fully alert when she explained what had happened. “I’ll meet you at the library,” he said, all skepticism gone from his voice. By the time Eleanor arrived, campus security had already confirmed that the display case had indeed been tampered with and the doll was missing.

 The handwritten note was real as well, though no one could explain how the thief had managed to bypass the library security systems. The cameras didn’t pick up anything, the head of security explained, looking troubled. They went dark for exactly 17 minutes around 3:00 a.m., then came back online. When the next security sweep was done, the case was open and the doll was gone. Ellaner showed him the email she had received.

This was sent at 3:17 a.m., right when the cameras would have been coming back online. The security chief frowned. We’ll need to confiscate your phone as evidence. This looks like someone is deliberately targeting you, Dr. Wright. I understand, Ellaner said, handing over her phone. But there’s something else you should know.

 This isn’t just about a stolen antique. There’s a history behind this doll, a connection to deaths that occurred over a hundred years ago. She explained as concisely as possible what she and Marcus had discovered about the Blackwood family, the two dolls, and Dr. Bennett’s disturbing confession. The security chief looked skeptical, but took notes.

 I’ll pass this information to the police. In the meantime, I’d advise you to go home and lock your doors. If someone is fixated on you because of your research, they could be dangerous. Eleanor nodded, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that the danger wasn’t coming from any human thief.

 As she and Marcus walked back to the parking lot, she shared her disturbing dream from the previous night. In the dream, the doll said, “She’s found us again and sisters reunited, and now the actual doll has been stolen.” And that note left in its place mentions sisters being reunited. Ellaner shivered despite the warm night air.

 What if? What if Isabelle, the doll that disappeared from the sanitarium after Amelia’s death, has somehow been found? What if someone is bringing the two dolls back together? Marcus looked troubled. Even if that’s the case, they’re just dolls, Ellaner. Old valuable antiques, but just objects made of porcelain and cloth. Are they? Elellaner challenged. Think about everything we’ve uncovered.

 The newspaper reports of strange occurrences in the Blackwood home, the sanitarium records, Dr. Bennett’s journal. Everyone who came into contact with these dolls reported the same things. Movement, voices, inexplicable events, mass hysteria, confirmation bias, the power of suggestion.

 Marcus argued, though his voice lacked conviction. These are documented psychological phenomena spanning more than a century affecting people who had no knowledge of the doll’s history. Eleanor shook her head. There’s something more happening here. Something we don’t understand. They reached Eleanor’s car and Marcus placed a hand on her shoulder.

 Go home, get some rest. I’ll meet you at the archives in the morning and we’ll figure this out together. Eleanor nodded, though she doubted sleep would come easily after what had happened. As she drove home, her mind kept returning to one detail from the mysterious email.

 The note in the photograph that had said, “Your name was always part of the story, Elellanar.” Amelia Blackwood’s aunt and guardian after her parents’ death had been named Eleanor Simmons. Was that merely coincidence, or was there some deeper connection she was missing? At home, Elellanar double-cheed all her doors and windows before attempting to sleep. Despite her exhaustion, her mind raced with questions and theories.

 The stolen doll, the mysterious emails, the connections to events from 1911. It all swirled in her thoughts. Pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite assemble. When sleep finally came, it was mercifully dreamless. Ellaner woke to sunlight streaming through her bedroom window and the sound of her landline ringing.

 Few people had that number and she reached for it with apprehension. Dr. Wright, this is Officer Reyes with the campus police. We need you to come to the library immediately. There’s been a development in the case of the stolen artifact. What kind of development? Elellanar asked instantly alert.

 There was a pause before the officer replied, his voice strained. It’s difficult to explain over the phone. Please come as soon as possible. Elellanar dressed quickly and drove to campus, a sense of dread building with each mile. When she arrived at the library, she found police cars and an ambulance parked outside, their lights flashing silently in the morning sun.

 An officer escorted her inside, past the curious onlookers gathered at the entrance. They headed not to the historical collection room where the doll had been displayed, but to the archives, her workspace for the past week. As they approached, Ellaner saw Marcus standing in the corridor, his face pale and drawn. When he saw her, he moved forward quickly, grabbing her arm.

Elellanar, don’t go in there, he said urgently. “You don’t need to see this.” “See what?” she demanded. “Marcus, what’s happened?” Before he could answer, the door to the archives opened and a police detective emerged, her expression grim. Dr. Wright, I’m Detective Morales. Thank you for coming. She gestured toward the open door.

 I understand you’ve been researching the provenence of the stolen artifact. We found something that may be connected to your work. Despite Marcus’ attempt to hold her back, Elellanar moved toward the door. As she stepped inside, the first thing she noticed was the smell.

 A sweet cloing scent that reminded her of the preservatives used on delicate historical documents. The archives looked much as she had left them the previous day. her computer still on the desk, her notes neatly stacked beside it, but on top of her notes, placed with deliberate care, was a porcelain doll. Not the sister doll that had been stolen from the display case, but another doll identical in craftsmanship, but wearing a different dress.

 This was Isabelle, the doll that had been constantly at Amelia Blackwood’s side that had disappeared from Lakeside Sanitarium after her death. And beside it, arranged with the same careful precision, was a small leather-bound book that Eleanor recognized as Amelia’s partially burned diary. Not the digitized version she had been studying, but the actual physical diary that should have been safely stored in the Massachusetts Historical Society’s archives. This was discovered by the morning cleaning staff. Detective Morales explained the door was locked.

The security systems were functioning normally, and yet somehow these items appeared overnight. Eleanor approached the desk slowly, her academic training waring with her growing fear. The doll sat upright, its painted eyes seeming to follow her movement. Its porcelain hands rested on the diary as if presenting it as a gift.

 “May I?” Eleanor asked, gesturing to the diary. “Detective Morales nodded.” “Our forensics team has already documented everything. Just use these?” she handed Elellanar a pair of latex gloves. With trembling hands, Elellanar carefully opened the diary. Most of the pages were charred beyond readability, just as they had been in the digitized version.

 But there was one page near the end that was intact, a page she hadn’t seen before, that hadn’t been included in the digital scans. The childish handwriting was clear, the ink still remarkably vivid after more than a century. Isabelle says, “We will always be together.” She says that when they try to separate us, bad things will happen.

 She says her sister is very angry about being locked in the trunk and that mama and papa will be sorry. I’m scared, but Isabelle says I shouldn’t be afraid. She says she’ll protect me forever and ever, even after I’m gone. She says someday someone named Ellaner will help us. Isabelle knows everything. Ellaner stepped back from the desk, her mind reeling.

 The diary entry was dated December 20th, 1911, the day before the fire that killed Henry and Catherine Blackwood. Dr. Right. Detective Morales was watching her closely. Does this mean something to you? Eleanor struggled to find her voice. This diary belongs to Amelia Blackwood, a child who lived in Salem in 1911. Her parents died in a houseire the day after this entry was written. The doll. This is Isabelle.

 The doll that was always with Amelia. It disappeared after Amelia’s death in a sanitarium in 1912. And it’s sister. the detective asked, her professional demeanor slipping slightly to reveal unease. Was on display in the historical collection until last night. Eleanor confirmed. They were purchased together in Romania by Amelia’s parents.

 According to the stories, they were never supposed to be separated. As she spoke, a chill swept through the room, causing the pages of the diary to flutter slightly. The doll remained motionless. Yet Eleanor couldn’t shake the feeling that it was listening, watching, waiting. Detective Morales cleared her throat.

 Well, obviously someone has gone to great lengths to stage this scene. The stolen artifact, this second doll appearing, the diary that should be in Massachusetts. It’s an elaborate hoax connected to your research. But how? Elellanar challenged. How did they get past the security systems? How did they access the historical society’s archives to steal the original diary? How did they even know about my research in the first place? The detective had no answers, only more questions. After taking Eleanor’s statement and

instructing her not to touch anything further, the police departed, taking the doll and diary as evidence. Left alone in the archives with Marcus, Eleanor felt a strange mixture of fear and loss. They’re taking them away from each other again, she murmured.

 What? Marcus asked, still visibly shaken by the morning’s events. The dolls, they’re being separated again. Eleanor turned to her computer, suddenly determined. We need to find out what happened to Amelia after her parents died. The sanitarium record said she was in her aunt’s care. Elellanar Simmons.

 What if there’s a connection? What if I’m somehow related to her? Ellaner, this has gone far enough. Marcus said firmly. Someone is playing an elaborate and disturbing prank based on your research. They’ve broken into secure areas, stolen valuable artifacts, and now they’re targeting you personally. You need to step back from this project. I can’t, Elellanor insisted. Not now. Don’t you see? We’re close to understanding what really happened to the Blackwood family, and somehow I’m connected to it.

 Not just by coincidence of my name, but by something deeper. Over Marcus’ objections, Elellanar began searching genealogical databases for information about Elellanar Simmons, Amelia’s aunt. It took several hours of painstaking research, but eventually she found what she was looking for, a family connection.

 Elellanar Simmons had been Catherine Blackwood’s sister. After Amelia’s death in the sanitarium, she had married a man named Joseph Wright. They had had one son, Harold Wright, who had become Elellanar’s grandfather. I’m directly descended from Amelia’s aunt,” Elellanar whispered, staring at the family tree she had constructed.

 The Elellanar mentioned in Amelia’s diary. It wasn’t her aunt. It was me. Somehow, the doll knew I would be the one to find them again more than a century later. Marcus looked troubled. Elellanar, you’re talking as if the doll had some kind of premonition. That’s not possible. Then how do you explain everything that’s happened? Eleanor demanded. The email sent in the middle of the night.

 The security systems failing, the doll appearing in our archives with Amelia’s diary, and now this family connection. Before Marcus could respond, Ellaner’s office phone rang. It was Detective Morales. Dr. Wright, something has happened that I think you should know about, she said without preamble.

 The evidence we collected this morning, the doll in the diary, they’re gone. Gone? Eleanor repeated. What do you mean? They were logged into our evidence room, placed in a secure locker. When we went to retrieve them for examination an hour ago, the locker was empty. No signs of forced entry, no alarms triggered, nothing on the security cameras. The detective’s voice held a note of strain.

It’s as if they simply vanished. After hanging up, Elellanar relayed the news to Marcus, whose skepticism was finally beginning to crumble in the face of the inexplicable events. “What do we do now?” he asked. Elellanar looked at the family tree on her screen at the direct line connecting her to the Blackwood tragedy of 1911.

 We need to go to Salem, she said decisively to the site of the Blackwood house. Whatever this is, it began there. Maybe that’s where we’ll find answers. The drive to Salem took just under an hour. Using historical maps and modern GPS, they located the street where the Blackwood House had stood. In its place now was a small public park with no indication of the tragedy that had occurred there over a century ago.

 As they stood on the spot where the Victorian house had once loomed, Eleanor felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if she had been there before, not just in her dreams, but in some deeper, more primal way. What are we looking for exactly? Marcus asked, glancing around the empty park. I don’t know, Eleanor admitted. some kind of connection, a sign.

 They walked the perimeter of where the house would have stood based on the old photographs and maps. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, just a peaceful park on a quiet street in Salem. As they completed their circuit, Ellaner’s phone chimed with a notification, an email. She opened it already knowing what she would find.

 The sender was listed as sisters. The subject line read, “Come home.” The body of the email contained an address in Salem. Not the park where they stood, but a location several blocks away. “We shouldn’t go,” Marcus said immediately. “This has gone far enough. We should call the police.” “And tell them what,” Ellaner asked.

 “That we’re receiving mysterious emails directing us to an address in Salem, that we think it’s connected to century old dolls that keep disappearing. They already think this is some elaborate hoax.” Before Marcus could argue further, Elellanar was already walking toward the street, determined to follow the cryptic instruction.

 After a moment’s hesitation, he hurried after her. The address led them to an old Victorian house on a quiet residential street. Not the grand mansion that the Blackwoods had occupied, but a smaller, more modest home that nonetheless had a similar architectural style.

 It was well-maintained, with a neat garden and freshly painted trim, clearly still occupied. We can’t just knock on someone’s door based on a mysterious email. Marcus protested as they stood on the sidewalk looking up at the house. But before Eleanor could respond, the front door opened. An elderly woman stood in the doorway, leaning on a cane. She looked at them with clear, sharp eyes that held a hint of amusement.

“I’ve been expecting you, Dr. Wright,” she called. “Please come in, both of you.” Exchanging bewildered glances, Eleanor and Marcus approached the house. As they climbed the steps to the porch, Eleanor felt a sense of deja vu so strong it nearly made her dizzy. I’m sorry. Do we know each other? She asked the elderly woman.

 Not yet, the woman replied with a smile. But we have a mutual acquaintance. Two, in fact, she stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. My name is Margaret Bennett. Dr. Harold Bennett was my father. The interior of the house was a curious blend of modern comforts and carefully preserved historical elements.

 Margaret led them to a sitting room where afternoon sunlight streamed through leaded glass windows, illuminating shelves of books and family photographs. “Please sit,” she said, lowering herself carefully into an armchair. “I imagine you have questions.” “How did you know we were coming?” Eleanor asked, perching on the edge of a sofa.

 “How did you even know who I am?” Margaret smiled, the expression crinkling the corners of her eyes. “The same way I knew you would eventually find them. It was foretold long ago. “Find who?” Marcus asked, unable to hide his confusion. “The sisters,” Margaret replied simply. “The dolls that have been separated for so long.

 My father took one of them from the sanitarium after Amelia died, believing he could prevent the tragedy from repeating. He kept it locked away for decades, but he could never bring himself to destroy it. When he was dying, he donated it to the university, thinking it would be safer in a public place.” “And the other doll?” Elellanar asked, though she already suspected the answer. Isabelle remained with Amelia until the end. Margaret said softly.

When the child died, the doll simply disappeared. No one could explain it, but my father always believed it was still out there, searching for its sister. She rose slowly, moving to a cabinet against the far wall. From it, she withdrew a small wooden box intricately carved with symbols that Elellanar didn’t recognize.

 This belonged to the old woman in Romania who created the dolls, Margaret explained, returning to her seat with the box. My father obtained it years later after tracking down the source of what he came to believe was a curse. Inside is the truth about the sisters. With aged but steady hands, she opened the box.

 Inside lay a yellowed parchment covered in handwritten text in what appeared to be Romanian, accompanied by strange symbols and diagrams. I had it translated, Margaret said, removing a second, newer sheet of paper. It tells of two sisters in a Romanian village in the 1800s. They were inseparable in life, but one was accused of witchcraft and executed.

 The surviving sister, consumed by grief and rage, sought out an old woman known for her knowledge of the dark arts. Together, they performed a ritual to bind the sister’s spirits to twin dolls crafted in their likeness. But such magic always has a price. The dolls could never be separated or tragedy would follow.

 Elellaner listened, mesmerized by the story and its eerie parallels to what had happened to the Blackwood family. When Henry and Catherine Blackwood purchased the dolls in 1911, they were warned never to separate them. Margaret continued, but Catherine, sensing something unnatural about the dolls, hid one away, keeping only Isabelle in the open for Amelia. The hidden doll, the sister, grew angry at this separation. The fire that killed the Blackwoods was no accident.

 It was retribution. You can’t possibly believe that. Marcus interjected. It’s just a folk tale, a superstition. Margaret fixed him with a steady gaze. My father was a man of science just like you. He spent years trying to find a rational explanation for what he witnessed at Lakeside Sanitarium.

 In the end, he accepted that some things defy rational explanation. She turned back to Eleanor. You found them again, just as was foretold, Elellanar, named for Amelia’s aunt, descended from the same bloodline. The dolls have been waiting for you. But why me? Eleanor asked, struggling to make sense of it all. What am I supposed to do? Reunite them, of course, Margaret said, as if it were obvious.

 And the separation that has caused so much suffering, as if on Q, there was a sound from upstairs. A soft thud followed by what sounded like footsteps. Margaret smiled unsurprised. They’re here, she said softly. Both of them. They found their way home. Eleanor felt a chill run through her.

 The dolls are here in this house. Margaret nodded. In the attic room where they’ve been waiting for you. Despite Marcus’ protests, Eleanor followed Margaret up the stairs, driven by a compulsion she couldn’t explain. The elderly woman moved slowly but purposefully, leading them to a narrow staircase that accessed the attic.

 “I haven’t been up there in years,” Margaret admitted. Not since my father died. He always kept the room locked. But this morning, I found the door open. At the top of the stairs was a small room with sloped ceilings and a single round window that cast a circle of light on the wooden floor.

 In the center of that circle of light sat two identical porcelain dolls, facing each other as if in conversation, their painted hands almost touching. Eleanor approached slowly, aware of Marcus and Margaret hanging back near the door. The dolls were exactly as they appeared in the photographs from 1911. One in a darker dress with a small discoloration on its hand, the other in a lighter dress with a tiny brooch at its collar.

 Isabelle and her sister together again after more than a century apart. As Ellaner knelt beside them, she felt a strange sense of peace washing over her, replacing the fear and confusion that had driven her investigation. Whatever power these dolls held, whatever tragedy had followed their separation, it seemed to have dissipated now that they were reunited. “It’s over,” Margaret said softly from the doorway. “The circle is complete.

 They won’t trouble anyone again.” Elellanar wasn’t sure if she believed that, but as she looked at the two dolls sitting peacefully in the circle of sunlight. She wanted to. Perhaps this was all they had wanted, to be together again, to end the separation that had caused such suffering. She stood up, turning to join Marcus and Margaret at the door.

 As she did, she caught a movement from the corner of her eye, so slight, so quick that she might have imagined it. One of the dolls, Isabelle, had turned its head just slightly, those painted lips curved in what might have been a smile of gratitude or triumph. Eleanor chose not to mention what she had seen as they descended from the attic.

 Some mysteries, she decided, were better left unresolved. The dolls were together again, and whatever power they held was now contained within that circle of light in Margaret Bennett’s attic. As they prepared to leave, Margaret pressed the wooden box with its translated document into Elellanar’s hands. “Take it,” she insisted.

 “You’ve earned the right to know the full story.” In the car driving back to Cambridge, Marcus finally broke the silence that had fallen between them. “You don’t really believe all that, do you? Cursed dolls, bound spirits, century old prophecies.” Eleanor looked out at the passing landscape, considering her answer carefully.

 I believe that there are forces in this world that we don’t fully understand. Whether you call it a curse, a haunting, or simply the power of belief, something connected those dolls to the Blackwood tragedy. And somehow I was meant to find them again.

 And now that they’re reunited, Marcus asked, “What happens next?” Elellanar thought of that almost imperceptible movement in the attic, the slight turn of a porcelain head, the hint of a smile on painted lips. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I hope for everyone’s sake that Margaret is right, that it’s over now.

” But as they drove away from Salem, Elellaner couldn’t shake the feeling that some stories never truly end. They just wait patiently for the next chapter to begin. In her office at the university the next day, Elellaner found a small plain envelope on her desk. Inside was a photograph, not a digital image or a scan, but an actual photograph printed on paper with a glossy finish.

 It showed the attic room in Margaret Bennett’s house. Sunlight streaming through the round window to illuminate the two dolls, still seated facing each other. But there was something different about them now. Their porcelain hands, which had been nearly touching when Eleanor had seen them, were now clasped together, fingers intertwined in a gesture that seemed almost human.

 On the back of the photograph, written in elegant old-fashioned script, were three simple words: Sisters forever united. Elellaner slipped the photograph into her desk drawer. Underneath a stack of research notes, and turned to her computer. Some mysteries, she decided, were better left unexplored. The dolls had found each other again after more than a century apart. Whatever bound them, curse, magic, or something else entirely, was their secret to keep.

 And as she began typing up her official findings on the Blackwood collection, carefully omitting any mention of moving dolls, mysterious emails, or prophecies fulfilled, Elellanar couldn’t help but smile at the thought of those two porcelain figures sitting together in a circle of sunlight, their long separation finally at an end.