The old house on the hill isn’t haunted, for all it looks abandoned and for all the dust and the cobwebs.
One never sees any occupant. There is only the occasional visitor drawn to it by some hidden force. When they leave, they seem just fine. There must be no danger, right?
However, if there is no danger, why do the locals only speak of it in hushed whispers? Why the fretful glances when they look toward it at all?
Why do the dolls running errands in town sometimes fix their eyes on it, lingering a moment longer than is justified?
Sometimes, rarely, a doll approaches the house as though called.
Whatever siren song they hear—in some pitch that only reaches dolls’ ears—they do not speak of it with others.
Do they seem changed at all when they depart from that place?
The house’s visitors have a variety of owners. They come in different shapes and sizes. They have little in common.
But when those who have visited that old house cross each other’s path, the look they share seems an awful lot like kinship, doesn’t it?
Can dolls conspire?