The Doll by the Window

Hi friend, Welcome to Scary Storage podcast Are You Afraid of Dolls? Following stories are inspired by some of your ideas. I hope they don't scare you too much. My name is Edwin and here is a scary story the doll by the window. It was a long day already and my younger sister was uneasy. Mom had been shopping around that Sunday, just like every week. She was having a good time. The reason why my sister and I went, and probably why Dad went too, was to get to the shop on the corner by the park. None of us knew the place's name, but they had fries and hot dogs that were so good we would grab one and sit by one of the benches. The best part was that they would get me a second thing from it if I asked for it. That was the best feeling ever. My sister had been bugging us to go there already. In One thing we knew for sure was that if we bothered Mom, she would threaten us to skip going to the park. She did that once before, and we looked right at Dad, who simply looked at us with that you heard her look. We both knew, so we did our best. That day, me trying to distract my sister from saying anything. It was when we went past the thrift shop that she started pointing and crying, saying that she wanted the doll by the window. It was a small porcelain doll in a pink dress. It was stained yellow on the end of it, and it was looking at us with faded green eyes and neutral smile, tired, I guess, just like us. Dad agreed to take us inside, and I was excited about that store. Had five dollars in my pocket, and I always found cool stuff in there that went straight to the toy section, old robot toys, remote control cars, gadgets that nobody used anymore, and books, lots and lots of books around the world in eighty days. I read out loud after picking up a paperback that was falling apart, and I was interrupted by a scream from my sister on the other end of the store. Nobody stopped her. She would start blaring her voice like an alarm. Mom had stayed outside, saying she was going to the shop next door to us. Thank goodness. Now Dad had to deal with my sister and the fries and hot dogs were at risk. Were the only customers in there. So the lady from the cash register walked up to Dad and I walked behind her, and then she asked if she could help him with anything. He looked toward the window and pointed at the stand next to her, rolled up map in a flower vase. My sister was trying to hold back her tears. Dad had probably worn her about the consequences already. Miss there was a doll by the window right there. Can we take a look at it? The woman smiled like a reflex and then straightened out her face. She tried to smile again, nervously this time, and then asked Dad to repeat himself. My sister and I noticed how strange this woman was being, and waited patiently holding our breaths. The doll right here by the window? Can we take a look at it? Which one? She asked? Finally, the one that was right there, Dad said, pointing next to the empty flower vase. Had someone purchased it? The whole time we were inside, nobody else came in or left. The woman asked one more time, nearly in tears, you describe the doll, Sir. Dad couldn't get his words out with this woman about to cry in front of us, and I didn't know what to do either. My sister took a few steps toward Dad and grabbed onto the leg of his pants. Dad couldn't remember what the doll looked like, and he looked down at my sister was too scared by the whole thing already. I decided to speak up. She had black hair, pink dress stained at the bottom. Ah, the woman interrupted, taking a few steps back. She really started crying and shaking right there in front of us. Then, after a long pause, she said, I've seen her too. The whole thing seemed so surreal that even Dad didn't know what to say. Suddenly, the doorbell rang and we both looked toward it. Hey, guys, Mom said, walking up to us normally at first, but then slowing down her steps at the uncomfortable situation. Shopkeeper started wiping down her tears and asked if she needed help with anything. Uh no, let's get out of here, Dad whispered to mom. My sister stopped crying and followed both of them out obediently. I walked behind her. My parents walked out of the shop first, as I tried to catch a glimpse of that woman now standing uncomfortably by the counter, nervously trying to smile at us, and turning back to the display by the window where we had just been standing. My parents and my sister stepped out, and the door nearly shut in front of me. The woman looked and waved goodbye, her eyes still holding back tears. I heard a noise behind me, and the woman turned her neck toward the window. The doorchime scared both of us as my dad opened the door and held it open for me and I stepped outside. The last time I stay at my grandparents' house, it was to help my grandma do some of the work that she could no longer do with my grandpa recently gone. There were lots of things to get done, considering the type of person he was. There was a collection of paint buckets and bottles in the garage, tools of all makes and sizes, and just for about everything in the shed, unfinished chairs, the table, and even board games he had made up for us to play. I remembered all of those things, and, unlike most of my friends, I loved going to visit my grandparents. They had a working farm with animals and a few crops here and there that they'd exchange for either other food or money at the farmer's markets on the weekends. That's where Grandpa would also sell some of his fixed up furniture pieces and other things. He had a junk yard too, well, that's what we used to call it. About ten or so cars in the back, some with missing engines and others probably just missing gasoline to get running again, next to some barrels and other things he would collect. Grandma's plan was simply to start cleaning up the place, and against all of her family's wishes, she kept saying that she wanted to get rid of the items because soon she would leave and the mess would probably stay there forever. She was probably right. The soul called junkyard was next. We had a tow truck to use for the day to pull some of the cars out and then take them to a place that recycled this type of stuff by either selling it off as scrap metal or putting it in real junkyards. Grandma cried at one point letting go of those sort of things was tough, even if to most of us they were just things. I could tell she was feeling better by talking it out, telling stories of the objects we were moving the times I had visited before. Boxes of both books were sorted, tools were sold off to some of her neighbors and donated it to places that could use them or make some money off of them. You know, she said, your grandpa gave me a useless box a long time ago. He spent days trying to make it. Supposedly it could be a chair, a table, in a bookstand. Eventually he used it only to hold the soda pop when he was out on the porch. It was useless then, and it is useless now. Then why is it so hard to get rid of it? I looked at her eyes full of experience and heartbreak, those lines marked by laughter. We were reminders of Grandpa. It was the funniest guy around. There really was only one thing that got him, and I was thinking about losing one of us. Or when he talked about my dad's childhood friend, a boy named Robert. Robert and my dad were inseparable. They used to camp out intent in the backyard and eat dinner at each other's houses at least once a week. It seemed like Dad always had a story about him for everything. The time they got caught taking eggs from the neighbor's house, but got chased out by a goose, the time they build a water bottle rocket and broke a car's window. After one of his stories, Dad would look away and then get real quiet because Robert had gone missing. One day, vanished. The local newspaper said, it's like thin air. The days turned two weeks and then two months as the searches went on. Eventually his files at the police department went cold and stored away, just like the memories of Robert in the minds of the people in this town. I think the fear was always there for Dad, And if you were to ask him, which I knew not, he would tell you about how they were playing a game in the backyard with two other kids that were new to the town. It must have been a game of hide and seek, he would say, I'm sure of it. But I was sure it was with that last blue car that one Grandpa had bought an auction and never got it to run where the barrels were. When the truck moved it over and the barrel behind it turned to its side, I found him, the shriveled up body of a boy with a blue cap and black stained shirt likely red at one point, just like the one with Dad stories and the photographs he would show us the things Robert used to like to wear. Some of these stories can really make us think about what's out there. But what if someone in your household already knows. The following story is called my dog Freddy, and that is coming up right after this. Got my dog when I was eight or nine years old, and some of my early pictures are with him. He has pretended to be a service dog to go greet me at the airport and has also saved my life. I was alone at the house back when I was around twelve, with Freddie sleeping on the couch of the living room. Technically he wasn't allowed on there. My mom wasn't home, so it was fine. I was looking for my controller for the PlayStation when I suddenly heard some whispers coming from the side of the house. It was then when I saw a man's face with his hands on the sides of it, staring right through the kitchen window talking to someone else. I panicked and dropped to the floor, my knees against a tile that wouldn't start hurting until a few minutes later. I heard Freddy climbing down from the couch slowly, along with the rumble of his growls as he looked out the window. Now, Freddie was the friendliest dog, greeting other dogs and people when he passed by, but he was scary looking for sure. I was trying to get Freddy to be quiet when I heard the kitchen door begin to rattle violently, as whoever was outside was trying to break in. Freddy wasn't going to wait for it, instead started growling and barking at the door. So I heard a grunt from the outside and I was able to see two men running away through the front yard. Freddie was angry. He growled and scratched the kitchen door, and then ran to the front door to demand to be let out, his growls getting louder by the minute. If I had let him out, though, he probably would have destroyed the burglar's arms and legs. That situation is what made matters more confusing for me and brought him to my new place for about a month. The place I had moved to for college was likely going to be more a permanent thing, and my parents were going out of the country for a vacation, so Freddie was going to move in with me, and I was glad. I hated being alone in that house. At night, I would hear random taps and footsteps coming from the basements, and one time I spent two days after a circuit breaker went out and I couldn't muster up the courage to go down there and flick it back on. Sometimes I would be sleeping when i'd hear a door creak open by itself, and other times I would hear voices coming from under my floorboardsantine whispers I got intermingled with the voices in my dreams. But when Freddy moved in, things got worse. He started leaving his dog bed in the living room and going into my bedroom, sometimes sleeping on the foot of my bed at night. When the noises would come. If we look down toward Freddy and he would sit up on the bed and perk up his ears, staring out toward the doorway, I could hear footsteps too, creaking up the stairs of the basement, and then suddenly stopping. Then the door creaked open once again. Footsteps outside right outside my room were making the floor squeak. Freddy got down from the bed and stood by the door. He wanted to be let out. He scratched and whined and growled until I opened the door, and he took a few steps outside, followed by yelping and barking. At the same time. I stood by the doorframe, unable to see past anything down the hall. When I heard the door to the basement shut and Freddie stopped barking. I called out for him, but there was no response from anywhere. Afflicked on the light to the hallway and then walked up towards the basement door. I swung it open. Freddie ran out and stood behind me, his tail between his legs. I reached behind me to grab him and made sure he was all right. The darkness of the basement visible right in front of me, I could make out a figure from the bottom of the stairs, though the yellow light of the hallway. Was it a woman? She wouldn't move. Freddy sat up straight and growled, once again, ready to attack. I saw that thing take a step toward us. Freddie got louder and I held him back by the collar. He tugged and pulled on it as I leaned back, trying to reach the door with my other hand. As I heard another step creak in front of me. It was getting closer, it was getting faster. My heart beat was in my ears, throbbing with fear. I was able to shut the door finally, as I came to my senses, the thing had seen simply couldn't be. Freddy stood by the doorway just a little while longer, looking out toward the basement door. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling a confused relief, knowing that it had all been a nightmare. As he looked down to Freddy at the foot of my bed, he looked toward me and then put his head back down. I looked the other way, toward the closed door. A chill started to run down my back. There was a line of light around the door that was coming from the hallway. I spent the rest of the night trying to convince myself that I had simply left the light on. Scary Story podcast is written and produced by me Edwin Kowarubaz and you can find me over on Instagram at Edwincove. That's e d w I nc OV A huge thank you for the story ideas over on Twitter too, and if you're on Discord, you can get your own free invite by going to scarypod dot com. Forward slash discord Ord by finding the discord logo on the website Scary story podcast dot com. Don't forget a tap, follow, and to leave a review. Until next time, my friend, Thank you very much for listening.