Stories About Creepy Haunted Dolls and Other Weirdness
Good evening, it’s Spooky Boo coming to you from the lighthouse in Sandcastle, California. Baby, it’s cold outside and my heater died a horrible death so here I sit with a pound of blankets on me telling you stories. The fog has no mercy on cold feet. Even my spooky collection of dolls are cold and very unhappy. We all know what that means! Eventually they’ll get angry and start to cause mischief! But I’m ready for their little games. They stop when I start telling stories because they enjoy listening. Maybe a few will curl up at my feet and keep them warm.
Today’s first story is about creepy, haunted dolls. I know you’ll enjoy it. Then I have a couple of other truly terrible tales from the Creepypasta library but first I’d like to thank the listeners and Patreon members for their continued support including madjoe, P.A. Nightmares, Ivy Iverson, John Newby, Patrick, and 933TheVolt.com. If you would like to support Spooky Boo’s Scary Story Time, please visit my website at www.scarystorytime.com/support where you will find links to all the different ways to help me bring you scary stories. Click on the submissions tab to find out how you can submit your own stories for me to read.
Now let’s begin…
Beady Black Eyes
“What is your name?”
“Morgana. My name Is Morgana Raynott,” I whispered, my small mouth unmoving and my black eyes staring eerily up at the man in the shadows.
“And why are you here, Morgana?” he murmured, sounding like he was smiling.
“I’m here because you brought me here. Have you forgotten?” I remarked.
“I remember,” he chuckled. “But tell me why I brought you here, tell me your story.”
I would have frowned if I could, why should I tell him anything? But I spoke anyway, something about him made me think it was the best thing to do. So I told him everything, starting with my death.
I lay in my hospital bed crying as my mother and father held my hands and my closest friend from my ballet class frowned at me, trying to hold back her tears. I felt sick, empty even. This was normal though, as three years ago, I was told that I had superior mesenteric artery syndrome. SMAS for short. It made eating painful; I couldn’t keep anything down, vomiting after every meal. I started losing weight. Eventually, I ended up in a hospital, dying of starvation.
I was told there was only a low chance I would die, and yet I did. The heart monitors repeated beeping turned into a single, long, droning sound. My mother let out a loud sob, my father and best friend comforting her, both crying.
I watched them, standing beside my body. I watched them crying there for hours until the doctors finally urged them to leave. I latched onto my mother as they walked out of the room in each other’s arms. They caught a bus home and then walked the remaining way, my incorporeal body floating behind them.
My mother went to her room to sleep away her sadness, so I followed my father who went to his workshop.
He created and sold ball-jointed dolls for a living. Previously he had made a few for me, but I never appreciated them as much as I should have. He pulled a picture of me out of his wallet and started sketching concept art for a doll of me. Tears stained the paper but he didn’t stop, moving to start sculpting as soon as possible.
It seemed he wanted to properly represent my poor health, as he made sure to show how skinny I had been. But he did something odd when creating the eyes. Instead of using his usual method, he used black resin to create them, making me look even more sickly and creepy than I had really been. I chalked it up to my father’s deteriorating mental state. He frequently had hallucinations, so I guessed that the eyes were one of them.
It was odd but I continued to watch him for hours upon hours. My mother came and went, giving him food and small kisses on the cheek, It was bittersweet to watch.
Finally, my body was done, 26-inches tall with gorgeous detail. My father had a talent for making clay look soft like skin, even without the airbrushed blush.
He made a wig to mimic my hair in a bun, then made a black leotard and a skirt out of white tule. I had worn the exact outfit for my very last performance.
When he finished the doll, he took it into my old room and placed it on the bed. He left and I stayed there latching onto the doll and eventually possessing it.
Time passed and I became dormant. I knew I could move, I had before. I moved my hand while my father was looking at me to see how he might react. It scared him, as I should have guessed. It took a while before either of my parents came to see me again after that.
So I remained still, it didn’t have the same discomforts as it would have if I was still alive. After a long time, I fell asleep, if you could call it that.
I awoke to being picked up by my parents who smiled sadly at me then placed me in a box filled with scrunched up newspaper and other fragile ornaments. The box was closed and for a moment I panicked but it didn’t take long for me to realize I was fine.
About a week or so later I was taken out of the box and placed on a shelf in an unfamiliar room; clearly my parents had moved. After finding nothing of interest I returned to my dormant sleep.
Time passed quickly as my parents grew old and I collected a thick layer of dust. I remained dormant for a long time, until one sorrowful night.
My parents were watching old recordings on the TV after dinner when there was a loud crash from the kitchen, the sound of a window breaking. My father ran to go see what happened, he quickly returned and grabbed my mother, who was now standing, by the shoulders and told her to leave. But they weren’t quick enough.
It happened so quickly. Two gunshots, two thuds, and two corpses. My parents had died, murdered in cold blood. I expected to see their ghosts or something similar, like what had happened to me, but my hopes were in vain. The murderer got away with a few valuable items in his bag. He paid no mind to me as I stared at my parent’s lifeless bodies. despite not needing to, I took a deep, exaggerated breath and screamed as loud as I could. What else would I do, I had just watched my two favorite people die. Sure, my parents were overprotective and my dad was a bit odd, but I had loved them. I had loved them enough to will my soul to stay on Earth and watch over them.
I cried for hours, finally knowing what my parents felt like when I had died. Eventually, I decided to do what my mother had done after my own death. I slept away the grief and pain.
I next awoke when someone new picked me off the shelf and placed me in yet another box. This time I was much wearier and I stayed awake. It turned out that I was going to be sold at an auction. I had no clue what happened to dead people’s unclaimed property so I assumed it was normal.
I was bought by a young woman who took me home and put me on another shelf, with plenty of other dolls. I was treated nicely, occasionally cleaned and dusted off.
Though it wasn’t long before the poor girl decided to hang herself in her own room. Thinking back on it, I had noticed signs of depression and suicidal thoughts from the girl.
Once again I was sold, this time at a second-hand store for $2, no less! $2! And once again I was bought, by an elderly woman with a nice face. Though something was different; this time, I was anticipating her death, looking forward to it even. When she finally died of old age, it made feel warm and fuzzy inside.
The cycle repeated, found, sold, witnessed death, repeat. Each time, I enjoyed it a little more. Then one day I decided to be a witness wasn’t enough, I wanted to orchestrate the death myself. I planned it out; at night I would climb off the desk I was placed on and steal a small knife from the kitchen, a steak knife preferably. Then I would climb onto the victim’s bed and stab them in the side of the neck.
So I did. I used the chair to help myself off of the desk I sat on, then crept out of the room to find the kitchen. I used the handles of the drawers as a ladder so I could climb atop the bench and open the knife drawer. I took the biggest knife my fragile little hands could hold and gently dropped it onto the floor so I could follow after it. Returning to the bedroom knife in hand, I climbed onto a chest at the end of the bed and slowly made my way up to the victim’s head. I stared at them for a moment, thinking about all the deaths I had seen and all the ones I would soon cause.
Without a second thought, I plunged the knife into their neck and watched them bleed out. The blood oozed onto the bed and when I wriggled the knife out, it sprayed everywhere, covering my clothes. I put the knife into the victim’s lifeless hand and lay down beside them to let the cycle continue.
“Why did you buy me? You don’t seem to have an interest in dolls… So did you know? Did you know I was in here?” I questioned quietly.
“I knew,” the obscure man replied, his sly voice thick and enticing. “Surrealist knows everything, child.” Blinking his single metallic eye at me. He took me in his hand and dropped me into a toy box, closing the lid and locking it.
A Bag of Candy
As a little girl, I was always fascinated by plays, musicals, and in general, the arts. Having a talent for acting early on, I didn’t so much want to become famous as I wanted to entertain. Not only did I want to act, I wanted to know the workings of the whole shebang. Just as much as an actor remembering their lines, lighting was important, cues were important, and generally, forming the correct environment for pleasant viewing happened to be part of what I wanted to learn.
The stage at my college was built long ago, and to be honest, I’m not quite sure when. It’s located inside a place called “Shilling Hall” in the university I attended. I do recall mention of it being renovated in the 1953. It’s very old fashioned, though, and it is meant to host live performances. There are rows upon rows of seats and above it all is a huge balcony for other people to watch from. I’ve never seen the place packed, but I’m hoping the next time I act, it will be.
There are all kinds of rumors that this place is haunted, but of course, I’ve never seen any evidence, and being the type of person I am, I won’t believe anything until I see it. Previously, I’d seen people going up onto the balcony and leaving a few pieces of candy on the rail for this “ghost”. I honestly think the cleanup crew would just pick it up and toss it, so it was a waste of time in my opinion.
Now see, this “ghost” was described as a little brown haired girl, about seven is what most people guessed, with her hair cut into a bob. She wears a white dress with a pink tie around it. She is simply called “The Rail Girl” due to appearing near the balcony rail to those who have seen her. I didn’t used to believe in her, but I certainly changed my mind after a few events.
A friend and I were chatting over lunch one day, and he, being quite superstitious, believed in the paranormal. He was yammering on about why that girl might be there. Like she could havee been a victim of rape or murder and she was built into the walls, or she might’ have fallen from the balcony to her death. I rolled my eyes. I highly doubted there was a ghost at all, so I told him, quite simply. “Ryan, shut up and eat your sandwich,” and he proceeded to with a sheepish grin. He knew I didn’t believe him, but he always came to me with his harebrained ideas.
As time passed I worked in the auditorium, cleaning things up and checking the stage. I preferred the role of an actress, so I wanted to see how things worked and operate things just in case I didn’t land a good role in the play or one of the newbies needed a guiding hand. I was sweeping up the stage, although it wasn’t really that much of a mess, but I wanted it looking great for the next performance. I thought I heard footsteps. I’ll note that these were not those typical “heavy footfalls” that you mentioned in most scary stories. It sounded like a child running. I stopped for a moment and heard nothing. I couldn’t discern which direction it was coming from, so I assumed that Ryan had left a tape player on behind the curtain to give me some of that evidence that I would require to believe any of this. I didn’t hear the sound anymore, but I still checked behind the curtains and in other areas where most wouldn’t lend a glance to for a source of the sound. I found nothing.
I spent a few times in that theater alone, cleaning up and simply surveying the area for anything being amiss. Most nights were mundane. Nothing happened, and any ideas of The Rail Girl left my mind. I did, however, realize my cellular phone went missing. I gave an annoyed little huff and started searching for it. I DID know where I left it, and it wasn’t’t there when I checked. I only found it when it began to glow and vibrate from a text I received. It was sitting on the arm of one of the chairs in the auditorium, and I knew that’s not where I left it. That’s not where the weirdness ends, either.
One night, when I was going to get my things out of the dressing room after a rehearsal, I heard weeping. I froze in my tracks, only looking around to see if I could find the source. I shouted in anger at whoever was the cause of the sound. “Stop it! This isn’t funny!” I admit it, I was a little scared. The weeping stopped, but I still had that awkward feeling of being watched.
Ryan and I were working together on the stage later. We were setting up for another play’s rehearsal. He left a few pieces of candy on the rail. I laughed to myself, viewing it as some sort of ritual sacrifice. As we were setting up, the fog machine started to run by itself. Ryan’s eyes bulged and he ran to turn it off. It wasn’t even on. Furthermore, it wasn’t even plugged in. He decided that maybe three pieces weren’t enough and scurried over to leave her half the bag. Needless to say, I wasn’t giggling anymore.
A few nights later, I got on stage to practice with the others in the play. Ryan, who mostly just played minor roles and made props, as he was creative in that way, just spoke up to our leading lady. “Hey Karen, did you bring any candy for The Rail Girl?” I didn’t say anything. I had a sneaking suspicion that she was real, not that I would give Ryan any of that glory of knowing. Karen just laughed scornfully after a scoff. “Why would I leave candy for a stupid ghost? I bet it’s not even real!” I kept quiet. That’s about the same way I felt a couple of months ago. The rehearsal went mostly as planned. I had no idea why they picked Karen for the leading role, but I figured (as bad as it sounds) that she got it by coercing our teacher in the most lewd of ways. She was rumored to be a slut. I did manage to keep up with my actions and lines, despite her emotionless acting. Just as she was getting off the stage at the end of the rehearsal, I almost let out a frightful cry. Two pale hands reached through the steps and she didn’t even notice as their fingers curled around her ankle until it was far too late.
Those little fingers tightened around her ankle and she stumbled in attempt to get free of them. Her feet were pulled from under her before she could utter a single sound and all I could do was stand back and watch. As she fell, I saw those tiny pale hands retreat into the wood of the steps and vanish without a trace. I heard a sickening crack as her head connected with the solid floor. I was terrified. Although I didn’t like Karen, I didn’t want her hurt, or even worse, dead. Fortunately, I saw no blood pooling, but I could tell by the way her hands landed that she had tried to catch herself. After being looked over by one student that wanted to be a doctor and was simply acting as a hobby, he noted that she was just knocked out. She came to a few minutes later, rattling on about how someone tripped her. I could have sworn I heard a little giggle, but perhaps it was just my imagination…
After Karen’s injury, she said she wouldn’t return to the theater, so I was to fill in for her role. I was happy about that much. Not so disturbed by the ghost, but made somewhat nervous, I still practiced with a strange feeling of someone watching me. A few thoughts ran through my head. Should I have brought candy? I didn’t let it disturb my practice. I had most of my lines memorized and I could ad-lib some things with decent success. It was moments before a little girl just peeked her head in the back door of the theater and looked around and fled. She fit the descriptions I had heard, but I continued to act. I dug around in my purse and left a small bag of candy on the rail before I left. I did the same thing the day of the play and all went smoothly.
Weeks later, I was working in the balcony control room, messing around with the lights and whatnot, simply figuring out how they worked. I was also reading a book and studying in there, simply because the girls that I shared a dorm with would probably be loud, drunk, and obnoxious at this hour. I told a few of my friends where I would be, so as I heard a knock on the door, I went to answer it, thinking I might be needed for something. I opened the door and saw nothing at first, until I looked down. A little girl with short brown hair peered up to me, as if expecting something.
“Can I help you?”
She stared at me, swaying back and forth in her white dress. She gave me a simple answer. “No.”
She vanished before my eyes. I was spooked. I didn’t go there alone after that.
I still go to that theater some days, and occasionally even act there, but every time I remember The Rail Girl and I make sure that I leave her a bag of candy. I can’t say I don’t believe in ghosts anymore, but I can certainly say that she made my time in college quite interesting.
Disembodied Man
What I’m about to tell you, you won’t find it on any news outlet. It’s not in the newspaper, it’s not on any blog site, and for good reason. The government made sure that no trace of this event remained. But I remember. How could I forget?
I was a policeman back then. We were called to a warehouse on the outskirts of… well, I won’t say where. It was a dark, stormy night and we all knew the situation was bad. Kidnapping, hostage situation, we just didn’t know who organised it. It was worse than anything we had dealt with before.
We arrived outside the warehouse. Five patrol cars were already parked, and about 20 guys had their guns pointed at the building while another guy tried to negotiate using a megaphone. We had been instructed to go inside and try to rescue the hostages. We split into 3 groups. Of course, I got told to search the basement of the warehouse with 5 other cops.
What we saw, Jesus Christ, horrifying doesn’t even begin to cover it. Nearly 200 people, gagged and bound to chairs, being forced to watch a video on a screen like some sort of demented school assembly. And the video, God… I don’t even want to describe it, but I’ll try.
It kept flashing this image of a man strapped into some kind of torture mask. His mouth was held open by metal hooks, as were his eyes. There was this horrible droning sound coming from the speakers, coupled with the flashing images, I wanted to be sick.
By the corner of the room, there were two figures. One was playing a grand piano, the other was slowly dancing like a ballerina. They were mostly shrouded in darkness, I couldn’t see their faces. But clearly these were the sick jerks who had orchestrated this.
Maybe it was fear. But I just had this feeling that something was wrong with these figures. Their fingers were too long. Their backs were too hunched. Their limbs were too spindly. I just aimed my gun and started firing. And then the rest of my group joined in. We shot at the two figures in the corner until our magazines were empty. When the smoke cleared, they were nowhere to be found.
Next we shot the projector and speakers to stop the video and sound.
The leader of our group started to untie one of the hostages. Her skin was pale, and according to our leader, stone cold. Her eyes were bloodshot and crusted vomit stained the edges of her mouth. She didn’t respond to any of our questions, didn’t even flinch when one of our group fired his gun in the air. That video had done something to her.
We checked another hostage. And another. They had all been traumatized, and in the same way. Our leader said, and I remember exactly what he said.
“They can’t be saved. Johnson, reload your gun.”
Then we did it. We shot every single one of them, right there on the spot. All 200 of them. At the time it felt good, like we were setting them free. Maybe it was the right thing to do. But it haunts me. We told our sergeant that they were dead when we found them. He believed us.
Then the haunting started. All 5 members of our group experienced the same thing. We’d hear a male voice speaking right behind us. It was hard to tell what they were saying. Sometimes it was laughter, sometimes it sounded like they cursed under their breath. But when we turned around to see what it was, nothing was there.
We all thought it was just some kind of trauma from what had happened, or guilt playing with our subconscious. But we didn’t tell anyone, we couldn’t risk the truth getting out.
Then the haunting got worse. Books would fall off shelves while we weren’t around, my dog growled at me and almost tried to bite me. I considered taking him to animal therapy before I realized he was staring behind me. When I went to sleep, I’d hear gunshots and the muffled voices of my teammates.
Then one day I stayed home from work. I’d been feeling sick for the past couple days, no doubt related to the incident.
The next day I came into work, and clearly something had happened. I asked my friend Anthony. What he said chilled me to the bone…
Apparently my other 4 teammates went out on patrol, but their car veered off the side of the road. When emergency services arrived, they said each man had been killed in a grisly way. One had a power drill embedded in his jaw, one had been eviscerated, seemingly from the inside, one was found with his head facing backwards, and the last one was found in a catatonic state. I knew what that meant. He had been traumatized, just like the hostages we killed.
The most horrific part was that I was supposed to be in that car.
It was the hostages, or at least their ghosts. It had to be.
I knew I had to make amends, or apologize to the spirits, or whatever bullshit you find in the ghost stories. I went to the warehouse, late at night. I went down into the basement. Exactly how we left it. Two hundred empty chairs, blood covering the floors. I brought a can of gasoline and I burned that warehouse to the ground.
The haunting stopped after that night.
That was about 7 years ago. Now you know what happened.
