Alice had always been curious. When she inherited her late grandmother's Victorian house, her curiosity grew insatiable. The house was sprawling and old, with creaking floors and shadows that danced in the dim light. But it was the basement that intrigued her the most.
Grandma had always forbidden anyone from going down there, muttering vague warnings about "keeping it sealed." Now, standing at the top of the basement stairs, Alice felt a chill run down her spine.
She hesitated, the key to the basement door cold in her hand. The lock clicked open, and the door creaked as it swung inward. A musty smell wafted up, thick with decay and age. She clicked on her flashlight and began her descent.
The basement was larger than she’d imagined, its stone walls damp and lined with shelves of dust-covered jars. At the far end, she spotted a smaller door, its edges lined with rusted chains that had long since corroded. On the door, scrawled in faded red paint, were the words: “DO NOT OPEN.”
Alice laughed nervously. Probably just Grandma being superstitious, she thought, though her heart pounded as she approached the door.
She tugged at the chains, and with a brittle snap, they gave way. The door creaked open to reveal a pitch-black room. The air was colder here, heavy with an inexplicable sense of dread.
She shone her flashlight inside, and the beam landed on a single object: a wooden chair in the center of the room. On it sat a doll.
The doll was grotesque, its porcelain face cracked and yellowed with age. Its eyes, two black pits, seemed to follow her. Around its neck hung a tag that read, “Say nothing. Leave now.”
Alice snorted. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, stepping closer.
As she reached out to touch the doll, she felt a cold, clammy hand grip her wrist. She screamed, dropping the flashlight, which rolled to the floor and spun, casting frantic beams of light around the room.
The grip tightened, and a voice, low and guttural, whispered from the darkness. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Alice yanked her arm free and stumbled back, only to find the door she’d entered through was gone. The walls closed in, and the room grew darker, the air suffocating.
The doll began to laugh—a hollow, sinister sound that echoed in her ears. As her screams filled the void, the basement fell silent once more.
When the neighbors came looking for Alice weeks later, they found the house empty. In the basement, the door to the small room was chained again, the warning freshly painted.
Inside, on the chair, sat the doll. Its cracked face now bore a faint, malicious grin.
