A few years ago, my best friend went missing. His name was Zach, and he went missing around a few antique shops downtown. A few weeks later, my mother bought a victorian style doll, well I say it was a doll. It was the size of a human, both in height and in width, and something made me uneasy.
I never was afraid of the dolls that my mother bought and stuck around the house. While their odd and lifeless faces were unnerving, I never felt the need to distance myself from them. There was something about this one however, one that mom thought was a good idea to stick in the corner of the living room. I'd ask her to move it in a different room, but she always denied.
"Your father doesn't like the dolls in the kitchen", "They'd be ruined if I put them in the bathroom", "It won't fit in my den" and other reasons she would always give absent-mindedly, as though she had already thought of reasons why not to put it anywhere else.
I kept out of the living room for a while after that. I mostly sta