The S*x Doll That Impregnated My Wife And Our Maid
Episode 1

The rain had not stopped all afternoon. I ducked into the antique shop only to escape the downpour, but the moment I stepped inside I felt as though I had entered a different century. Dust hung in the air like smoke, and hundreds of strange objects stared back at me from the shelves—typewriters, clocks, faded portraits of people who looked half-alive in the dim light.

Then I saw it.
A porcelain doll sitting alone on a cracked wooden chair. Its face was chipped, but the eyes—glass and startlingly lifelike—seemed untouched by time. They gleamed blue even in the gray light. Something about them whispered take me.

The old man behind the counter noticed my gaze.
“You want that?” he asked.
I nodded.
He shook his head. “You can have it, but don’t bring it back. And don’t let it sleep in a room by itself.”

I laughed. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer. He just muttered, “It doesn’t like being alone.”

I thought it was superstition, the kind of folklore that keeps customers entertained. I paid and carried the doll home through the rain.

Ada, my wife, was in the kitchen when I came in. Our maid, Ifeoma, was mopping the floor. The moment they saw what I held, both stopped moving.

Ada frowned. “Please tell me you didn’t buy that thing.”
Ifeoma shivered. “Sir, it’s looking at me.”
“It’s a doll,” I said, trying to laugh. “It can’t look at anyone.”

But even as I said it, the air in the room felt heavier, like the walls had drawn closer. I placed the doll on a shelf in the living room. Its glass eyes caught the reflection of the lightbulb and seemed to shimmer.

That night the first sound came.
A faint lullaby, the kind sung to cradle a child to sleep, drifted through the house. Ada thought it was the neighbor’s radio. I told her it must be the wind.
But at midnight the song grew clearer, and both of us heard tiny footsteps on the stairs. When I turned on the lights—nothing. Only the doll, sitting perfectly still, head slightly tilted toward us.

Over the next few days, the atmosphere in the house began to change.
Ada became pale and weak, waking every morning with dark circles under her eyes. Ifeoma started complaining of nausea and dizziness. Both women said they couldn’t sleep; they kept dreaming of a child knocking on their bedroom door, asking softly, “Can I come in now?”

I tried to dismiss it as coincidence until I realized they were describing the same dream, word for word.

I moved the doll into the storage room. The next morning, it was back on the living-room shelf. I accused Ifeoma of touching it, but she swore she hadn’t. Her hands were trembling as she spoke.
“Sir,” she said, “last night I heard it breathing.”

By the end of the week, Ada and Ifeoma refused to stay alone in any room with the doll. They began to whisper together, sharing their fears in voices too low for me to hear. Ada told me she felt something moving under her skin; Ifeoma said she sometimes saw a shadow bending over her while she slept.

I tried to reason with them, but deep down I was afraid too.
Because every night I felt someone watching me. Sometimes, when I passed a mirror, my reflection seemed a second slower to move.

One evening I found Ada crying in the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She pointed toward the hallway. “I heard a baby crying there. But when I went, it stopped. It always stops when I look.”

Her words echoed in my mind all night.

I decided to take the doll back to the shop.
But when I returned to the address, the building was gone—an empty lot stood in its place, the ground covered with weeds and debris. There was no sign an antique shop had ever existed.

I drove home in silence. As soon as I opened the front door, I heard laughter—soft, childish laughter—coming from the living room. The doll was sitting on the table, facing the door, as if waiting for me.

Ada and Ifeoma stood behind it, their faces pale and frightened.
They spoke together, voices overlapping like one echoing the other.
“We both feel it,” Ada whispered. “Something’s inside us. We don’t know what it is.”

I wanted to tell them they were imagining things, that fear was playing tricks on them.
But at that exact moment the lights flickered, and in the darkness I heard the same lullaby again—closer this time, clearer, sung by a voice that knew my name.

When the lights came back on, the doll’s mouth was slightly open, as though it had been singing.

THE DOLL THAT DESTROYED MY WIFE AND OUR MAID — BUT I WAS THE ONE WHO BROUGHT IT HOME
Episode 2

Morning arrived, but it brought no peace.
The house smelled of damp dust and candle smoke, though none of us had burned a candle. Ada refused to enter the living room. Ifeoma would only clean during daylight and never turned her back on the shelf where the doll sat.

I tried to act calm, to show them that reason still existed here, but even I jumped at every creak. When I passed the mirror in the hallway, the reflection behind me seemed to shimmer—as if someone else was standing just out of sight.

That evening, I locked the doll in a wooden box and sealed it with nails. I left the box in the store room and told everyone to stay away from it.
Yet, in the middle of the night, I heard tapping. Slow, deliberate tapping from inside the walls—three knocks, a pause, then three more.

I went to the store room and froze. The lid of the box was open.
The doll was sitting on top of it, hands folded neatly in its lap, staring straight at the door.

Behind me Ada whispered, “You can’t keep it shut away. It wants to be with us.”

The next morning, Ada’s fever began.
She lay in bed, sweating, mumbling about a child’s voice that kept calling her name. Ifeoma sat at her bedside, trembling. “Sir,” she said, “we both feel the same sickness. Maybe the doll is alive.”
Her words filled me with dread. I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

When I touched Ada’s hand, she shivered violently. Her pulse raced as though something invisible was running through her veins.
That night, she woke screaming. The doll was on the bed beside her, though I had thrown it into the garden hours earlier.

Desperation drove me to the library in town. I spent hours searching through dusty local archives until I found a photograph that turned my stomach.
In 1912, a family had lived in a house near that old antique district—a man, his wife, and their little daughter. One stormy night the child vanished. The only thing left in her room was a porcelain doll with blue eyes.
The mother lost her mind. She claimed she could still hear the girl singing through the doll. The father burned the house down.

The article ended with a line that made my hands shake: “The doll was never recovered.”

I drove home under a sky bruised with thunder. When I entered the house, I heard voices whispering from the corridor. Ada and Ifeoma were sitting on the floor, holding hands, both whispering to the same invisible listener.

“A child wants to come in,” Ada murmured.
“She says she belongs here,” Ifeoma added.

When they saw me, their eyes were distant, unfocused, as if they were listening to something behind me rather than to me. I turned slowly. The doll was there, at my feet.

Its head tilted, and the faintest sound came from its open mouth—a sigh, or maybe a breath.

The electricity cut out. The house sank into blackness.
I lit a candle, and the flame bent sideways though there was no wind.
In that trembling light, the shadows on the wall shifted. One of them—smaller than the rest—moved on its own, the shape of a little girl holding out her hand.

“Daddy,” the voice whispered from the dark, “you brought me home.”

The candle went out.

I don’t know how long I stayed frozen. When the lights returned, Ada and Ifeoma were gone.
Only the doll remained on the floor where I’d been standing, its dress smeared with something that looked like ash.

I felt the house breathing around me—walls expanding, floors groaning—as though it had been waiting for me to be alone.