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laurafaritos · 2 months ago

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Playtime's Over: A Haunting Tale of Isolation and Horror

So, I wrote this story, and honestly??? It’s creepy as hell. Picture this: a lonely teenager, Melanie, finds an old Ouija board in her attic and decides to mess around with it (bad idea, right?). Next thing you know, her childhood doll, Lulu, becomes the vessel for a demonic entity. At first, it’s just unsettling whispers and subtle movements, but things spiral fast. Like, “knife on the dining table and scratches you can’t explain” fast.

What starts as an innocent distraction from Melanie’s isolation becomes a full-blown nightmare, with no one around to help or even notice her cries for help. It’s spooky, heartbreaking, and way too relatable if you’ve ever felt ignored or dismissed. Think The Babadook meets The Haunting of Hill House, but with a haunted doll that will ruin your childhood memories of toys forever.

If you’ve ever wondered how neglect and silence can create monsters—both literal and metaphorical—this one’s for you. Click below to read "Playtime’s Over", written by yours truly!!! A few things I would like to hear from you:

Do you mess around with Ouija boards???

Would anyone notice if you were possessed???

The Ouija board sits in front of me like it’s judging my life choices.

Cheap plastic, straight from a thrift store’s discount shelf.

Probably cursed by dust mites more than demons, but hey, here I am.

Sixteen years old, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor.

About to summon Satan with a single candle for ambiance.

Peak decision-making skills.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I mutter, placing the planchette in the center.

My fingers hover over it, barely touching, as if that’ll keep things less terrifying.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

Lulu, my childhood doll, stares at me from where she’s propped against the wall.

Her chipped blue eyes catch the candlelight, giving her an unearned level of creepiness.

I swear she wasn’t this unsettling when I was five.

“Is anyone there?”

My voice comes out louder than I mean, echoing against the stillness of the room.

Great, now I’m spooked by my own echo.

Fantastic start.

Nothing happens.

Not that I expect it to.

I almost laugh at myself for trying, but the air feels heavier suddenly, like the room’s holding its breath. The candle flickers.

A draft, maybe?

Or ghosts.

Definitely ghosts.

The planchette twitches.

I freeze.

Did I do that? No.

Definitely not.

My fingers are barely grazing it.

I pull my hands away, and it keeps moving.

Slow, deliberate, like it’s dragging itself across the board.

It stops on the letter H.

A chill spiders down my spine.

“Okay, very funny,” I say out loud, though I’m alone.

Maybe the house is tilted.

Maybe I’m just losing it.

Or maybe my $3 Ouija board came with bonus poltergeist DLC.

The planchette moves again.

This time, faster.

Then L.

Then L and O.

My breath catches as it spells out: HELLO.

My mouth is dry.

“Right. Cool. Great. Hello to you too, demon customer service,”

I mutter, because humor is apparently my survival instinct.

“What do you want?”

The candle sputters violently, its light stretching shadows across the walls.

The planchette jolts under my gaze, sliding sharply to one word:

STAY.

And just like that, the candle dies, plunging the room into darkness. I scramble to my feet, heart hammering. The silence presses against my ears, thick and smothering, and then I hear it: soft and high-pitched, like a child’s giggle.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I fumble for the light switch, my hands trembling. When I finally flick it on, the room floods with harsh fluorescent light. I turn toward Lulu, ready to laugh at myself for being ridiculous, but the laugh dies in my throat.

She’s not where I left her.

Lulu’s sitting upright on the edge of my bed now, her head tilted slightly, like she’s curious. Her blue eyes glint in the artificial light, unblinking.

My stomach knots. I force myself to breathe. “Okay,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone—or anything—else. “You’re just a doll. This is fine. Totally fine.”

But the room doesn’t feel fine. It feels… heavy. Like Lulu’s watching me. And for the first time tonight, I don’t feel like I’m joking anymore.

🖤

I wake up the next morning pretending last night didn’t happen.

Nothing like daylight to gaslight yourself into thinking demons aren’t real. Lulu’s back in her spot against the wall, looking as lifeless as ever, and I convince myself.

I imagined the whole thing.

Maybe I’m overtired.

Or losing it.

Both are equally comforting.

I make my way to the kitchen for breakfast, yawning as I go.

My mom’s already left for work—no surprise there.

So it’s just me and my brain full of probably fine denial.

Then I see her.

Lulu’s sitting on the kitchen counter.

Not slumped over or knocked around, but sitting upright.

Like she got tired of waiting for me to wake up and decided to host a cooking show.

Her plastic arms rest casually against a coffee mug, and I could swear her head’s tilted at an angle that screams, “good morning! I made coffee but drank it all because I hate you.”

I freeze mid-step, my breath catching in my throat. My first thought: This has to be a prank. My second thought: Who the hell would go through this much effort just to mess with me? The answer? No one. I don’t have the kind of friends—or life—that involves coordinated supernatural hijinks.

“Okay, funny,” I mutter, trying to keep my voice steady. “Real original, Lulu. What’s next? Breakfast in bed?”

She doesn’t answer, obviously. That stupid mug stays balanced in her little plastic arms like she’s waiting for applause.

“Right,” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds more like a wheeze.

“You win. Congrats, I’m officially creeped out.”

I cross the room and grab her by the waist.

I march her back to my room like a bad sitcom dad disciplining his unruly kid.

“Time out for you, Miss Spooky.”

I drop her unceremoniously onto my bed, half-expecting her to land upright like some kind of gymnast, but she just flops over, lifeless again. See? Just a stupid doll. Nothing to worry about.

I turn to leave, shaking my head at myself. “You’re losing it, Mel. Seriously. Get some sleep.”

Then I hear it.

A faint scritch-scratch sound, like nails dragging across fabric. My heart leaps into my throat as I whip around, eyes darting to the source. It’s her. It’s Lulu.

Her tiny plastic fingers are moving—barely, but enough to scrape against my comforter in slow, deliberate strokes.

The air feels thick, heavy. My legs don’t want to move, but my brain screams, “run, idiot!”

I don’t need to be told twice. I bolt for the door, slamming it shut behind me and leaning against it like that’ll actually keep her in. My chest heaves, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

From the other side of the door, the faint sound of giggling creeps through the silence.

High-pitched. Childlike. It makes my skin crawl.

“Nope,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. “Absolutely not.”

I back away from the door, every muscle in my body tense, and retreat to the living room. Lulu stays behind, but her presence lingers, heavy and suffocating, like a shadow that’s learned how to breathe.

By the next morning, I’ve convinced myself it’s over.

Maybe Lulu’s giggling was just… I don’t know.

Pipes? Wind? Ghost squirrels? Something normal.

I avoid my room like it owes me money, grabbing clothes and books on a need-to-enter basis. My mom doesn’t notice. She’s too busy yelling about leaving dirty dishes in the sink, which is funny, considering she’s the only one who cooks. But whatever, Mom. Sure.

Then it happens again.

I come home from school to find my textbooks—once piled neatly on my desk—stacked into some kind of wobbly tower. Like, Jenga meets poltergeist.

A slow chill creeps up my spine as I stare at them. I didn’t do this.

I know I didn’t. But my brain tries to rationalize anyway.

Maybe an earthquake?

Except I live in a part of the world where earthquakes are about as common as UFO sightings.

“Okay, Lulu,” I say out loud, forcing a laugh.

“Nice try. Ten out of ten for effort. Zero for creativity.”

My voice wavers, which really sells the confidence.

The next time it’s worse.

I walk into my room to find the window open.

Wide open. The curtains billow softly, like someone’s been here.

Like someone wanted me to notice.

Except I never open my window. Ever.

I lock it. Always.

I slam it shut, latching it twice for good measure, but the weight in my chest doesn’t go away. My pulse drums in my ears. “Just a breeze,” I whisper to myself, trying to sound like I believe it.

“It’s fine. Totally fine.”

But I don’t feel fine. I feel watched.

The worst part is Lulu.

She’s not just sticking to my room anymore.

She’s mobile now, showing up in random places like she’s auditioning for Creepy Doll World Tour. I find her in the bathroom one morning, propped up on the sink like she’s brushing her nonexistent teeth. Another day, she’s on the couch, positioned like she’s binge-watching Netflix.

The worst, though, is the dining table.

I come home late one night, half-asleep, and flick on the kitchen light.

There she is, sitting at the head of the table, her plastic hands resting in her lap.

There’s a knife balanced precariously between her little arms.

I freeze, the air in my lungs turning to stone.

My vision blurs, but not before my brain offers up the most unhelpful commentary possible:

Well, guess dinner’s canceled.

I swallow hard, my legs locked in place.

The knife glints under the overhead light, daring me to move.

I don’t want to. I can’t.

Eventually, I force my feet to shuffle forward, grabbing Lulu by the waist like she’s contaminated. “This is getting old,” I mutter, my voice shaking. “And you’re not as funny as you think.”

She doesn’t answer. Obviously. But the weight of her little plastic body feels different this time—heavier, colder. I drop her on my bed, not bothering to say anything else, and leave the room as fast as I can.

The giggling starts again that night. Faint at first, like it’s coming from the next room. Then louder, echoing in my head until I can’t tell if it’s real or just my imagination.

I don’t sleep. Not really. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of laughter that isn’t mine.

By now, I’ve mastered the art of pretending I’m fine. At school, I plaster on a smile that says, Look! Totally normal teen! No haunted dolls here! It’s convincing enough to fool everyone—teachers, classmates, even myself, sometimes. But then I go home.

And everything falls apart.

The giggling never really stops. Sometimes I hear it faintly during the day, like it’s following me, waiting for me to be alone. At night, it’s louder, sharper, bouncing off the walls of my skull. I try blasting music to drown it out, but it doesn’t help. Lulu’s laughter always cuts through, like it’s stitched into the silence.

The scratches start a week later.

The first time I notice them, I’m in the shower. Thin red lines crisscross my arms, delicate but deliberate. Like claw marks from something small and furious.

My first thought: Maybe I scratched myself in my sleep. My second thought: Oh good, I’m attacking myself now. Very stable of me.

But the scratches don’t stop. Every morning, there are more. On my back. My legs. Places I can’t possibly reach. I can’t even pretend it’s me anymore. Something—someone—is doing this to me.

When my mom notices, her concern comes wrapped in her usual brand of frustration.

“Melanie, what’s going on?” she asks, her voice sharp. “Are you doing this to yourself?”

I want to tell her. I really do. But how do you explain that your childhood doll has turned into a tiny demon with a vendetta? That she’s driving you mad one giggle and scratch at a time?

Instead, I shrug. “It’s nothing,” I say, forcing a smile. “Probably just stress.”

“Stress?” she repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You’re sixteen. You don’t even pay rent.”

She doesn’t push, which is almost worse. She just sighs and mutters something about teenagers and drama before heading to work. I watch her go, part of me wishing she’d stay. Not that it would help. Lulu isn’t scared of her.

That night, I try locking Lulu in the closet again. It’s the only thing that makes me feel even remotely safe. I shove her in there, stacking everything heavy I can find in front of the door—textbooks, a chair, a box of old toys. “Stay there,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Seriously. Stay.”

For a moment, the room feels quieter. Calmer. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and turn toward the bed.

Then I hear it. A whisper.

“Why won’t you play with me?”

I whip around, my heart pounding. The closet door doesn’t move. Nothing does. But the air feels colder now, heavier, like it’s pressing against my chest. My stomach churns, and I stumble backward, nearly tripping over the chair.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head like that’ll fix anything. “Nope. No. Not happening.”

I grab my blanket and flee to the living room, curling up on the couch like a kid hiding from monsters. Except the monster isn’t under the bed. She’s in my closet. And I’m not sure how much longer I can keep her there.

By now, I’ve stopped pretending things are fine. The scratches, the giggling, the moving doll—none of it is normal, and I’m done trying to convince myself otherwise. But what can I do? Call an exorcist? Write an angry Yelp review for the thrift store? No one’s going to believe me.

Hell, I barely believe me.

That’s how I end up staring into my bedroom mirror at two in the morning, trying to talk myself out of a full mental breakdown.

“You’re fine,” I mutter, gripping the edge of the dresser like it might anchor me. My reflection looks awful—pale, dark circles under my eyes, hair sticking up in all directions. “Totally fine. You just need sleep. And therapy. And maybe a flamethrower.”

The words feel hollow, but they’re better than silence. Silence means listening for giggles that might not be there, for footsteps that shouldn’t exist.

I glance toward the closet. The barricade is still intact—textbooks, chair, box, everything exactly where I left it. Lulu’s in there. Locked away. Trapped. She can’t hurt me.

Probably.

I turn back to the mirror and freeze.

My reflection doesn’t move.

I blink. My reflection doesn’t.

My heart stumbles in my chest, my breath catching in my throat. For a second, I think maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m so tired I’m hallucinating. But then it tilts its head. Just a little. Just enough to make my stomach drop.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Nope. That’s not—”

It smiles.

It’s my face—same eyes, same nose, same lips—but the smile isn’t mine. It’s too wide, too sharp, stretching across my face like it’s splitting at the seams.

I stumble back, my pulse roaring in my ears. “What—what the hell—”

The smile speaks. My voice, but not mine. Soft. Sweet. Mocking.

“Let me help you.”

My legs give out, and I hit the floor hard, the air rushing from my lungs. I scramble backward on my hands and knees, unable to tear my eyes away from the mirror. My reflection watches me, calm and serene, even as I shake like a leaf in a hurricane.

“No,” I gasp. “You’re not real. This isn’t real.”

The smile doesn’t falter. The voice hums, lilting. “You’re so tired, Melanie. Let me take over. I can make it easier.”

My hands find something solid—cold, heavy. I don’t think, don’t hesitate. I just swing. The mirror shatters under the hammer’s weight, shards flying across the room. The sound is deafening, like glass screaming. I collapse, chest heaving, staring at the broken pieces scattered around me.

For a moment, there’s silence. Blessed, suffocating silence.

And then I hear it.

Laughter. Faint and high-pitched, echoing in the cracks of the mirror.

My stomach churns, and I push myself to my feet, hands trembling. Blood drips from my knuckles where I gripped the hammer too tight, but I barely feel it. My eyes dart toward the closet.

The barricade is gone.

The closet door stands wide open.

And Lulu is gone.

The next day, I decide I’ve had enough. Enough giggling, enough scratches, enough existential crises at two in the morning. If Lulu wants a fight, she’s getting one.

Step one: fire. Classic. Tried and true. I march into the garage, grab the lighter we keep for birthday candles, and take Lulu outside. I don’t even flinch when her blue eyes glint in the sunlight, almost like she’s daring me to try. Fine, demon doll. Let’s see how flammable you are.

I pile some old newspapers in the firepit, plop her on top, and flick the lighter. The tiny flame dances like it’s mocking me. I lower it toward the paper, waiting for the whoosh of ignition.

Nothing happens.

The flame sputters out. I try again. And again. Each time, the lighter refuses to cooperate, like the universe has decided I’m not allowed to win.

“Seriously?” I snap, shaking the lighter as if that’ll fix anything. “This is your grand defense? Lighter sabotage?”

Lulu doesn’t answer, of course, but the silence feels smug. I glare at her, my frustration boiling over. “Fine. Plan B.”

Step two: smash and destroy. I grab a hammer from the garage and set Lulu on the workbench, her tiny plastic body looking laughably small against the wood. My grip on the hammer is tight, knuckles white. “You think you’re invincible?” I mutter, more to myself than her. “Let’s test that theory.”

I swing.

The hammer crashes into her face with a sickening crunch, cracking the plastic. Pieces splinter off, scattering across the workbench. For a second, I feel triumphant. Victorious. She’s broken, cracked wide open.

Then I blink, and she’s whole again.

My stomach twists. I swing again, harder this time, the hammer connecting with her head over and over. Each time, the plastic splinters, and each time, she puts herself back together like nothing happened. It’s like watching a bad CGI effect, only it’s real, and it’s happening right in front of me.

My arms ache by the time I stop, the hammer slipping from my grasp. Lulu stares at me from the workbench, unscathed. Her blue eyes gleam with something that feels too much like triumph.

“You can’t hurt me,” her voice says, soft and lilting. Her mouth doesn’t move, but the words echo in my head like they belong there.

I stagger back, my chest heaving. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Step three: water. If fire and brute force won’t work, maybe drowning will. I drive to the river, Lulu tucked under my arm like a football. It’s a crisp, quiet day, the kind that would be nice if not for the demon doll situation.

Standing at the edge of the riverbank, I take a deep breath. “No tricks this time, okay?” I tell her. “You go in, you don’t come back. Deal?”

She doesn’t respond. Her silence feels heavier now, like she’s waiting for me to embarrass myself again.

I chuck her as hard as I can, watching her arc through the air. She hits the water with a splash, her little plastic body bobbing in the current.

For a moment, I feel relief. Real, honest relief. Then I take a step back—and trip.

My foot catches on something, and I tumble forward, landing hard on the muddy bank. The river is freezing, soaking into my jeans as I scramble to my feet, cursing under my breath. When I look up, my stomach drops.

Lulu is sitting on the bank, perfectly dry.

“Okay, great,” I mutter, my voice shaking. “Now you’re waterproof. That’s just—yeah, sure. Why not?”

I pick her up, my hands trembling, and drive home in silence. By the time I get back, the sun is setting, casting long, eerie shadows across the house. I put her on my bed and sit across from her, staring.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t giggle. But the weight of her presence presses against my chest like a hand tightening around my throat.

“You win,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Happy now?”

Her silence is deafening.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at her. Minutes? Hours? Time feels slippery, like it’s stopped caring about me entirely. Lulu sits on the bed, unmoving, but her presence fills the room like a storm cloud about to burst. The air feels thick, heavy, like it’s pressing down on me. Like she’s pressing down on me.

“You win,” I whisper again, my voice cracking. “I said you win. What else do you want?”

Nothing. No sound, no movement, just silence that stretches too long and too loud.

I try to sleep, but it’s useless. Every time I close my eyes, I feel her watching me, her gaze burning through my eyelids like headlights on a dark road. I turn the lamp on and off a dozen times, each flick of the switch a small, desperate rebellion. The light doesn’t make me feel safer.

Nothing does.

At some point, I wake up, but I don’t remember falling asleep. I’m not in bed anymore. I’m sitting on the floor, the Ouija board spread out in front of me. The planchette is already moving.

I blink hard, trying to shake off the fog in my head. My hands are on the planchette, but I don’t remember putting them there. It glides across the board in sharp, deliberate motions.

The hairs on my arms stand on end. I try to pull my hands away, but they don’t move. My fingers stay glued to the planchette like it’s holding me there. It moves again.

My breath catches in my throat. The planchette keeps going.

I gasp, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

My chest feels tight, my lungs refusing to fill properly.

I’m not in control anymore.

My body isn’t listening to me.

I try to scream.

My voice is caught somewhere between my throat and the icy grip of whatever this is.

The planchette stops.

For a moment, the room is silent, the kind of silence that’s more oppressive than noise.

Then I hear her.

Lulu’s laugh. Soft. Sweet. Mocking.

It feels like it’s inside my head, curling through the folds of my brain like smoke. My hands finally let go of the planchette, but I’m not sure I moved them myself. I’m not sure I’m doing anything myself anymore.

I don’t fight her after that. I can’t. Every time I try, it’s like pushing against a tidal wave. She’s everywhere—in my head, in my skin, in the shadows that stretch too long and too dark. Her voice is constant now, a soft hum that never leaves me, even when I cover my ears.

“You don’t have to resist,” she coos. “Let me help you. Let me make it easier.”

I want to scream at her, tell her to shut up, but I don’t have the strength.

My thoughts don’t feel like mine anymore.

They’re hers, twisted and tangled until I can’t tell where I end and she begins.

One night, I find myself standing in front of the mirror again.

My reflection looks worse than ever—pale, gaunt, eyes sunken into my skull.

But it’s not just my appearance that terrifies me. It’s the way my reflection smiles when I don’t.

“See?” her voice says, coming from my mouth.

“Doesn’t this feel better?”

I don’t know when I stopped screaming.

Maybe I never started.

The next morning feels… quiet.

The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and suffocating.

The house doesn’t creak the way it usually does.

The air doesn’t shift.

Everything is still.

Too still.

I’m at the kitchen table, hands folded neatly in front of me.

Sunlight streams through the window, warm and golden, but it doesn’t touch me.

It stops just short, pooling on the floor like it knows better.

Lulu sits across from me.

Her little hands rest on the edge of the table, her blue eyes catching the light.

They look almost alive. Almost.

Footsteps echo from the hallway, breaking the silence.

My mom shuffles into the kitchen, her face lined with exhaustion.

She stops when she sees me, her eyes narrowing with cautious relief.

“You’re up early,” she says, her voice soft but tentative. “Feeling better?”

I smile at her, and it’s easy. Too easy.

The muscles in my face move like they belong to me again.

I’ve been doing this my whole life.

“Yeah, Mom. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

She exhales, the tension draining from her shoulders. “Good. I was worried about you.”

She crosses the room and kisses the top of my head, humming a little tune as she moves to the coffee pot. The sound of running water fills the space, normal and mundane.

I turn back to Lulu. She hasn’t moved—of course she hasn’t—but her presence fills the room like a shadow stretching into every corner. I feel her approval, warm and soft, curling through my mind like smoke.

I lean in closer, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Playtime’s over.”

Lulu doesn’t respond.

She doesn’t have to.

The satisfaction in the air is thick enough to choke on.

I sit back, my smile still in place, and fold my hands neatly on the table again.

The sunlight inches closer, daring to touch me, but I don’t move.

I don’t need to. I’m not afraid of Lulu anymore.

In fact, I’m not afraid of anything anymore.

If anything… people should be afraid of me now.

THE END.

If you made it to the end of Playtime’s Over, THANK YOU SO MUCH! Your support means everything! 🖤 This story was an emotional ride to write—equal parts terrifying and heart-wrenching. I’d love to know what you think:

Was there a moment in the story that gave you goosebumps?

Did you find the metaphor for isolation as chilling as the supernatural horror?

Do you think Melanie’s fate was avoidable? Or was it sealed the moment no one listened?

Drop your thoughts in the comments!!!!!!!!! Let’s talk about everything—from your own theories on haunted dolls to the real-world horrors of being ignored when it matters most.

And for those of you who enjoy this spooky vibe, stay tuned for my non-fictional spooky content!

There are Haunted Comedians podcast episodes currently in post-production, where I interviewed a few haunted comedians in-depth about their personal paranormal experiences. I’ll be posting it shortly. And if you’re in Toronto, don’t miss the Haunted Comedians live shows happening in January, May, August, and October. Tickets at hauntedcomedians.eventbrite.ca.

Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to follow for more stories, wild thoughts, gothic vibes, and spooky fun. ✨ Tchau tchau ✨

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