#literally did not know sheba had a last name until looking her up

[turboemmy]

redesigned the twisted tales pals :-)

[forbidden-creepypasta]

Rosaline

ghost written by anonymous. Permission has been given to put this on the main site. _____________________________ When I was a little girl, on my 7th birthday my parents brought home a beautiful porcelain doll. She wore an elegant pink Victorian dress with a ruffled hoop skirt and a floral wide-brim hat. She had long curly brown hair and bright blue eyes and I was in absolute love with her. Her name was Rosaline, and wherever I went, she went for the next year or so. Then my next birthday came, and Christmas, and every relative seemed to want to buy me dolls. I’d have tea parties, because that’s what little girls did, right? And I’d play with all the dolls because I was taught I was supposed to cherish gifts and so I tried to love them all equally. And I did. I loved all of my dolls, and they literally lined every shelf and bureau in my room. Then one morning my mama walked into my room holding the mutilated remains of one of my dolls and began drilling me and yelling and screaming and shaking me. She must’ve fussed at me for at least ten or fifteen minutes before I could convince her that I hadn’t shattered my doll. At that point I’m still not sure she believed me, but she seemed to be giving me the benefit of the doubt and left me alone. Perhaps the dog, Sheba, had gotten into my room and used it as a plaything in the night, who knows? That was the only explanation as my only sibling, an older brother, was off in college at the time. I was a bit terrified to touch any of my dolls after that, worried that I’d mishandle or break them, so I left them all sitting just where they were for the next few months until family came to visit, and my Uncle Richard brought me a Susie doll. She was cute, modern, fashionable, and plastic. I didn’t have to be terrified that I’d unknowingly drop and break her, so for the next week she and I were inseparable. Then one morning my mama woke me up screeching that I could’ve burnt the house down. Apparently my Susie doll had been placed on the stove and was melted to one of the front eyes. Well however long her first screaming session lasted, this one lasted three times as long, and my daddy, usually quiet and passive when it came to discipline, chipped in to scold me as well. By that evening every doll was cleaned out of my room and hidden “far away from little hands” as my mother put it. I cried a lot that day, but not because they’d taken my dolls away so much as because my I seriously thought my parents hated me. They looked at me like I was a criminal, and I’d never felt so alone in my life. The barrenness of my room only helped intensify that feeling. Then one day I awoke to find Rosaline lying in the bed next to me and my heart almost leaped out of my chest I was so happy. I hugged her, and nuzzled her, and to this day I’m certain I heard a muffled moan or coo of some sort that wasn’t my own. I was confused for a moment but I was easily distracted by how relieved I felt that Mama or Daddy (I really suspected Daddy) had forgiven me enough to give me my old favorite doll back. Then as she did each morning, Mama came in to wake me and her eyes lit up with rage when she saw that I had Rosaline again. She stomped over, snatched it up and stormed out of the room to confront Daddy. As it turned out, my father claimed he didn’t do it, and then they suspected that I must’ve figured out where he’d hidden the dolls and sneaked to get her out. I really must’ve appeared to be a criminal mastermind to them at the time, but if I had done anything, I didn’t recall a bit of it. He put the dolls back and instructed me I wasn’t to step foot in the garage unless he specifically asked me to, and I agreed. He even went so far as to go to the hardware store and get a padlock to put on the door. Nonetheless however, the next morning I woke up with Rosaline beside me yet again. The padlock on the garage door remained undisturbed, and my parents were absolutely flabbergasted, but clearly exhausted from scolding me, they simply let her stay. I was eleven when my parents finally left me home during the day one Saturday afternoon without a babysitter. I still had my Rosaline doll (as neglected as she was), but I was a pretty big couch potato at that time and I’d just sit there all afternoon watching Lamb Chop’s sing-along or Ghostwriter, or whatever old movies were on the Fox Afternoon Theater. The TV had failed to interest me so I went back to my room to read, and that’s when I heard soft footsteps in the house somewhere. I got up and went to investigate when I saw Sheba lying on the carpet looking all sad. Feeling a bit lonely and frightened, I had her follow me back to my room, but as we got to the door she froze up and whined. I looked into my room and saw nothing but my Rosaline doll sitting on my bed, even though I hadn’t slept with her for years. She seemed to be staring at the doll, refusing to come in, and that’s when I put two and two together. All along I had assumed Sheba had been playing with my dolls and destroying them, but I’d never once seen Sheba come into my room. The next time I got a chance to talk to Mama I asked her what she’d done with all my other dolls and she said she’d given them away to Goodwill, so I asked her to do the same with Rosaline. She seemed extremely confused by this, and in retrospect I understand that she thought I was in love with that doll, but that next Monday she went down to Goodwill and gave Rosaline away. On my twelfth birthday, when we were preparing to move (my father had gotten a promotion that required him to move out of town) my grandpa gave me a doll. Long, curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, ruffled hoop skirt. It was Rosaline again. Just before we moved I took my daddy’s shovel, ran into the back yard and buried her in a shallow grave. Part of me knew I was being paranoid--it couldn’t possibly have been the same Rosaline doll--but for the most part I was relieved to be free from her. Since then life has been wonderful…save for a few bad relationships and series of recurring nightmares of being buried alive--tasting the dirt in my mouth even just after waking up--I’ve been just fine. Last year the boyfriend Jack and I, who have been living together for a couple of years now, made a baby. I named her Allison, and we brought her into this world just this past February. She was beautiful: a thin mat of blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile that warmed your heart. Then a week after we brought her home from the hospital I found her face down in her crib (I never put her on her stomach, ever) dead. Now they think I had postpartum depression. They think I smothered her, even Jack thinks so. They say I blanked it out, didn’t remember it because I didn’t want to. But it wasn’t me, it was Rosaline. I knew it the moment I walked into her room that day. Her wall was filled with dolls, just about everyone at the baby shower thought Allison needed dolls, dolls and more dolls. But I checked every single doll, and not one of them was a Rosaline doll. There she was, nonetheless, staring at me from the shelf amongst the others with that smug grin on her face.