Cracked Cheek

Matt locked the apartment door behind him.

The city’s hum filtered through the window, distant and faint, but inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. The air smelled stale—coffee left too long in the pot, paper damp with age. He dropped his keys onto the counter with a dull clatter and rubbed his face.

Another long day.

The microwave clock glowed: 9:14. Too early for bed. Too late for anything else.

The phone rang.

He flinched. The sound sliced through the stillness like a knife. Unknown number. He hesitated, thumb hovering. Then pressed answer.

“Hello?” he said, voice wary.

A woman’s voice replied—calm, clipped. “Package for you. Lobby.”

“I didn’t order anything,” Matt answered, frowning.

“It’s marked urgent,” she replied coolly, and hung up.

Matt stared at the phone. A knot twisted in his stomach. A strange, familiar unease curled through him.

He hadn’t ordered anything. Not recently. Not again.

He pulled on his jacket, stepped into the hall. The elevator rattled its way down, groaning between floors.

In the lobby, a brown box waited by the mail slots. No markings. No return address. Just his name, scrawled in heavy black marker. The letters slanted, rushed, almost trembling.

He lifted it. Lighter than expected. Something shifted inside, soft against cardboard.

Back upstairs, he set it on the kitchen table. Ran his hands over the tape.

“Probably a mistake,” he muttered under his breath, but the knot in his stomach pulled tighter.

He grabbed scissors, sliced the tape. Peeled back the flaps.

Inside, nestled in crumpled paper, sat a porcelain doll.

Matt’s breath stopped. His chest clamped tight.

A cracked cheek. Pale skin. Black ringlets framing its delicate face. Glass eyes, wide and gleaming, stared up at him beneath the light.

He stumbled backward, knocking over a chair.

“No,” he whispered shakily.

It sat there. Silent. Still. Watching.

He slammed the box shut, shoving it across the table. Pressed it against the wall like distance might make it vanish.

His hands trembled. “Not again,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

Memories clawed up, jagged and raw. His grandmother’s house. Her shelves lined with dolls—hundreds of them. Cabinets pressed against every wall. Faces pressed against glass. Tiny smiles. Eyes too shiny. Too knowing.

At night, they seemed to shift.

He’d sworn he saw one blink. Once.

No one believed him.

“Matt, it’s just glass and paint,” his father had told him dismissively. “Nothing more.”

But they hadn’t heard the soft creak of floorboards. The whisper of fabric brushing wood.

He remembered standing outside the room, heart hammering, too scared to enter. One doll missing from its place.

And there, by the window, the rocking chair swaying slow… the doll seated there. Facing him.

He never stepped inside again.

And now—this.

Matt stared at the box. His name scrawled across it like a dare.

He didn’t open it. Didn’t need to.

But something inside him twisted, deep and sour. Like a pulled thread in the dark, unraveling.

He snatched it up, heart slamming against his ribs. Carried it to the kitchen. Dropped it onto the floor.

“Screw this,” he muttered harshly, raising the hammer.

He smashed it.

Porcelain cracked. Shards scattered. The sound—sharp, final.

But the face. Even broken, its painted mouth seemed to smirk.

He swept them into a trash bag. Hands shaking. Every piece scraping, grating.

He drove across town. Farther this time. Streets unfamiliar, headlights glaring in the fog. Stopped at the river. Opened the bag. Watched the pieces tumble into dark water.

Watched until they sank out of sight, swallowed by ripples.

He exhaled. Long. Shaky.

“Done,” he breathed.

He drove home in silence, windows cracked, the night air cold against his face. Back inside, he locked every bolt, double-checked them all. Sat on the couch, staring at the dark TV screen.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The tension in his chest slowly unwound. His eyelids grew heavy.

Finally, he slept.

He woke to a sound.

The clock glowed red: 3:17 a.m.

And there it was.

Sitting on the windowsill. Facing inward. Its head tilted.

His breath hitched. A cold weight settled in his chest. The doll’s glass eyes gleamed in the dim light.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched it watching him until the sun began to rise.

That morning, he called Evan.

“Man, you gotta help me,” Matt’s voice broke, raw and urgent. “Something’s wrong.”

“What’s going on?” Evan asked quickly, concern threading his tone.

“I keep getting… this box,” Matt explained, his words tumbling out. “It won’t stay gone.”

“You serious? Like a stalker thing?” Evan questioned, puzzled.

“I don’t know,” Matt admitted quietly.

“What’s inside?” Evan pressed, cautious.

“A doll.” Matt’s throat tightened as he spoke. “Every time I throw it away—it comes back.”

Silence stretched.

“Matt…” Evan’s voice softened, hesitant. “Maybe someone’s messing with you.”

“I smashed it last night,” Matt whispered hoarsely. “Hammered it to pieces. Bagged them. Dumped them in the river.”

“…and it came back?” Evan’s voice rose, incredulous.

“It’s here.” Matt’s voice dropped flat, hollow. “Watching me.”

“Want me to come over?” Evan offered, urgency beneath his words.

Matt hesitated, chest tightening. “No. Not today,” he murmured, resignation creeping in.

“Matt—” Evan’s voice pleaded.

“I don’t want anyone else pulled in,” Matt cut him off gently.

“Call me if you need me. Promise,” Evan urged.

“Yeah.” Matt swallowed hard. “I promise.”

That night, he left the lights on. Sat on the couch, arms wrapped tight around himself. Every sound seemed louder. Every shadow stretched longer.

At 2:43 a.m., he heard it.

Soft footsteps.

A shuffle.

A faint scrape of porcelain across wood.

He pressed his back into the cushions.

“Matt…” whispered a voice. Closer.

The lamp flickered. Once. Twice. Then glowed steady.

He clenched his eyes shut.

When dawn came, he opened them.

The doll sat across from him on the coffee table.

Closer than before.

Its head tilted further. Its hand resting on the edge, fingers splayed.

“I don’t want you,” Matt whispered shakily.

It stared.

He snatched it up, heart pounding in his ears. Carried it to the kitchen. Dropped it onto the floor.

“Screw you,” he muttered, raising the hammer again.

He smashed it again.

Porcelain cracked. Shards scattered.

He swept them into a trash bag.

Drove across town. Farther this time. Stopped at the river. Opened the bag. Watched the pieces tumble into dark water.

Watched until they sank out of sight.

He exhaled. Long. Shaky.

“Gone,” he whispered.

But that night—

He woke to cold breath on his neck.

Turned.

The doll sat on his pillow. Whole. Intact. Its cracked cheek somehow repaired.

Its eyes gleamed under the moonlight.

“Matt…” whispered the voice, soft and close in the dark.

He grabbed it, threw it across the room. It landed with a soft thud.

Morning came heavy with dread.

He didn’t call Evan back. Didn’t go to work. Didn’t sleep.

The phone rang.

Matt didn’t answer.

A voicemail played.

“Matt? It’s Evan,” Evan’s voice said, worried. “I stopped by. You’re not answering. Door was unlocked.”

A pause.

“…place looks weird, man. Like you left in a hurry. But—”

Another pause.

“…there’s something on your bed.”

Silence.

“…Matt?”

A faint sound crackled through the recording. Something brushing the phone’s mic.

Click.

In the apartment, the doll sat by the phone.

Its glass eyes gleamed.

Its cracked cheek shimmered beneath the light.

Its tiny mouth curved, just barely, into something new.

Watching.

Waiting.

And beyond the doorway, faint footsteps padded down the hall.