The Thrill of the Hunt: My Near-Death Experience with a Spiteful Victorian Doll

You know that feeling when you’re at a dusty estate sale and your eyes lock with *the one*? That’s what happened with Priscilla. There she was, perched on a moth-eaten velvet chair, her porcelain face smudged but serene, her glass eyes holding centuries of secrets. I felt a jolt. This wasn’t just a doll; this was a story. I had to have her. The problem with stories, I’ve learned, is that some of them are horror stories. I got her home, gave her a gentle clean, and set her on my shelf. That’s when the fun began. The first night, I woke up to a loud CRASH. Priscilla was on the floor. “Odd,” I thought, “she must have been unbalanced.” I placed her back. The next night, my cat spent three solid hours yowling at the closed door of the room she was in. The night after that, a picture frame across the room mysteriously fell off the wall. My partner dubbed her “Spite-cilla.” She was clearly unhappy. I was starting to lose sleep, side-eyeing a 12-inch tall piece of bisque porcelain. The hunt’s thrill had curdled into pure dread. The happy ending? I sold her last week to a lovely woman who collects "spiritually active" antiques. She took one look at Priscilla, grinned, and said, “Oh, she’s feisty! We’ll get along just fine.” The sale paid for a lovely new vase and, more importantly, a full night’s sleep. Everyone wins. Even Priscilla.