“Look at this,” I murmured to myself, holding up the knitted doll I had just pulled from the back of the closet.

My stomach tightened the moment I really looked at it.

The doll had my dark hair, my eye color, even a small stitched mole in the same place as mine. It wasn’t just similar—it was me.

Trying to laugh it off, I snapped a photo and sent it to Ethan. He was at work, and I figured he’d find it oddly cute or at least amusing.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed.

“Oh no! You don’t know my mom… whatever you do, DON’T TOUCH IT, honey!”

My heart skipped.
Too late.

I’d already been holding it.

At first, I told myself I was overreacting. But as I reread his message, a slow wave of dread crept in. Lorraine—my mother-in-law—had never liked me. She was cold, judgmental, and deeply superstitious. She believed in “family traditions” she never fully explained.

Could this be… some kind of voodoo doll?

I marched downstairs, gripping the doll like evidence.

“Lorraine,” I demanded, holding it up. “What is this?”

Her face drained of color.

“Oh no!” she gasped. “What have you done? Now it’s not going to work! Put it back or—”

“Or what?” I snapped. “Why does this doll look like me? Why was it in our closet?”

Her mouth hardened. “It’s none of your business. Put it back where you found it.”

“No,” I said firmly. “It is my business if it’s in the room we’re staying in. Tell me what this is.”

She snatched it from my hands. “You don’t need to know, girl.”

Then she disappeared into her bedroom, slamming the door.

That night, unease clung to me like a second skin. And when I opened the closet again later, my breath caught.

The doll was back.

Moments later, Ethan walked in, took one look at it, and exploded.

“Mom! Are you serious? You’re doing this again?” he shouted, storming into the living room. I followed, heart pounding.

Lorraine crossed her arms. “I’m acting in the family’s best interest.”

“This is weird,” Ethan snapped, grabbing the doll and tossing it into the trash. “You’re crossing lines.”

“What do you mean again?” I asked him later. He refused to explain.

“I just want to go home,” he muttered.

The next morning, I checked the closet.

The doll was there again.

Only this time… it was bigger.

I tried to ignore it. We were only staying with Lorraine because our house was being renovated. Just one more week, I told myself.

But my body didn’t agree.

I was exhausted all day. By afternoon, I could barely keep my eyes open. When I woke from a nap, something felt wrong. In the bathroom mirror, I noticed a small patch of missing hair near my temple.

My hands trembled.

The doll. The fatigue. The hair.

The next morning, I threw up violently. The day after that, my face was swollen and puffy. Lorraine acted perfectly normal, but I felt her watching me.

Desperate, I googled voodoo, curses—anything that could explain this. Then a different thought struck me.

What if I was pregnant?

The symptoms lined up too well to ignore.

I bought a pregnancy test the next morning and waited, heart racing.

Positive.

Relief and joy flooded me—until I walked out of the bathroom and froze.

Lorraine stood in the kitchen, on the phone, whispering excitedly while stuffing padding into the doll’s belly.

That night at dinner, my hands shook as I held the test.

“I’m pregnant,” I said.

Ethan’s face lit up.

Lorraine screamed, “IT WORKED!”

Silence crashed over the table.

She clapped her hands, beaming. “It’s a family tradition! You make a doll of the woman, keep it close, grow the belly… and soon, a baby comes. I wanted to be a grandma so badly.”

“You scared me,” I said, tears burning. “You took my hair. You hid this from me.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was crazy,” she whispered.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Ethan said firmly. “We’re leaving.”

And we did.

That night, I packed our bags. We were starting a new chapter—one without secrets, fear, or dolls hidden in closets.

Still, sometimes I wonder…

Do you think we did the right thing?