This is the story of a doll.

The original creator of the doll cared dearly for his craft, taking pride in making the most beautiful dolls that he could make. Each one was an improvement upon the last until he reached his pinnacle, where he knew he could go no further

This particular doll was named Cherie. In French, that translates to sweetheart or my darling and the creator worked extra hard on her, painting her lips into a delicate, pink pout and giving her eyes the color of the sky when not a cloud can be seen. She was dressed in the latest fashion made from the finest materials and given a bonnet to match, which covered part of her soft blonde curls.

Though she was priced a little high for dolls in those days, she sold almost immediately to a father who could not resist his daughter’s insistent pleas. She went home with them and was loved immensely, even when the girl moved past the age where dolls are an interest. She still kept Cherie boxed up and safe and when the time came some years later, she found herself giving Cherie to her daughter to play with and love as much as she had.

From there, it became tradition. Each daughter that had a daughter would pass Cherie on and when there wasn’t a daughter to pass her onto, she would be kept safely in a box until such time when she could be given into the hands of another waiting child.

There was another tradition in that family, as well, but this one wasn’t spoken joyfully or waited upon with anticipation. This was something kept far quieter, as though no one dared speak of it, as though not speaking of it somehow made it not real.

You see, the girls—by then women—of this family, they all seemed to pass away at a young age. A few of them over the years made it into their thirties before expiring, but most died in their twenties, leaving behind a husband and a young child or perhaps young children.

There seemed to be nothing that tied these deaths together. Even in a modern age, where one could do genetic testing and look for markers, for biological factors that might bring about a sudden passing—there was nothing. Each woman died in a different way, anyway, be it from accident to a sudden illness to suicide and even one to murder. (It was the husband. He claimed to be blacked out for the entire duration. One minute they had been sitting there, having dinner, and the next everything was bloody, his wife’s face had peas sticking to the side of it and his children were sobbing hysterically in the corner.)

Now, perhaps the woman of the family—or anyone in the family, truthfully—could not tell you why they were all cursed to die so young, but that doesn’t mean that no one knew what happened. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a connection between them all.

To direct you where you are already going: Cherie was no ordinary doll.

She hadn’t been from the day of her creation. You see, her creator had begun working on her the day of his young daughter’s funeral. He could not bear to go to the wake afterward, to listen to anymore I’m sorry’s or anything like that. He just wanted to be alone and without his little girl in his life, there was only one thing that could bring him any peace: his dolls.

It was with his daughter’s death heavily upon his mind that he worked upon Cherie, binding her pieces together, painting her with a delicate hand and dressing her for modesty and beauty. All he thought of throughout the entire process was his daughter, what a light she had been, how dark and lonely it already felt with her just barely gone.

The man did not realize this, but so great was his sorrow that he called his daughter’s spirit to him. She tried so hard to talk to him, to get him to see her, but he’d move right through her without blinking and he never said a word to anything she said, no matter how hard she tried. All she could do, ultimately, was watch her father as he worked on Cherie, the way he would have to pause every now and again to wipe at his eyes so not a tear fell upon her figure.

Unable to reach her father, the little girl found herself drawn to what her father worked upon. His mingling thoughts of the two, his wish that his little girl could look as lively and well as Cherie did, it all came together until somehow the girl found herself inside of the doll. Though she could not move and she could not speak, she was in there and, could a doll have cried, Cherie would have wept.

The little girl had hope that she and her father could be together again but was sorely disappointed when he placed Cherie front and center in the shop window the day after she was done. She had hoped that he would keep her in memory of her, but though he loved his dolls, they were just dolls to him and he had bills to pay. Plus, he did not want to linger on the doll that had made him think so much of his recently deceased girl.

The little girl wanted to leave the doll then but found that she could not. What bound her there, she did not know, but it was a force stronger than her, and she was forced to simply exist as child after child picked her up gently to examine her, to plead with their parents for her purchase.

And when she was finally purchased by that man who could not resist his daughter’s pleas? Cherie felt something within her break, because she knew she would never see her father again. She would never be able to bring peace to him, like she had wanted. She would never see that smile.

She hated the family that she came to live with from the moment the purchase was finalized. The little girl held her so carefully, as though she were a baby, and offered her such love and affection, and all she could feel was hatred and rot. This was the girl that had taken her away from her father, who had denied her her last wish in this world.

Over the years, that hatred deepened and the rot festered until she barely resembled the little girl she had been in life. She could not figure out, for the death of her, how to leave the doll she was trapped in, but she did eventually learn how to move its limbs and manipulate its head. It took her a few generations to figure those tricks out, but she did.

That was when the curse started.

By then, it wasn’t even because this family had taken away from her now long-deceased father, though she still hated them for that, but simply because… she was tired. She had wanted only to comfort her father and now she found herself dragged out every few years, carried around and made to sit through so many ‘tea times’ until she could have screamed if she knew how. (It took another generation to learn how to use her ‘voice’, which sounded more like a whispery echo than a proper voice.)

This family, though, insisted that she was some heirloom, some great prize that you won when you reached a certain age. They dragged her out, again and again and again until she decided to pay them back for it. To perhaps pay them back for everything, even though technically none of them had committed any sin against her other than caring for her and loving her.

Now, how exactly she went about making      some of the women die of a sudden illness is another story entirely and involves the darkness around her accidentally drawing a demon in whom she then made a deal with, but as for the rest of the deaths—yes, that blood was on her hands. She would sneak away when the child who currently ‘owned’ her had left her alone and if mother happened to be on the stairs or holding onto a sharp knife—well, things happened. And Cherie was a patient thing by then; sometimes it would take her several years before she would find the right moment to strike.

She always found it, though, and the women who had dared to wake her from her slumber within her (original, for they had been very careful!) box paid the price. Generation by generation, they died at an unnatural age from their variety of reasons, when really it was just Cherie all along. Seeking her revenge. Seeking payment from being disturbed.

Cherie is still out there, to this day. She’d had to have some mending done, her clothes have been restyled, her hair reset and her face repainted, but she is still a thing of beauty. She’s still with the same family, too, much to her dismay. And they still keep their big annual tradition, wherein the little girl of the family turns five and she is given special permission to take care of the family’s pride and joy.

And so, Cherie keeps her tradition, too. Little girls still lose their mothers way too soon, husbands or wives lose their wives well before they ever dreamt they would and Cherie thinks…

Cherie thinks that this is Hell. That though she had been a good girl in life—or thought she had, anyway—and she’d only the best of intentions when she’d ignored the blinding light she’d been drawn to and instead sought her father out for worry of him… somehow, she’s in Hell.

And so long as she is not allowed to escape it, neither is this family.