One day, I stumbled upon the doll I had buried with my six-year-old daughter a year ago. The unmistakable proof was my name embroidered on its dress. Determined to unravel the mystery, I recorded everything on a dictaphone. Little did I know, this would save me from a deeper trouble.
July 9, 3:30 p.m. – Recording 1
[click]
Hi, this is Kate, 33 years old. I just got back from the flea market. I found a toy there that looks a lot like the one my daughter had. She passed away a year ago, and I even buried her with that doll. Now, it seems like this flea market doll is the same one. It can’t be, but I need to check something when I get home.
[click]
I am checking the doll at home. It’s the same doll. There’s a small embroidery inside the dress with my daughter’s initials, which I sewed. How is this possible? I need to find out where it came from. I’ll keep recording everything. This will help me piece together the puzzle.
[click]
Couldn’t sleep last night. Looking through photos of my daughter. They calm me down, but the doll… It makes me think something’s wrong. Today, I plan to go back to the flea market. Maybe the seller remembers who brought this doll.
[click]
July 10, 11:15 a.m.
[click]
Back at the flea market. Found the same seller. I’ll record our conversation now.
Kate: Good afternoon!
Seller: Hello! Are you looking to buy something? I remember you bought a doll from me yesterday. Did your child like it?
[pause]
Kate: Um… Actually, this doll reminds me of something. Could you tell me its story?
Seller: Ma’am, I’m afraid I don’t know its story. It’s just a regular doll. It was given to me by a woman to sell. She even paid me extra to make sure I sold it to you.
[pause]
Kate: Who was this woman?
Seller: Oh, ma’am, I’m afraid I don’t have any useful information about her. But she was wearing vintage clothing.
Kate: Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.
Seller: Have a good day, ma’am.
[click]
[click]
Driving home. Feeling strange. Can’t shake the thought that some woman brought this doll to the flea market. Maybe it’s some kind of message meant for me? I need to figure this out.
[click]
[click]
My husband Michael just got back from work. I need to talk to him about what happened. I can’t keep this to myself anymore.
Michael: Hi, honey! Who were you talking to?
Kate: Oh… just talking to myself. Don’t mind it.
Michael: How are you? How do you feel?
Kate: Thanks, it’s strange. I went to the flea market yesterday and found a doll. Do you remember Sonya’s favorite doll?
Michael: Kate, come here. I miss her so much, too.
[pause]
Kate: But this doll… You have to look at it.
Michael: Why? What do you want to say?
Kate: Here, it’s here, let me get it.
[sounds of rustling]
Kate: Look, does it remind you of anything?
Michael: Kate… This is the doll our Sonya had. But what are you getting at?
Kate: This isn’t just a doll like Sonya’s. This is her doll!
Michael: Honey, don’t make things up. It can’t be. We buried that doll with our daughter.
[sighs]
Kate: But the embroidery on the dress—look! I sewed this here myself.
Michael: Are you sure you didn’t do it again?
Kate: What do you mean?
Michael: Mom called. She’s worried about you. It’s been a year, and you’re still trying to connect with Sonya. Sweetheart, I miss our angel too, but she’s in a better place now. Maybe it’s time to let her go? We need to move on.
Kate: You don’t understand! This is the same doll! I want to know how this happened! And Cynthia… your mom—she never understood our family and our grief.
Michael: Sweetheart, don’t say that… she’s grieving too.
Kate: No!
[sound of glass breaking]
Michael: Enough for today. You need to rest. And so do I.
[sound of footsteps receding, click]
[click]
Can’t sleep. Michael and I fought even more, and he went to sleep on the couch. I’m thinking about the woman who brought the doll. Who is she?
[click]
[click]
Woke up with the thought that maybe someone was playing with me. But who? And why? This is my new mission—to find out what really happened. I’m going to visit my daughter’s grave.
[click]
[click]
At my daughter’s grave. Someone’s been here. Fresh flowers and a note on the grave.
[sound of paper rustling]
“Mom, let the doll be with you.”
[sounds of sobbing, rustling, silence, click]
[click]
Found some forums online where people discuss similar cases. They all seem far-fetched, but I’ll post something. Maybe someone will respond.
[click]
[click]
Sitting in a café with my laptop. Feeling strange.
[café sounds]
Someone replied to my post on the forum. They say it might be a coincidence. But how can it be a coincidence? Someone writes that it could be a cruel joke. Here’s another message.
[sound of scrolling with a mouse]
“See a therapist. It could be a stress-induced condition.”
[click]
[click]
I want to show the note to Michael. Entering the house.
[sound of a key turning in the lock, click-clock]
Michael isn’t alone. I think Cynthia is there with him. I want to record their conversation.
Cynthia: Michael, I’m worried about her. You can’t waste your youth on a woman who has completely forgotten about you in her grief.
Michael: Mom, what are you saying? I love Kate. We have to go through this together, in good times and bad—remember the vow?
Cynthia: Oh, my dear. You’re too kind. This will destroy you. You need to move on. Look at Kate—she’s made up this story about the doll because she can’t let go. She just wants you to pity her.
Michael: Mom, you…
[sound of footsteps]
Kate: Hello, Cynthia. Darling.
Cynthia: Oh, Kate. Glad you’re home. We were just talking about your situation.
Kate: Oh really? And what?
Cynthia: The doll story has Michael worried. I think you should better see a psycho…
Michael: Mom! Enough. You were just about to leave.
Cynthia: Oh no, I’m staying for dinner.
[unpleasant laughter]
Kate: Cynthia, were you at Sophie’s grave? Someone brought fresh flowers.
Cynthia: Oh, dear, I was on a business trip, and came straight from the airport to you.
Kate: I found this at her grave.
[sound of paper rustling]
Michael: Kate, dear, are you sure it’s not your handwriting? It looks very similar…
Kate: Michael, how can you say that?!
[sounds of stomping up the stairs, click]
[click]
Can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s conversation. Looking at the note—it really is my handwriting… But how did this happen? Maybe I really need to see a specialist? Am I losing my mind?
[click]
[click]
Met with a psychotherapist. He says he experienced similar feelings after losing his mother. He thinks it’s our subconscious playing tricks on us. But I still feel there’s more to this than just imagination.
[click]
[click]
Talked to Michael for a long time last night. It’s hard to accept, but maybe I really have lost touch with reality. We agreed to go to dinner at Cynthia’s.
[click]
