It was Christmas Eve of 1968. Festive lights flickered and danced over a blanket of snow throughout the neighborhood, where people were rejoicing, singing, and enjoying laughs and the company of friends and family.
There stood a six-year-old girl outside of her home watching it burn to the ground. She stood barefoot in the snow and in her nightgown, unable to blink or look away from the fire.
From her right hand dangled her doll Matty.
According to first responders who arrived on the scene, the young girl seemed dead to the outside elements as she stood in bitter snow up to her ankles.
Her mother and dog died in the fire. Her brother had died before he was even born. He would have been her twin.
She was taken away and placed in various foster homes until she became an adult. All she ever had of her family were lucid memories and that doll.
Not much was said about the incident.
The cause of the fire was never determined and this little girl lost her entire family. Before birth and after birth, death had become this child.
However, there was a secret. A secret only she knew.
That secret would be whispered in my ear forty-eight years later.
Typically I chronicle multiple paranormal cases in my literary work, but this story is one of its own. It deserves to be its own.
So let’s start with the introduction and let the rest be the nightmare that it is.
I think it is safe to say my life is still firmly planted in the world of the supernatural and unexplained. But it was not supposed to be like this.
My life has been one unbelievable event after the next. Just when I get comfortable and think that I have seen and done it all, another wave of charming irresistibility comes crashing in, sending me into the deep waters of unpredictability.
Sometimes the water of those eventful oceans I am drowning in is so cloudy that it is hard to determine which way to swim to find the surface. Sometimes I swim deeper and sometimes I find a breath. However, many times the sea of curiosity I so frequently float in takes me to places that become unimaginable mental and physical scars.
My name is Stephen Lancaster. I am a published author specializing in paranormal phenomena. My stories chronicle the past twenty years of heavy and nearly obsessive work in the field of paranormal research.
I have researched hundreds of supernatural cases since 1997. Those cases ranged from traditional residential and commercial hauntings, alleged demonic possessions, UFOs and extraterrestrial sightings, to cryptozoological work. I have also handled extreme cases in military facilities, and I’ve done the same for politicians.
I guess you could say I have been more than knee-deep in a bizarre, very blessed, and curious world. This is my life and what I am about to share with you is no different.
I was hoping it would be much different at this point. But things change, or in this case, they don’t.
I retired from the field in November 2013. During the summer of 2016 I found myself once again being challenged with the unbelievable task of finding the truth to supernatural mysteries. Once again I found myself raising the tolerance on the bar of belief.
You know, it is a tick that refuses to go away. It is an unbeatable magnetic force that draws me back time and time again.
I tried to retire from the field of paranormal research. After nearly two decades of work, I felt it was time. I tried to walk away and I tried to leave that world behind.
However, that tick of curiosity never stopped. It just kept pounding in my head until I finally realized my purpose.
I had to come to terms with who I was and, more importantly, who I am. I could not lie to myself anymore.
I stared into the mirror every day for the past year and a half, attempting to talk myself out of what would become the inevitable. I would stare and say, “Don’t do it Lancaster. Don’t do it.”
But I was only fooling myself.
Paranormal research has been such a huge part of my life. The field was and is my passion.
When my world went dark and dismal years ago and the dead started entering and affecting my life, I thought the best thing at the time was to turn the other cheek. I thought the best thing for me was to leave the terror of the dark spirits behind. I thought the best thing to do was move on to the stereotypical modern and—dare I say—normal American life.
I wanted to start a new life. I wanted to start a life not so dead.
Of course you can probably figure out that my retirement was cut short and I had to dust off the equipment cases, pull my moth-eaten clothes out of an old trunk, and hook that rabbit’s foot back onto my vest.
Most of the equipment I used in the field had long been sold, destroyed, or given away to fellow researchers and investigators. So I was starting from scratch, just like I did back in 1997.
Back then I was armed with very little. I started with a compass, a few flashlights, a rabbit’s foot, a notepad, and not much else. This was a very familiar feeling.
But how and why I came out of retirement is how this story begins.
If not for walking into an antique shop at just the right time, my house and my life would be completely normal. But instead I left the shop that day and willingly welcomed into my home something I could never possibly ignore.
This led to credit card swipe after credit card swipe after credit card swipe. I found myself rebuilding all of my research equipment. My family needed it.
It’s kind of difficult to leave the paranormal world behind, especially when that world is the heart of you.
I could no longer sit back and forget about the ghosts, the hauntings, the monsters, or the people I helped along the way.
I could no longer ignore it.
It isn’t easy to just turn the other cheek when your own home becomes the target of something evil. It isn’t easy when the occurrences defy all rational and logical thought.
I brought something into my home that I never under any circumstance felt would be dangerous.
But he is.
So I began doing what I do best—watching the dead.
This was new territory for me. I spent the past twenty years studying and researching paranormal events, but I never gave enough of my time to the possibility of objects being haunted or becoming possessed with a malevolent entity. The idea was novel to me and nothing more.
I certainly was open to the possibility, but to be honest, my services were never requested to explore such phenomena. People sought out my expertise for traditional paranormal exploration, such as researching to prove or disprove deceased loved ones haunting their homes.
Ironically, I have quite the collection of allegedly haunted objects. I guess you can’t immerse yourself in the field of paranormal research for so long without picking up a few hitchhikers along the way.
The majority of objects I’ve obtained were literally given to me with express orders to take them far away from a relevant property with a promise never to return them.
However, Norman was different. I sought out Norman and made sure he ended up mine. To this day I’m not really sure why I found myself wanting the doll so badly.
Perhaps it was the dismal history attached to the doll, or just the excitement and disbelief of actually stumbling upon the real one.
And I strongly emphasize the word real in that last sentence.
He is nor man nor toy. He is Norman.
My personal experiences with Norman coupled with half a dozen eyewitness testimonies made me a firm believer in the possibility of objects becoming authentically haunted.
I know for a fact that Norman is possessed. His intent and origin is still up for debate, but considering what I have seen, I believe he won’t stop until he gets what he wants.
You have read story after story and seen movie after movie about haunted dolls, but how many of us actually believe that phenomenon to be real?
I never thought the day would come when I would actually acknowledge a toy being possessed. But, considering everything I have seen over the past twenty years, I shouldn’t be that surprised.
The sleepless nights, the night terrors, and an endless amount of nightmares. I can’t even begin to count how many nights I awoke screaming at the thought of a knife to my neck.
The following is my personal account with the haunted doll.