I don’t bother with another burial.

I snatch up the doll and run outside to toss it in the trash can. I slam on the lid and add a few bricks on top. Normally, we use the bricks to keep raccoons out of the trash. Now I’m using them to keep the trash in.

“Stay. Away. From me.” My words come out in gasps. The blood is pounding so loud in my ears that it takes a moment for me to realize the crickets have started chirping again.

For some reason, that makes me feel a little safer.

I don’t risk it, though. As another shiver rushes over me, I run back inside.

I make sure to lock the door behind me.

I’m pretty sure it was locked before.

My thoughts race as I huddle in bed, knees to my chest and covers to my nose, even though it’s still way too hot. There’s no way the doll could have ended up in my sink if someone was carrying it in. I would have seen that, right? If someone had dropped it into the bathroom from the tiny window, I would have seen it when I was getting out of the shower. Or—if they had used the slamming door as a diversion—I would have heard the doll thud into the sink in the silence after.

But that’s the only answer my rational mind can think of, and even that barely makes sense.

My irrational mind has another idea.

That the doll crept in and slammed the door behind her.

That she ran between my legs when I was distracted and opened the bathroom door.

That she climbed up the sink.

That she had wanted to scare me.

I tell myself that’s impossible. Dolls don’t move, let alone try to scare someone.

But maybe this one does.