Nicole's Doll

Nicole stared at the package that had just been delivered to her brownstone in Manhattan, her eyes wide as she read the label:

From Marlon Pierre. Kingston, Jamaica.

“Jamaica?” she muttered.

She shook it off and set the box on Ryan’s desk upstairs.

Later that evening, Ryan came home, grabbed a cold iced tea from the fridge, and kissed her on the cheek.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hey,” she said, hugging him. “By the way, there’s a package on your desk from… Jamaica. I didn’t know you knew anyone there.”

“I don’t. Just a guy I met online.”

“What did you receive?”

“It’s nothing—just a collector’s item. Maybe it’ll be worth something one day.” He grinned. “I’ll open it later. What I need now is a hot shower. Want to join me?”

Nicole smirked and shook her head. “I already did. You’ll have to wait.”

Ryan laughed and went upstairs, leaving his phone on the counter. While she chopped vegetables, it buzzed several times. She glanced down.

Marlon: Tracker # said package arrived

Marlon: Be careful with it!!

Marlon: I’ll send instructions later

Marlon: By email

Her knife stopped mid-cut. “What the hell…”

When Ryan came back down, towel around his neck, she forced herself to sound normal.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“You tell me—I’m making the salad.”

“How about garlic chicken—keep it simple?”

Nicole nodded but didn’t look at him.

They ate without speaking. Finally, Ryan spoke. “You’re quiet tonight. Something wrong?”

Nicole poked her salad, then looked up. “I’m just curious what you bought.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll show you after dinner, okay?”

“Sure.”

In his office, Ryan opened the box. Inside was a doll—hand-stitched, dressed in gray, blonde yarn hair framing its pale cloth face.

Nicole froze. “What is that? It looks like me!”

Ryan laughed softly. “Don’t be ridiculous. But it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It freaks me out. I don’t know why you’d buy something like that.” She turned and walked out.

The next day, while Ryan was at work, Nicole slipped into his office. On the desk, his laptop was still open but in sleep mode. She tapped a button and an email glowed on the screen:

Ryan, take strands of hair from your girlfriend. The hairbrush is easiest. Glue them to the back of the doll. When your girl’s asleep, place four candles at the top, bottom, and sides of the doll. Light them. Video call me to begin.

A dreadful feeling overcame her. She searched online for doll +hair +candles, scrolling through endless images until one stopped her cold. It was nearly identical to the one sitting in Ryan’s office—stitched face, yarn hair, pale with similar dress. The caption underneath read: “Voodoo Doll.”

She gasped. So it wasn’t just some collector’s oddity. She kept scrolling, reading bits of articles on forums—most half-baked, some contradictory—but all pointing to the same thing: ritual. possession.

Buried among the links, she found a site advertising a voodoo specialist in Brooklyn. Against her better judgment, she dialed the number. A man’s voice answered, low and unhurried.

“My boyfriend received a doll from Jamaica,” before she could continue the man interrupted her.

“Bring the doll.”

When she arrived, the stench of chickens and metal filled the cramped shop.

“Hi, I called earlier.”

“Show me the doll,” the man said.

Nicole handed it over. He examined it carefully, shaking his head. “Hmm, this is Haitian, not Jamaican. One hundred percent. Why does it resemble you?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“Hair and candles?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Then it’s part of a hex. The only thing missing is sacrifice and conjuring. Your boyfriend is up to something devious. I can help you for a…...”

She seethed. “This is insane. Thank you—but no thank you,” and stormed out.

Back home, she confronted Ryan. “That doll is a voodoo doll. Why is it in our home?”

He sighed, exasperated. “Nic, it’s just a collector’s piece. You know I’ve got a thing for this stuff.”

“But why does it look like me? Blonde hair. My favorite color”

“It doesn’t. I’m blonde, you’re blonde. So she’s wearing gray. It’s coincidence.”

“Blue eyes, Ryan!”

“I want it out. Tonight.”

“Come on, Nic—”

“Tonight, Ryan.”

He raised his hands. “Alright, I’ll sell it. At least let me break even.”

That night, after he promised to sell it, Nicole sat at her vanity brushing her hair. A small clump came away in her hand. Her breath caught.

Stress, she told herself. Just stress. Still, she set the brush face down on the counter, as if hiding it from sight.

The next morning, the shelf in Ryan’s office was empty. Nicole exhaled in relief—until she noticed a hardened drop of wax on the rug near the desk, no bigger than a tear. Goosebumps erupted with sudden fear.

She frantically fetched her phone.

“Where’s the doll, Ryan?”

“I sold it. Mailed it this morning.”

“To whom?”

“Some collector in Florida. Why?”

“I want to see the receipt.”

“Nic, you’re being paranoid.”

“I want the receipt.”

“Fine.”

That night, he handed her a crumpled shipping slip. Receiver’s address in Florida. Contents: Doll.

“There’s a tracking ID if you don’t trust me.” He kissed her cheek, forcing a smile. “Babe, you’ve been acting kinda off. Everything alright?”

Nicole sat on the couch long after he went upstairs, the slip still in her hands. Proof. Cold, ordinary proof. She should have felt relief. Instead, the words of the voodoo specialist replayed in her mind—hex.

Later that week her body ached with dull cramps that sharpened as the hours passed. When Ryan texted How are you feeling? Pale this morning, her hand shook. She hadn’t told him she felt sick.

Days slid past without her noticing. Red blotches crept across her arms, itching until they burned. “Stress rash,” she whispered. Ryan brushed her shoulder as he passed behind her. “Careful. You’ll make it worse,” he said gently. Let’s go to the park tomorrow, some fresh air will be good.”

The following morning as they walked through Central Park, he said, “you look better already.”

“I do,” she said with a brittle smile. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sure you will,” Ryan said as he hugged her.

They arrived home and Nicole was feeling better than she had for days. Confident. “I’m going to make us hot chocolate.” She called out from the kitchen and opened the cupboard.

Ryan then appeared from the doorway, “babe, what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring inside the cupboard for a while.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, you were.”

Feeling irritated with Ryan and with herself she went upstairs to the bedroom. Silence filled the entire house for the rest of the night.

When she later slept, it was in fragments. She dreamed of candles arranged around her, their light flickering across Ryan’s face as he watched from above.

Each time she woke, drenched in sweat, Ryan lay beside her breathing evenly, as if nothing disturbed him at all. At around four o’clock in the morning she went to the bathroom, her reflection blurred in the mirror. One eye seemed to lag behind the other.

She blinked hard, splashed cold water on her face and whispered, “get yourself together.” The same morning during breakfast, Ryan suggested she see a doctor.

“I’m not going to a doctor. I just feel a little under the weather.”

“Sure, but the way you zoned out yesterday… it scared me. I don’t even think you realize what you’re doing sometimes.”

“Stop it Ryan. You’re not helping.”

“Sorry, I’ll see you later.”

By Friday that week, her hairbrush lay stuffed into a locked drawer, hidden away. When she checked it that evening, the bristles were clogged with blonde strands she didn’t remember losing.

Food turned bitter, metallic, every bite tasting of smoke. She gagged and pushed her plate away. Ryan frowned. “You’ve got to eat, Nic.”

By Sunday she barely slept at all. Her hands trembled constantly; her chest fluttered with shallow breaths. She spent long hours in the living room, dwelled on the drop of wax that still gleamed faintly no matter how many times she tried to scrub it out.

She remained the rest of the night curled on the couch in the dark, knees pulled tight against her body.

Upstairs, Ryan moved around the bedroom, humming to himself. She closed her eyes, pressing her palms over her ears, willing the sound away.

And then—music.

Drifted down the stairs, low and hazy—"I Put a Spell on You,” Nina Simone’s voice echoed in her head.