Amelia Walker

Rain lashed the bookstore windows. Musty air hung heavy as I squeezed past overflowing shelves. A giggle, like wind chimes in a storm, sent shivers down my spine. There, a porcelain doll of a girl, rosy cheeks and all, clutched a music box. Her eyes, black buttons, held an unsettling intelligence. "Lost, are we?" she chirped, the music box a cruel smile. "I can help you find a story. One that ends very badly."