Tape it Shut! Haunted Doll.

Most '90s kids will remember Furbies—those eerie little creatures that could sit silently in your closet for hours, only to jolt awake in the dead of night, speaking into the darkness. We’ve all experienced strange occurrences with animatronic toys, but my story isn’t about a Furby. It’s about a doll.

Growing up, my grandmother collected dolls, a fact I’ve mentioned before when I wrote about the ghost boy in her house. Dolls have always carried a dual nature—charming playthings like Barbies or unnerving relics with too-perfect eyes, their faces frozen in expressions that never quite feel right. Some, like Annabelle, even come with a reputation for being truly sinister. And as much as I wish I were an exception, I have my own story to tell.

I was young—probably not even ten—when I received a beautiful porcelain doll as a gift. It wasn’t just any doll; it was an expensive, standing figure nearly two feet tall, with curly blonde hair, delicate features, and a classic petticoat dress. What made her special was that she could move. When plugged in, her arms and legs would take small, graceful steps, like she was walking in place.

She was a gift from my grandmother, so of course, I cherished her, even though dolls weren’t exactly my thing. I’d turn her on and pretend she was my friend, though we always made sure to unplug her afterward. With a house full of pets, we were careful about keeping the cord safe, rolling it up and tucking it beneath her dress when she wasn’t in use.

One afternoon, we left her by my dad’s recliner, unplugged, her cord neatly wound beneath her petticoats. It was just another normal day. The sun was shining, nothing felt out of place—until I ran into the living room and froze.

My doll was moving.

Not just the small, controlled steps she made when powered on, but fully moving. Her arms and legs swung unnaturally, her body shifting, her feet stepping—like she was trying to walk, to move behind my dad’s chair.

For a moment, I stood there, my mind scrambling for an explanation. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe someone had plugged her in without me noticing.

Then my dad stepped up beside me.

He grabbed my shoulder, his grip firm as he watched the doll move. Slowly, we approached. He crouched down, reached behind the chair, and checked the cord.

It wasn’t plugged in.

Without a word, he stood and left the room. A moment later, he returned with a roll of duct tape. We carefully packed the doll into her box, sealed it tight, and taped it shut from top to bottom. That box remains sealed to this day, buried in storage at my mother’s house.

This isn’t the scariest thing that ever happened to me, but it’s one of the clearest, most inexplicable moments I’ve ever experienced. And for a man like my dad—who, at the time, refused to believe in ghosts or anything remotely supernatural—it was enough to shake him.

Of course, he believes now. But that’s a story for another time.

Has anyone else ever had to tape a haunted doll’s box shut to ensure it never escapes?