The Porcelain Girl in the Attic

In the attic of an old, wooden house, lies a closet, forgotten and obscure. In the corner, lurking like a mouse, stands a doll, her presence impure.

Her porcelain skin so smooth and pale

Her eyes, glassy and unblinking stare

Her hair in curls, so neat and stale

A deceptive beauty, oh so rare

But something's wrong, she's not quite right, Her smile is twisted, her lips are curled, Her gaze is haunting, her presence a fright, She's not a doll, she's a sinister girl.

She waits in the shadows, biding her time, Watching and waiting for the right prey

When night falls and the clock chimes

She emerges, to take them away.

She's trapped in that closet, day, and night, Her porcelain skin now cracked and aged

But her malevolent spirit burns bright, And her thirst for blood cannot be caged.

Beware the porcelain girl in the attic, Lest you become her next victim

For her eyes are watching, her grip is static, And her hunger is unrelenting.