“You were a mistake,” he said, tears streaming. “I made a monster, not a daughter.”
Samuel tried to remove the locket. Annabelle’s iron fingers locked around his wrist. “No, Father. You gave it to me. It’s mine.” annabelle the creation
To this day, travelers speak of a porcelain doll who appears at crossroads. She asks for directions to a father she never had. Those who are kind to her live. Those who hesitate—or, God forbid, try to help her—are found the next morning, sitting against a fence, eyes wide, mouths open in a silent scream. “You were a mistake,” he said, tears streaming
She looked up at him, and for a moment, he saw a glimmer of hurt in those wet, moving eyes. Then it vanished, replaced by something older than the burnt church’s bones. “No, Father