Annabelle — Watching. Waiting.
by Dawg
In a chamber starved of sunlight, where dust blurs every edge,
Annabelle sits in her coffin of glass–unblinking, relentless,
dredged from history’s darkest margins, stitched lips promising dread,
her painted gaze, lacquered and bright, watches the living, dances with the dead.
The wallpaper peels in apology, each shadow crawling slow,
as if the room itself knows secrets it’s afraid to show.
A ragdoll’s smile sewn crooked, a promise of childhood spoiled,
a terror wrapped in innocence, malignancy perfectly coiled.
Her eyes–lacquered buttons, sinister–reflect all who dare draw near,
shining with something inhuman, some memory too twisted for fear.
No soul escapes her scrutiny; she catalogues each heartbeat’s rush,
predator silent behind glass, hungry for a mind to crush.
She is more than muslin and yarn, more than a collector’s prize,
inside her seams, a heart that never beat–just darkness crystallized.
Old whispers snake from her display: a priest’s warning, a skeptic’s frown,
but all bravado cracks at midnight when the museum’s lights go down.
In the night’s deep hush, dreams sour as she invades–
her small hands grasp at hope, her shadow on the soul cascades.
Some say she moves unseen, a shudder in the still,
others hear a child’s laugh–an echo promising ill will.
Her history–sprawled in newspaper clippings, in the Warrens’ trembling voice,
a tale of haunting, possession, and chaos disguised as a toy.
No prayer can smother her malice, no relic cleanse her stain,
she sits enthroned in glass–incorruptible, insane.
In that room, in that silence, as the night’s heart grows cold,
she is always there–watching, waiting, her story never old.
Her stitched mouth never smiles, her button eyes never close,
a doll with no forgiveness–her legend only grows.
Annabelle remains–a warning stitched in time’s own skin,
watching and waiting, always hungry to begin.