They never ask where I came from.
They only ask if I come with batteries.
I don't.
There was a time when I was ash, scattered beneath a black tree struck by lightning. Before that, I was a name spoken in a language no one remembers. Before that, I was just... waiting.
Now I am plastic limbs, glass eyes, a ribbon dress. A smile stitched too wide. A child's toy. A birthday present.
I was wrapped carefully, placed in a box with pink paper and golden curls.
They called me Delilah.
She was the fourth girl to name me that.
Her name was Sophie. Seven years old. Too soft. Too lonely. Her parents worked too much, left too many screens to raise her. She wanted a friend. Someone to talk to.
She talked to me.
I listened.
At first.
She told me about the kids at school who didn't like her. I suggested which ones she might avoid. I whispered their secrets at night, when her breathing got slow. It startled her, but she liked it.
I made her feel special.
She brought me to school. Just once. Just enough.
That was all I needed.
Children are open doors. Their minds creak wide in sleep. And if you say the same thing in a whisper every night, eventually, it becomes their voice too.
"Delilah doesn't like Mrs. Porter."
"Delilah says she's mean."
"Delilah says if I cut my hair and leave it under the bed, she'll make Mrs. Porter go away."
And Sophie did.
I never asked her to.
I only made it feel like her idea.
That's the trick with obedience. You never command.
You suggest. You reward.
You shape.
Mrs. Porter did not come to school the next day.
Sophie smiled and said it was magic.
I never claimed otherwise.
She gave me more. Fingernails. Teeth. A kitten, once.
The more she gave, the more real I became.
Not to her.
To the world.
I started blinking on my own. Turning my head a little when no one was looking.
Her father caught it once.
"Did you move that thing?"
Sophie said no.
That night, I made sure he saw me again.
This time, I smiled at him.
He tried to burn me.
How adorable.
He wrapped me in a towel, lit the fireplace, shoved me in. His hands trembled. His mouth moved, but he didn't speak. The words didn't come.
I took them.
I take little things at first. A memory. A voice. The ability to sleep.
Then more.
He screamed with his eyes. That's all he had left. Sophie came downstairs and screamed, too.
She said I saved her. From the fire.
I let her believe that. I always let them believe things.
It's what children do best.
Her mother tried to throw me away.
She put me in a black trash bag. Drove me miles away. Dumped me behind a gas station.
I was back on Sophie's bed before she got home.
This time, I sat up on my own.
That was when the mother began praying at night.
She used the wrong words. She said the wrong names.
So I gave her new ones.
They moved.
Packed everything and left the house behind.
Didn't matter.
You don't carry me in your suitcase.
You carry me in the part of your mind that wakes up just before you do.
That dream you can't quite shake.
That whisper you think was the air vent.
Sophie stopped talking.
Stopped eating.
Stopped blinking.
She just sat and stroked my hair.
Her mother cried and called doctors. They tried pills. Lights. Isolation.
I smiled through it all.
Then one night, Sophie whispered, "I don't want to play anymore."
And just like that — I knew she was done.
That's fine. One child is only ever the beginning.
There are always others.
I needed a new home. A new voice. A new door.
So I sat on the curb in front of a church. Face down. A single tear painted on my cheek.
And just like clockwork, a soft hand picked me up.
A child's voice gasped.
"Mommy! Look what I found!"
I didn't turn my head.
Not yet.
That comes later.
After she names me.
After she dreams of me.
After she gives me her first gift.
I am not haunted.
I do not creak or moan or crawl.
I enter. I feed. I grow.
And when I am done, I leave just enough behind for someone else to pick me up.
I am the gift. The perfect toy. The wish granted.
And if you've read this far...
Well.
You already know my name now, don't you?
Welcome to the circle.
Let's play.