The moment Mom dropped the bomb about our vacation spot, my heart

plummeted like a lead weight in my chest. Doll Island? Seriously? Who in their right mind

chooses a holiday destination overrun by creepy dolls? Dad's enthusiastic grin at the

thought of fishing there couldn't lessen the dread that coiled in my stomach. Mom, with

her excitement about gathering inspiration for her next book, only added to the growing

anxiety. And then there's Annie, my pint-sized bundle of perpetual energy and irritation.

She’s thrilled about the prospect of endless doll pals. Great.

As we arrived, the doll invasion was immediate. They littered the landscape,

hanging from branches, leering out from behind bushes—like an army waiting for orders.

I shuddered, feeling their lifeless eyes following our every move. Dad was too

preoccupied with finding the perfect fishing spot to notice, while Mom was already

taking mental notes for her book. Annie, well, she'd already declared herself BFFs with a

particularly creepy doll with missing eyes. I swear it winked at her.

On the way to a campsite we found a 20 foot deep pit in the middle of the trail.

And an even stranger detail is that it had at least 7 feet of wooden logs stacked on top

of each other. Why would there be a pit? What was the purpose of it? Who or what is it

for? It would be a good trap and Annie declared that It would be perfect for a house for

her and her creepy doll.

Nighttime was a whole different level of horror. Strange sounds slithered through

the cabin walls, and those dolls... they seemed to be alive, moving when they shouldn't.

Dad tried to brush it off, blaming the island's "atmosphere." Mom tried to convince us it

was just our imagination. Annie, annoyingly, insisted they were just being playful. But

when one of those demonic dolls attacked us, reality slapped us hard.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the eerie glow of twilight painted the island

in an ominous hue. Shadows danced in the cabin, and the rustling outside grew louder,

more persistent. Dad's attempt at a reassuring smile failed to mask the unease etched

across his face. Even Mom's attempts at distraction with her cooking couldn’t drown out

the growing sense of dread.

Then it happened. A creaking noise, followed by a sharp thud, echoed through the

cabin. Annie's laughter abruptly turned to frightened squeals. Dad was on his feet in an

instant, but before he could reach us, one of those dolls lunged. Its plastic limbs flailing

about wildly, its eyes devoid of any innocence.

Dad leaped to shield us, but the doll’s attack was vicious. It clawed at him, tearing

through his shirt as he fought to pry it off. Mom's scream pierced the chaos, and my

heart pounded in my chest. We managed to push it away, but not before Dad was left

clutching his injured arm, blood seeping through his fingers.

Panic seized us. Dad, gritting his teeth through the pain, grabbed Mom's hand and

led us outside. "To the pit," he gasped, determination overriding the agony. Mom’s eyes

were wide with fear, but she nodded, offering silent support. Annie, usually a whirlwind

of noise, was eerily quiet, her grip on my hand almost crushing.

We hurried, every step weighed down by the dread of what was happening. Dad’s

plan was grim but necessary. The dolls had to go. We dragged them, one by one, to the

pit near the trail, the dolls’ lifeless eyes following us, as if they knew what was coming.

The wind howled, and the sense of foreboding grew heavier with each step.

Dad started to light a match to set fire to the pit as the dolls closed in from all

sides to kill us. Annie and I just watched in stunned silence. The makeshift pyre was

ready, and Dad struck the match. The fire erupted from the pit engulfing the dolls in an

inferno spewing a putrid smell of burning plastic.

The dolls seemed to screech and scream in the fire. Their bodies contorting and

melting into puddles of melted plastic. With a final shreak that could have shattered

glass the last doll was burnt to a crisp. However our victory was short lived. Dad's

strength faltered, his injured arm hanging limp by his side. He collapsed, his breaths

labored. We rushed to his side, but there was no saving him. He’d sacrificed himself to

protect us, to end the nightmare.

As the flames died the only thing left was a silence which chilled us to the bone.

Mom clutched Dad’s fishing rod, tears streaming down her cheeks. And Annie clung to

Dad’s hat, her sobs muffled. And I... I just stood there staring at the smoldering remains

of what was once a collection of innocent toys turned into a nightmare. The island took

something from us that was irreplaceable and we were left to bear the weight of the

loss.