Dear Barbie

A Barbie collector is given a rare haunted Barbie doll.

Dear Barbie

By

Z.H. Carter

Sitting at my desk in the lobby of the faculty suite at the local college where I work, nestled between a row of office doors and a bulletin board cluttered with outdated announcements. The space a sterile, academic stillness--muted fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the scent of old paper and burnt coffee lingered in the air, and the occasional click of a stapler from one of the nearby offices broke the silence. I am sipping coffee from my favorite Barbie mug, scrolling through eBay for deals to expand my ever-growing Barbie collection, the soft pink logo of Barbies in their boxes on the screen is a comforting contrast to the beige, academic surroundings. The quiet, predictable rhythm of my Friday morning held me in its grip--until a voice interrupted it

"Good morning, Heath."

Startled, I look up to see Professor LangleyPotter standing in front of me. His usual neatly combed brown gray hair, his usual button-up shirt and work slacks have been traded in for a t-shirt and jeans, a nice-looking man for his age. His presence was unexpected--his mother had passed away recently, and I didn't think he'd be back so soon. Yet there he was, his usual confident demeanor tinged with something hesitant.

"Good morning, Professor Langley" setting my mug down. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"To be honest," he began, his gaze flickering away, "I only came up here to see you. I... well, I wanted to bring you something."

His words pique my curiosity. What could he possibly have for me? "Grab your cart and follow me to my car," he added with a nervous smile.

Curious, I retrieved my rolling cart and followed him down to the parking garage. When we reach his car, he popped the trunk, revealing an old metal chest painted a faded teal. I gave him a puzzled look as he opened it, and inside was a vintage Barbie carrying case. It was one of the larger ones, the kind with two compartments for clothes and accessories.

"As I was going through my mom's attic," he said, his voice quieter now, "I found this old Barbie. There's a doll and some clothing pieces inside. Open it up and take a look."

I carefully unlatched the case, my heart racing with anticipation. When I lift the lid, I froze.

OH. MY. GOD.

Nestled inside was a number one blonde Barbie. She was wearing her original black-and-white striped swimsuit, her face paint flawless, her hair perfectly styled in her signature ponytail. She was pristine--as if she had stepped straight out of 1959--and the trunk was full of vintage outfits, including some rare ones I had only ever seen in collector's guides.

"Well?" Professor Langley asked, his tone almost wary. "Do you want her?"

I am speechless. "Of course I want her," I managed to stammer, "but she is priceless, extremely rare, far too expensive just to give away. That doesn't even include the value of the clothes. This is too much--I can't accept her."

He rolls his eyes and lets out a sigh, as if this was the response he'd expected but didn't want to hear. "Heath, I don't care about that. If you want the doll, it's yours. Consider it a belated birthday gift. At least I know it's going to someone who will cherish it."

His words send a thrill through me, but something about his expression caught my attention. He seems... relieved, almost desperate to be rid of the doll. Odd.

"If you're sure, then yes, of course I'll take her," carefully placing the carrying case back into the chest. "This is the most incredible gift I've ever received."

"I'm just glad she's going to someone who will cherish her," he repeats, his tone tight. "Well, I need to get going--there's still a lot to handle with my mom's estate. See you soon, Heath."

Without another word, he climbs into his car and drives off with a tight smile and a wave, leaving me standing there, clutching the cart. Excitement and unease swirl together in my chest, but I shake off the strange feeling. After all, I'd just received the holy grail of Barbie dolls.

Back at my desk, I couldn't wait another second--I had to call my bestie, Rennie, and tell her about this unbelievable gift. Luckily, Rennie worked with me at the college, we are administrative assistants for different academic departments. She answers on the second ring.

"Hey, bestie, what's up?"

"Ren, you are not going to believe this! Professor Langley gave me a number one Barbie! Plus, a vintage Barbie carrying case full of outfits to go with her!" I paused, waiting for her reaction. Silence filled the line. Rennie doesn't collect Barbie's, besides a few she has kept from childhood that I have helped her restore and clean up, but she's just as passionate about Barbie as I am. "Ren?"

"I'm coming to see you." Her tone clipped, no-nonsense. The phone clicks as she hangs up.

Moments later, Rennie strides into my lobby, all business. "Show me."

I open the teal vintage trunk, revealing my most prized possession. Rennie carefully removes the Barbie carrying case and examines its contents, her fingers deft and precise.

"Heath, I can't believe he just gave all of this to you," her voice low with amazement. "Last week Professor Langley made a comment that I could be a better admin."

"Well, you call in all the time and you're basically attached to your phone."

Rennie sticks her tongue out, we both laugh. Professor Langley has been nothing but kind to me ever since I started working at the college. There's a quiet, steady presence about him--never imposing, but always attentive, as though he's cataloging details in some private ledger of understanding. He's taken an interest in me, though not in any unsettling way. It's more like a sincere curiosity, an almost paternal--or perhaps avuncular--watchfulness. He seems to enjoy our conversations, as if each one fills in a missing puzzle piece about me that he's been trying to put together.

At times, I catch him studying me, not with judgment but with an air of familiarity, like I remind him of someone he once knew. It's never intrusive--just a flicker of something unspoken beneath his composed exterior. He asks thoughtful questions, never crossing into personal territory unless I invite it, and he listens intently, weighing my words as though they hold some hidden significance. There's a warmth in his presence, but also a quiet intensity, as if he is searching for something he's yet to name.

With that said, he just gave me a doll worth almost as much as my yearly salary! But why? The Barbie beautiful, delicate, and undeniably expensive. But more than that, it feels intentional--like a piece of a puzzle I don't yet understand. What does he see in me that makes him think I should have this? It's not just a gift--it feels like a message, a piece of something larger that Langley isn't quite saying aloud. As if, in handing me this doll, he's handing me a secret I have yet to uncover.

"Harry is leaving for work and will be gone all next week. Do you have plans for spring break?" I ask, the gears in my mind already turning. My husband, Harry, works as an airline pilot, often gone for a week at a time.

"Do I ever have plans?" she replies, smirking. "After work today, I'll run home, pack a bag, and we can spend the weekend holed up in your Barbie house. We'll work on the video for your YouTube channel next week--this needs to be properly documented."

Rennie, my YouTube guru, always lives in the online world. We finalize our plans, and she returns to her area of the building to finish the workday. It's the Friday before spring break, and the office is nearly dead. I glance at the time on my phone, hoping for an early release.

Later, at home, Harry came out to help me unload the vintage trunk from my car. Together, we carry it into the Barbie house--a small guest house transformed into my Barbie paradise. Although Harry supports me in my Barbie collection, he believed our house should be a home and not a museum. As a result, we had come to a "Baby, I don't care as long as it's not in the main house."

"Guest House, then" I countered.

We remodeled our guest house. Harry likes working with his hands, so for the first year of our marriage we worked together--building shelves, searching for furniture, and sometimes arguing with each other about the perfect shade of pink. In the end, we were both proud of the work.

The "living room" of the guest house displays my growing collection: Barbie dream houses, cars, and shelves upon shelves of dolls. The "bedroom" served as my filming room for YouTube and the backdrop for Instagram photos.

"Babe, I can't believe Professor Langley just gave all of this to you," Harry says, shaking his head in disbelief. Ever supportive, Harry has even taken to building dioramas for my collection in his woodworking shop.

"I can't either. I need to do something nice for him," I reply as we haul the trunk into the filming room. I open it carefully, my hands almost trembling as I sit the carrying case on the photography table. "When you come home next week, will you help me build a diorama for her?"

Harry sighs theatrically, rolling his eyes the way he always does when I ask him for a new diorama. But when I flash him my biggest, most irresistible smile, I know I have him.

"What do you have in mind?" he asks, resigned. What? He knew who I was when he married me!

"Well, I've been saving the vintage Mother Goose Barbie bed, wardrobe, and vanity for the perfect display. Maybe a '60s-inspired bedroom with working lights?"

"That's doable," he pulls me into his arms for a long goodbye kiss. "I'll sketch some ideas while I'm gone. See you in a week." With a playful pat on my bum, he leaves.

Alone, I unpack the vintage furniture and arrange it on the photography table, eager for Rennie's arrival. Finally, I can truly appreciate my number one Barbie. She is flawless, every detail pristine: her signature black-and-white striped swimsuit, perfectly painted red lips, severe arched brows, and copper tubing in her feet that secure her to her stand in an elegant pose. I still cannot believe I finally have a number one Barbie!!! I feel like I am in a dream, this just can't be real.

Something about her is hypnotic. The intensity of her gaze, the unnerving perfection--it's as though she's watching me. I shake off the strange thought, grateful that whoever had stored her had taken meticulous care. No green ear from the metal in her aged earrings, no stains on her delicate feet from her black open toe mule pumps. I set her on the black base peg stand making a mental note to give her some safety "gold" hoop earrings before Ren and me start taking photos of her. She strikes an effortless, graceful pose, the epitome of vintage Barbie elegance.

As I stare at her, an unfamiliar chill creeps over me, an unease I can't quite shake. My phone buzzes suddenly, jolting me from my thoughts. I flinch, feeling foolish for being so jumpy. It's a text from Ren,

"Stopping by the store for some prosecco to celebrate!"

I smile and heart her message, grateful for the distraction. Deciding to keep busy, I turn my attention to the clothes and accessories in the trunk. But as I sift through the delicate fabrics, I freeze. Barbie's left arm... it has lifted slightly. I don't remember positioning it like that.

The uneasy chill lingers, brushing over me like a whisper I cannot hear. A shiver runs down my spine, and I find myself glancing over my shoulder, as if expecting to see someone--or something--watching me. Shaking off the creepy sensation, I decide it's time for a break. I head back to my house to change out of my work clothes and into some comfy clothes. I retrieve my pink Dragon Glass Barbie champagne flutes from the hutch. I hope some prosecco will help me unwind and shake the odd feeling I have. Jeez Heath get a grip, there is an extremely rare Barbie doll out in your Barbie house, you should be on cloud 9! I mentally chastise myself.

I start to pace back and forth in my living room, unable to shake the chill that had settled over me. My number one Barbie--the holy grail of my collection--was just sitting there in the Barbie House, and yet, I couldn't make myself go back inside. Not after... well, whatever that was earlier. I peek out the window for what must have been the hundredth time. The Barbie house sitting still and silent, its cheerful pink trim looking almost sinister under the dimming evening light. My phone buzzes, breaking the quiet, and I grab it like a lifeline.

A text from Rennie: "On my way to your door with prosecco. Time to celebrate, bestie!"

A small smile tugs at my lips. Leave it to Rennie to keep things light, even when my nerves are shot. Still holding my phone, I hear a car door slam. I glance out the window just in time to see her striding toward the Barbie House, bottle in one hand, grocery bag in the other.

"Ren, wait!" I call out, pink champagne flutes in hand I throw open the back door, and rush after her. The cool spring evening air bit at my skin, but I hardly notice. I catch up to her just as she reaches the pink door of my Barbie house, she turns, startled almost dropping the prosecco.

"Jeez, Heath! Trying to give me a heart attack?" Her brows furrowed, surprised to see me.

I catch my breath and giving her a sheepish grin. "Sorry. I didn't want to come back out here alone."

Her frown deepens; she tilts her head confusion coloring her face. "Wait... what? But you were just in there." She points to the Barbie house with her head.

I freeze, uh no. "What are you talking about?"

She gestures again towards the Barbie House. "I saw you, through the window. You were standing by the photography table."

My stomach drops, a nervous laugh escapes me. "Very funny, Ren."

"I'm not kidding," her tone flat. "I saw you... Or someone. But... if you were in your house..." Her voice trails off as she gazes toward the darkened window. We stare at each other, trying to stay calm, and totally failing. "Or maybe someone's inside."

My chest tightens; my heart beats a little faster. If she isn't kidding, then who--or what--did she see? Did someone sneak into my Barbie house without me noticing? Impossible...Right?

"It was probably just a trick of the light," trying to convince myself as much as her. Yes. That's it.

We stand completely still, our ears straining for any sound inside my Barbie house, but the silence was absolute. Nothing. No signs of anyone walking around or moving.

"I don't hear anything," I finally say. We are just being ridiculous. I have spent plenty of late nights by myself in my Barbie house, restoring and cleaning Barbies... Ok. Fine playing with my Barbies. And I haven't ever felt unsafe.

Rennie cracks a small grin. "Maybe it's a ghost." She giggles.

Her humor gets a chuckle out of me. "Sure, let's just hope it's camera-friendly and ready for a close up." Our chuckles turn into full laughter.

"Exactly! And if it is let's catch it on video, send it to one of our favorite ghost channels on YouTube--we'll go viral for a whole other reason." She says with a playful wink.

This is nuts, Ren and I are standing outside while the rarest of Barbies is inside waiting for us. I have waited my whole life for this moment. Time to suck it up buttercup, go inside and play with my Barbie.

"We need to get a grip, clearly, for whatever reason we are a little jumpy, its chilly out here and I am ready to go inside, have a drink and play with Barbie. You with me?" I say to Rennie sounding braver than I feel. I just can't shake this spooky feeling.

"Let's do this." Says Rennie, shaking off her anxiety.

Together, we step towards the door. The moment I turn the knob, I could swear I feel a faint draft, like a sigh escaping the Barbie house itself. Rennie glances at me, her eyes glinting with a mix of nerves and excitement. I push the door open, hit the light switch, the main room illuminates with warm lighting, my Barbies welcoming us to come in. I step inside first and Rennie follows going into the small kitchen, which I use when rescue Barbies need a spa day. I sit the champagne flutes on the counter; Ren pops the bottle of prosecco.

"Let's have a drink before getting started shall we." She pours us each a generous glass. I take a much-needed sip, ok gulp, to calm my nerves. "I also got some cheese and crackers to snack on while we play with Barbie," she says with an excited grin.

With the cheese and crackers in one hand and my glass of sparkling perfection in the other I lead the way to my filming room, Ren follows with her drink in one hand the bottle in the other. I come to a sudden stop once inside the room. Barbie wasn't on the filming table where I left her. My heart beating hard in my chest as my eyes lock onto her new location: Barbie is standing in the old trunk, her left arm raised as if she is pointing, but at what? Pointing at the inside of the lid.

"What gives, Heath?" Ren's voice breaks through the pounding in my ears, coming to stand next to me, her eyes follow my fearful gaze to Barbie. "Why'd you put Barbie in the trunk?"

"I... I didn't," I stammer. "I left her on the table." A chill wraps around me, tightening like a vice. Who--or what--had moved her?

"So, if you didn't, who did?" Ren's question echoing the question I just asked myself.

"I. I. I don't know." I answer with a shacky voice. Could Rennie's ghost joke from minutes ago be true, is there something supernatural going on here? Look, I'm not saying I don't believe in the paranormal--far from it. I've spent ungodly hours watching ghost hunting shows, falling down YouTube rabbit holes, convincing myself I could totally survive a haunted house. But that was all entertainment. Screen-safe ghosts. Is this really happening? Maybe. Possibly. Crap. I go from shaking in my boots to being annoyed, I freaking finally after years of hoping, scrolling on eBay looking at other number one Barbies I couldn't afford, Then my some miracle I am given one, and she's haunted? WTF! What kind of cosmic karma is this? Who did I tick off in a past life?

Ren's eyes dart from me to Barbie. "Why is she pointing at the lid?" Why indeed. Do I really want to know?

My grandma had a thing for old trunks, loved them in fact, especially old trucks with hidden compartments. "Sometimes old trunks have hidden compartments," I murmur. "Maybe this trunk has one too." I glance at Ren. Swallowing hard, I cross the small space to the trunk. Barbie feels unnervingly solid as I lift her, placing her back on the table. I push gently on the inside of the lid, it gives a little like there is space behind it. My stomach churns as I searched for something to pull. In the upper right corner, I see a small blue ribbon. I hesitate for only a second before giving it a tug.

With a soft creak, the inner lid falls open, releasing its hidden treasures. Two teal blue leather books tumble out, landing with a muffled thud inside the bottom of the trunk. Their once vibrant color faded from time, the leather is cracked and peeling like dry earth beneath a relentless sun. They books bare the unmistakable marks of age--edges softened from years of use, the spine stretched and weak. I carefully pick up one of the old books, as if handling something sacred. Diary is embossed in gold lettering on the front, the diary groaned as I open it, its old bones protesting after decades of quiet confinement. Loose pages fluttered free, drifting like autumn leaves, their edges curled and brittle with age. As I sift through them, the scent of time envelopes me--the familiar perfume of aged paper and ink long since dried, carrying with it the ghosts of a life once lived, a voice waiting to be heard.

On the first page, written in neat, looping handwriting under "This diary belongs to..." A name: Johnny Scott. Johnny Scott? Is this who Barbie belonged to? Could he be responsible for all the spooky happenings? Rennie crouches beside me, her fingers brushing the edge of the other book, this one has photo album on the cover, same gold lettering as the diary.

"What do you think is inside?" Her voice barely above a whisper. I didn't answer. The truth is, I am not sure I want to know.

"Heath, you need to see this!" Ren's voice cuts through my quiet contemplation. She has opened the album, her eyes wide in shock, with shaking hands she turns the album around to show me her discovery. I feel the color drain from my face, my body tingles with disbelief, my heart skips a beat, this can't be... There before me in black-and-white, a photo of someone who could be my identical twin staring at me. It wasn't just a resemblance--it was like looking into a mirror from another time, even though the picture wasn't in color I could tell his hair was lighter than mine, but the shape of his face, the slope of his nose, even the tilt of his head--it was all me.

I stare at the photo dumbfounded, my pulse thundering in my ears. This must be Johnny Scott. But why--how--does he look like me? My mind races with a dozen impossible questions, none of them making sense.

Rennie's voice wavers. "Heath... what does this mean?"

I am unable to respond my eyes still glued to the photo, the air heavy around us, I look down at the diary now laying on the floor next to my knee, a loose page sticking out of it as if it's calling to me. I delicately open the diary to where the loose page lies, Rennie already on her phone, her fingers flying across the screen as she searches for answers, I begin to read.

April 9, 1959

Dear Barbie,

Today, my mother's garden party was its usual affair--a parade of shallow pleasantries and self-importance, perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around a champagne flute, every smile as brittle as the porcelain dishes stacked on silver trays. Mother thrives on these gatherings, relishing the opportunity to flaunt our family's status among the town's elite, while I suffocate under its weight.

Kurt was there, of course--he always is. Our mothers have been bosom buddies since childhood, entangling our lives in ways neither of us ever asked for. Across the swarming anthill of guests, our eyes met, silent, yearning. The glances we exchanged burned with our hidden desire for one another, of stolen nights, whispered promises, and forbidden love.

I couldn't endure it any longer. The nearness of him, the space between us, was unbearable. I needed him. Needed the press of his lips, the steadiness of his arms. Without thinking, I strode toward him, where he lingered by the refreshment table, his expression knowing with quiet understanding.

"Do you think we'd be missed if we snuck away?" I murmured, once I am standing next to him my voice just low enough to be scandalous. A grape rolled over my tongue as I popped it into my mouth, feigning casualness, though my heart thundered beneath my ribs, my desire for him blooming in my stomach, causing my pants to feel tighter around me arousal.

The corner of his lips quirked. A mischievous gleam flashed in his eyes.

"Meet me in my old bedroom." I discreetly brush my thigh against his and I turn to leave.

The moment Kurt stepped through the doorway of my old bedroom, restraint shattered. We were hands and mouths, grasping, greedy--starving for the feel of each other. His kiss was heat and hunger, his tongue a knowing invasion in my mouth, drawing a gasp from my throat as I melted into him. The press of his body against mine was undeniable, the urgency of us stripping away all logic, all fear. We didn't care about the world beyond this room. Not in this moment.

But the door--God, the door! The familiar groan of the old knob twisted through the fever of our embrace, wrenching us apart like startled animals. Breath ragged, clothing askew, neither of us had time to truly adjust, to collect ourselves before the figure in the doorway appeared into view.

Kurts brother Ray.

He stood there, his face unreadable except for the sharp glare in his eyes, dark and knowing. A storm of unspoken words twisted in the silence between us. Kurt moved as if to say something, but before he could, Ray turned--swift, decisive--and made for the hallway.

"No--Ray!" Kurt lurched after him, his voice desperate, his steps hurried.

How could we have been so careless? So stupid? Panic seized me, my pulse hammering wildly. If were Ray say something--if he told someone--God, what would happen?

I had to leave. I had to think. I had to clear my head before the walls of the room, the house closed in completely.

The walk home felt endless. Every step was heavy; my thoughts tangled in hopelessness. The sting of what had happened--what Kurt and I had risked, what we nearly lost--gnawed at me, relentless. My heart ached for him, for the life we could never have, not in this world, not in this time. He loved me. I loved him. And yet, love wasn't enough. It never will be.

Not only did the world deem us unnatural, undeserving of happiness, but our families--devout, unwavering--would cast us out without hesitation. A single moment of truth, and we'd become ghosts, unspoken names, whispered tragedies in a closed-door sermon. It was crushing, suffocating, enough to make me want to scream or disappear.

And then--like fate, like a gift from the universe--I saw her.

The window of Tyler's Toys was a familiar one, a place where childhood felt safe, uncomplicated. But today, among the familiar clutter of playthings and games, she stood out--radiant, impossibly perfect. A single doll, poised with a smile so bright it seemed to slice through the gray. Her golden hair shimmered, catching the dim afternoon light like spun silk. Her dress--tailored, elegant--spoke of dreams, of possibility. She was beautiful, breathtaking even, an icon of something just out of reach.

For the briefest moment, she felt like she was smiling at me. As if she saw me--not the shame, not the fear, but me.

As if I were hypnotized my feet carried me through the door before, I even realized what I was doing. The shop smelled the same as I remembered--dust mingling with old paper and plastic. Without hesitation, I bought the doll, along with several carefully crafted garments, each stitch more pristine than the next.

Maybe I was losing my mind, grasping at anything to steady myself before I drowned in despair. But as I held Barbie in my hands, something inside me steadied.

I think it's time I get back to photography. She'll be my muse--this beautiful, untouchable figure, this beacon in the dark. Lord knows I need something to make me happy.

And maybe--just maybe--I've found a new friend.

I stare at the page misty eyed, my chest tightening. Poor Johnny. His words felt like a punch to the gut, raw and unfiltered. I can't imagine a world where I couldn't be with Harry, where love was something to be hidden and feared. It want-need to know more about him and the man he was in love with.

"Johnny Scott was MURDERED!" Rennie's shrieks dramatically as if she is in a Murder She Wrote episode, snapping me out of my thoughts. Wait what? The word murdered hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Rennie's wide eyes meet mine before she turns her phone to show me what she has found.

TRAGIC SLAYING OF BANKER'S SON BAFFLES AUTHORITIES

"Listen to this," she murmurs, swallowing hard as she begins to read the article.

"Johnny Scott, 25, son of prominent bank president Wesley Scott and his wife Mae Scott, was found murdered in a grisly execution-style killing that has left authorities searching for answers.

Scott was brutally beaten before his assailant delivered a single fatal shot to the back of his head--an act of calculated violence that has investigators questioning its motives. With no witnesses and no clear suspect, police remain without leads in what they are calling a heinous, deliberate crime."

A sick weight drops into my stomach, the hair at the nape of my neck prickles. This isn't just a name scrawled in an old diary anymore--Johnny Scott was real. Flesh and blood. Someone who had lived, loved, suffered. Someone who had died violently.

"You don't think...?" Rennie hesitates, her voice barely audible. She bites her bottom lip, her fingers tightening around her phone. "Could it be possible that the doll is haunted? That Johnny Scott's ghost is attached to her?"

"It's possible," I admit. "We've watched countless videos online of people buying or inheriting old dolls and toys, only for strange things to start happening in their homes." Rennie's face goes pale. I shiver from a cold chill that runs down my spine.

"Barbie has been moving on her own. And I think..." My throat tightens I force myself to swallow to finish my train of thought. "Johnny led us to the diary. And the photo album."

My gaze drops to Barbie, her perfect painted grin frozen in place, now feels different--less sweet, more knowing. A quiet watcher. A keeper of secrets.

If Johnny Scott is haunting this doll...What does he want from me?

One bottle of prosecco and an hour later, Rennie and I have combed through every black-and-white photograph Johnny had taken of Barbie. His talent is undeniable--each frame meticulously composed, every detail purposeful. Some were marked with dates, corresponding with diary entries. Meanwhile, Rennie has spent the last thirty minutes scouring the internet, hunting for anything beyond the single article detailing Johnny's murder. But the screen stared back at her, empty, void of history.

"This is odd. Really odd." Sighing in frustration, rubbing her temples. "It's like someone went out of their way to make sure there's nothing on Johnny or his murder--like they erased him."

The thought sends a chill through me, who would go to such lengths to make him disappear?

"Do you think Jewels could get us access to the original police report?" I ask absentmindedly, my fingers tracing over Barbie's painted features, her perfect smile suddenly unsettling. Our bestie Jewels, is a criminology student, working her way through school in administration at the local police department--if anyone can help us find answers it's her.

"Can't hurt to ask." Ren rubs her tired eyes and stretches.

I unlock my phone go to my most recent text thread with Jewels.

"Hey, are you up?" I type. "Because Renny and I just uncovered some ridiculous, potentially life-altering tea."

Her response comes almost instantly. "Omg spill."

I exhale, fingers hovering over the keyboard before I start typing a summary of events.

"Okay, so--One of the faculty members at work gave me a number one Barbie... Yeah I know crazy right?! Ever since I brought her home strange things have been happening and well, she might have a ghost attached to her. And not just any ghost. Johnny Scott--a guy who was murdered decades ago. His name keeps coming up in weird ways, and we think he's trying to tell us something."

A longer pause this time.

Then: "Wait. Wait wait wait. Hold up. You're telling me a Barbie is haunted, and the ghost is a literal murder victim??"

"Yes! And we need your help, besides one news article we can't find anything else on the murder or any further information on the investigation. Do you think you can help us find out more?"

I can see Jewels now sitting in her king size bed overflowing with pillows and teddy bears, her braids pulled up in her silk sleeping cap, staring at her phone mouth a gape, blinking rapidly.

Then finally-- "I probably shouldn't... but mysteries are my weakness. I'm in. Swing by the PD around 10ish."

I exhale with relief, the tension in my chest loosening slightly now that we have a plan. If Johnny has been erased, someone must have wanted him gone--someone who might've had something to do with his death. And if he's haunting Barbie, maybe--just maybe--he wants to be found.

Rennie stretches her arms overhead, then pulls her long blonde hair into a high ponytail with a tired sigh. "It's getting late, and it looks like we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"You go ahead to the house," I say, glancing at my Barbie wall clock. It's almost midnight. "I'll close up here."

She hesitates. "You sure?" I nod.

"Yeah. I don't feel creeped out anymore."

It's not a lie--not entirely. The shock has faded, and what lingers now isn't fear. It's something quieter. Something unresolved.

She shrugs, convinced I'm telling the truth. "Alright. See you in the morning."

Once she's gone, I turn my attention to Barbie. I lift her carefully, deciding to change her into the rare pink version of her Sweet Dreams pajamas. The delicate fabric feels smooth between my fingers. I slide the baby-doll top over her arms, the ruffles on the matching bloomers still impeccable after all these years.

Once she's dressed, I tuck her into bed. "Goodnight, Barbie," I murmur.

I pause in the doorway, glancing back for one last look at my rare Barbie.

Her head has turned.

I freeze. She's facing me.

I don't feel alone anymore. There's a presence-- not cold, not vengeful. Just... longing. Reaching out.

"Johnny, could you please dial down the ghost theatrics?" My voice barely rises above a whisper, like speaking louder might shatter whatever thin veil separates us. I know he's not trying to scare me--but did he really have to make Barbie act like she's auditioning to be the next Annabelle?

Still feeling the weight of his presence, I grab Johnny's diary and tuck it under my arm. My curiosity won't let me sleep without trying to find answers, and something tells me they're hidden in these pages. I turn off the light and step out of the room.

January 4, 1960

Dear Barbie,

It's been nearly a year since I brought you home--my confidante, my one true friend. Returning to photography, and the creative outlet you provide, has been my lifeline, keeping me afloat from a reality that's often too heavy.

Today I dressed you in "Gay Parisienne." You looked so perfect in the navy-blue bubble-skirt dress with tiny white polka dots, the matching hairpiece with face veil, white fur stole, and opera gloves. I brought you to the Rose Garden gazebo--the place where Kurt and I once professed our love.

That night is etched into my soul. We'd slipped away from a society event to dance alone, just the two of us, to In the Still of the Night by The Five Satins. The aching melody mirrored our longing for something we weren't allowed to have.

"Johnny, I can't imagine life without you," Kurt whispered into the shell of my ear, our bodies pressed close as we swayed beneath the stars. "There must be a way we can be together. I love you so."

His words filled me with more emotion than I knew how to hold. "And I love you, Kurt, with all my heart and soul." The world melted away--we were simply two people in love.

When the song ended, Kurt pulled out his pocketknife. He sat down on the bench and began carving something into the railing, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he finally moved aside, I sat beside him. He had carved a heart--inside it, J+K.

My heart swelled. Tears stung my eyes at the sight of his quiet, physical act of love. I threw myself into his arms, needing to feel him, to hold on to the only part of my world that felt real.

Oh, Barbie--what am I to do? Maybe there's still a place we could run away to. Just the two of us.

The Gazebo:

I sit there now, in the present. But I'm not alone.

The wooden beams arch above me, wrapped in creeping ivy that sways gently in the night breeze. The gazebo stands as it always has--paint peeling at the edges, a place meant for whispered secrets and stolen moments. The air carries the scent of damp earth and the faintest trace of honeysuckle. Somewhere beyond the trees, the world keeps turning.

But here, in this quiet pocket of time, the past is reaching through the cracks.

"Hello, Heath, is it?"

The voice is familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Johnny sits across from me, legs stretched out, his hands resting casually in his lap--like this is normal, like we do this all the time. His resemblance to me is uncanny: moonlit blond hair, sharp blue eyes like lightning--a stark contrast to my auburn hair and storm-gray gaze.

"Johnny? Is this... real?" My voice trembles, heart thrumming against my ribs.

"As real as it can be," he answers gently. His fingers skim the gazebo's railing, a movement full of memory, as if the worn wood still holds echoes of old laughter.

"I didn't mean to scare you or your friend earlier," he says, almost apologetic. "But I needed you to find my things--the diary, the photos."

"Why?" The question barely escapes me, a whisper swallowed by the night.

He hesitates, tracing the initials scratched into the railing--remnants of a life half-remembered.

"Because I need you to help me figure out what happened to me."

The weight of it settles between us.

"You don't remember?"

He closes his eyes, his breath uneven, his presence flickering. When he looks at me again, something in his gaze pleads.

"No, I don't. My death... it's fragmented. Broken in ways I can't piece together."

The words hit me like a slow, inevitable collapse. To be robbed of memory, of closure. Of everything.

"Rennie and I are meeting with a friend tomorrow--she works at the police department. Maybe she can help us piece it together."

I mean it as reassurance. But Johnny just shrugs, like it's already hopeless.

"I guess that's a start. But I doubt there'll be a record of my death at all."

I freeze.

"Why would you think that?"

A silence drapes over us, heavy, too knowing.

Johnny's expression darkens; his gaze fixed on the initials carved into the wood--his past staring back at him.

"Because my family was prominent. Wealthy. In a small southern town with a gay son. They'd have done anything to keep that quiet." A bitter smile pulls at his lips. "Even if it meant never solving my murder."

The truth settles into the bones of the gazebo itself--not just a meeting place, but a monument of secrets, loss, and buried shame.

Johnny exhales, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"Heath, tread carefully." His gaze flickers, not warning, but knowing. "The past... it has a way of reaching out and pulling you under."

I wake with a start. My alarm blares, my pulse hammering against my ribs, the memory lingers, curling around my thoughts like mist.

It's six in the morning. I've already lost the battle with sleep. Coffee in hand, I zombie-shuffle out to the Barbie house, still hoping this is all some caffeine-deprived hallucination.

Something tells me I need to bring her with me today--keep her close. Whatever that means.

I push open the door and step inside, groggy and under-caffeinated. "Good morning, ladies," I mumble to the dolls in the main room. Yep. I'm that guy. The grown man greeting his Barbie collection at sunrise. Send help.

In the filming room, I set my coffee down and reach for Barbie. The moment I lift her from her bed, I feel it. That tingle at the base of my spine.

Johnny's here.

"Good morning, Barbie," I whisper. "I hope you slept better than I did, because today we're launching our full-scale investigation into your ghost's murder."

"Good luck. You're gonna need it."

I nearly launch my coffee across the room. I spin around.

Johnny is casually lounging in my filming chair; arms crossed like he's waiting for a director to call 'action.' He's wearing a black tuxedo. Old-Hollywood glam. Why-are-you-haunting-me-in-formalwear realness.

"Can you... see me?!" His voice shoots up like a kid seeing Santa for the first time. He jumps to his feet, frantically waving a hand in front of my face.

"Spectral jazz hands? Really?" I deadpan, swatting at the air and pretending my soul didn't just try to escape my body. "Yes, I see you. Happy? Can I drink my coffee now?"

His whole face lights up like I just handed him a second chance at prom night. "This is amazing! But--how? Why?"

Good questions, ghost boy.

I gently set Barbie down on the table--and Johnny vanishes.

"Hey!" I look around. "Where the hell did you--?"

Barbie shifts. Just slightly. Like someone nudged her.

I pick her up again-- BAM. Johnny reappears, this time way too close. I yelp. Again.

"So, Barbie's the connection," he muses, rubbing his chin. "Interesting."

Meanwhile, I'm trying to reboot my brain from sheer supernatural overload. It's too early for this. And I haven't had nearly enough coffee to process the fact that a haunted Mattel icon is acting as a conduit for a tuxedo-wearing ghost.

"Interesting? Hasn't this happened before?"

Johnny shrugs, the satin lapel of his tux catching the light like he's about to deliver a monologue on Late Night with Barbie.

"No. Remember, Barbie was buried in an attic for decades after my death. No one's touched or handled her until now. And just because I'm a ghost doesn't mean I come with a how-to manual. I'm a ghost not an all-knowing deity."

I drop into the chair he vacated and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Okay... science experiment time."

I settle Barbie in my lap. Johnny stays. I stand and tuck her gently into my pajama pocket--he's still there. I hold her at arm's length. He flickers a little but doesn't vanish.

"Huh. So, I guess... if Barbie's physically with me, I can see and hear you?" I glance up.

Johnny nods. "So, you're saying Barbie is like a... conductor. Like one of those rabbit-ear antennas people used to fiddle with on their TVs. Pulls the signal in, tunes it just right." He grins. "Only instead of sitcoms, you get me."

I take a long sip of coffee. "God help me."