[sound of footsteps receding, click]
July 10, 11:50 PM
[click]
Can’t sleep. Michael and I fought even more, and he went to sleep on the couch. I’m thinking about the woman who brought the doll… Who is she?
[click]
July 11, 7:30 AM
[click]
Woke up with the thought that maybe someone is playing with me. But who? And why? This is my new mission—to find out what really happened. I’m going to visit my daughter’s grave.
[click]
July 11, 12:45 PM
[click]
At my daughter’s grave. Someone’s been here. Fresh flowers and a note on the grave.
[sound of paper rustling]
“Mom, let the doll be with you.”
[sounds of sobbing, rustling, silence, click]
July 11, 2:00 PM
[click]
Found some forums online where people discuss similar cases. They all seem far-fetched, but I’ll post something. Maybe someone will respond.
[click]
July 12, 10:00 AM
[click]
Sitting in a café with my laptop. Feeling strange.
[café sounds]
Someone replied to my post on the forum. They say it might be a coincidence. But how can it be a coincidence? Someone writes that it could be a cruel joke. Here’s another message.
“See a therapist. It could be a stress-induced condition.”
[click]
July 12, 5:30 PM
[click]
I want to show the note to Michael. Entering the house.
[sound of a key turning in the lock, click-clock]
Michael isn’t alone. I think Cynthia is there with him. I want to record their conversation.
Cynthia: Michael, I’m worried about her. You can’t waste your youth on a woman who has completely forgotten about you in her grief.
Michael: Mom, what are you saying? I love Kate. We have to go through this together, in good times and bad—remember the vow?
Cynthia: Oh, my dear. You’re too kind. This will destroy you. You need to move on. Look at Kate—she’s made up this story about the doll because she can’t let go. She just wants you to pity her.
Michael: Mom, you…
[sound of footsteps]
Kate: Hello, Cynthia. Darling.
Cynthia: Oh, Kate. Glad you’re home. We were just talking about your situation.
Kate: Oh really? And what?
Cynthia: The doll story has Michael worried. I think you should better see a psycho…
Michael: Mom! Enough. You were just about to leave.
Cynthia: Oh no, I’m staying for dinner.
[unpleasant laughter]
Kate: Cynthia, were you at Sophie’s grave? Someone brought fresh flowers.
Cynthia: Oh, dear, I was on a business trip, came straight from the airport to you.
Kate: I found this at her grave.
[sound of paper rustling]
Cynthia: Kate, dear, are you sure it’s not your handwriting? It looks very similar…
Kate: Michael, how can you say that?!
[sounds of stomping up the stairs, click]
July 13, 8:00 AM
[click]
Can’t stop thinking about yesterday’s conversation. Looking at the note—it really is my handwriting… But how did this happen? Maybe I really need to see a specialist? Am I losing my mind?
[click]
July 13, 3:45 PM
[click]
Met with a psychotherapist. He says he experienced similar feelings after losing his mother. He thinks it’s our subconscious playing tricks on us. But I still feel there’s more to this than just imagination.
[click]
