The air in the Warrens' study was thick with the scent of old paper and something else, something metallic and faintly sweet, clinging to the artifacts on the shelves. Ed gestured towards the two young women on the couch, their faces pale with exhaustion and fear. "Drew, camera please." My husband, Drew, nodded, the whir of the tape recorder a familiar sound in the quiet room. Debbie, one of the women, spoke, her voice trembling. "It started out small, like a hand or a leg was in a different position. Then its head was looking up instead of down. And then one day, it was in a completely different room. It was moving around by itself."

Ed, ever the pragmatist, pressed. "Ever think maybe somebody had a key to your apartment and was playing a trick on you?" Debbie shook her head, casting a scared glance at the porcelain doll sitting ominously on the table. "That's exactly what we thought. But we never once did we find any sign or evidence of intrusion." Lorraine's voice, soft but firm, cut through the tension. "And this all led you to believe that the doll was possessed?" Both girls nodded, a synchronized, terrified affirmation. But my gaze was drawn to the anxious young man at the end of the couch. His discomfort was palpable, almost too pronounced. Something was off.