Scary For Kids
Betsy the Doll

Betsy the Doll

Betsy the Doll is a scary story about a young girl who is neglected by her drug-addicted mother. The only thing she has to keep her company is her beloved doll. It is based on a story by The_Dalek_Emperor.

Betsy the Doll

I had a very bad childhood. I never knew my father. He left before I was born. My mother neglected me. She was addicted to drugs and didn’t pay any attention to me. She spent all her time in a drug-induced haze while I wandered around the dirty apartment.

My mother spent all her money on drugs and there was barely enough food in the house to eat. My clothes came from goodwill and they were all tattered and torn. I slept on a bare mattress in the spare bedroom. The only things I had to play with were a pretty blue and white toy chest and a doll named Betsy.

Betsy was my pride and joy. She was my best friend. I didn’t have any other children to play with, so I treated Betsy as if she was real. We would play together all day, having imaginary tea parties. Whenever I had any food, I would share it with her. At night, I held her in my arms as I slept. Sometimes, I would even confide in her, telling her all my fears.

I was so young and my memories of that time are extremely hazy. However, I can still remember the sound of Betsy’s voice and how she giggled when I pressed her tummy. Whenever I did something wrong and my mother got angry at me, I would blame it on Betsy. Of course, my mother never believed me.

One day, my mother hit me. I ran into my room and slammed the door behind me. Betsy was there, lying on the bed, smiling at me. Her smile always used to cheer me up, but this time it just made me angry. I thought she was laughing at me. I screamed in anger and grabbed Betsy. I threw her in the toy chest, slammed the lid shut and shoved it up against the wall. I never wanted to see Betsy again.

It wasn’t long before the police came to the door. I guess the neighbors called them and told them my mother was neglecting me. They rescued me and took me into care. I was sent to live in a foster home in another state. The foster family was very nice to me. They gave me lots of food and all the toys I wanted.

When I got older, I asked my foster parents about my mother. They told she was in prison, serving a 25-year sentence. I didn’t feel sorry for her. She had never really been much of a mother to me. All she cared about was drugs. I still had nightmares because of the way she had treated me.

Living with the foster family completely changed my life. I blossomed and did very well in school. Now and then, my mother would send me a letter, but I never opened them. Once or twice, she tried to call me but I refused to pick up the phone.

I grew up and got married. Now I have two children of my own and a husband who loves me. I live in a beautiful house and I got a job as a social worker, trying to help kids just like like me.

One day, out of the blue, my mother called me. This time, I felt I was ready to talk to her. She said she had just been released from prison.

“Thank you for finally speaking to me, Laura,” she said. “I know you have your own life now and a family of your own to take care of. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am… for everything.”

“Sorry for what?” I asked. “Sorry the police arrested you? Sorry you got caught? The drugs destroyed you, Mother. How could you be so irresponsible? How could you be so selfish?”

“I understand why you feel that way,” she said. “But while I was in prison, I learned a lot about forgiveness. A lot of time has passed, Laura. It’s time to forgive. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Betsy. It was all my fault. If only we knew where she was…”

“Betsy?” I asked, confused. “Who cares about Betsy?”

“I know you’re angry,” my mother said. “I know you don’t mean that.”

“Mom, why are you talking about Betsy?” I demanded. “If you must know, she’s in the toy chest!”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I honestly thought she had hung up.

“What do you mean she’s in the toy chest?” my mother gasped.

“Betsy the doll,” I said. “I locked her in the toy chest a few days before the police arrested you for drug possession.”

“Laura… oh God no… Laura, the police didn’t arrest me for drugs. They arrested me because of Betsy’s disappearance! Oh God, what did you do, Laura? What did you do to your little sister?”

She dropped the phone and I could hear the distant sound of my mother’s anguished cries as she ran up to the attic.

“Little sister?” I muttered.

My mind was whirling and long-forgotten memories came flooding back.

I never had a doll. My mother never bought me any toys at all. But I did have a toy chest… a pretty, blue and white toy chest… and when I was five years old, I locked my little sister inside it.

When my mother opened the toy box, Betsy was still there… or at least, what was left of her…

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