Ever since the memory of my fifth birthday came back to me, I’ve been asking myself why my grandma told me such a scary story. Looking back, it made sense—she had a knack for dark tales. One evening, as I lay tucked into bed, I felt the chill of the shadows lurking. Nervously, I asked Grandma to tell me a story. I was hoping for something light, yet she just smiled and began her usual eerie narrative. She began with a girl, a boy, and a spooky barn, where excitement turned to terror. I felt my heart race as the girl ventured into danger, unaware of the lurking boys. She eventually made it back home, heartbroken and scared. There, her wise grandmother offered comfort and something more—a protective spell with knitted dolls. As Grandma wove her magic, I thought of protection, but the story took a twisted turn. The girl got her vengeance, and my stomach dropped. When Grandma finished, she left me with a doll from her own haunted secrets. I stared into its blank eyes, feeling a mix of fear and unease swirl within me.