Alice

The doll was discovered during a renovation in the cellar of an aging Beacon Hill brownstone. She stood upright on a stool, her porcelain face clean despite the century-old grime around her. Around her neck hung a small brass key, labeled simply with one word: SERVANT. However, it's been lost to time. 

The home had once belonged to the Hargrove family—Boston elite with a taste for discretion. Records show that in the winter of 1912, their maid, Agatha Merrin, vanished without a trace. Gossip among the remaining staff claimed she’d “saw something she shouldn’t have.” Some whispered that Agatha was too good at listening and being where she shouldn't be.

Before her disappearance, Agatha was said to have a doll in her quarters, Alice, confiding the household’s sins to it after a long day of work. It was a servant’s way of surviving—unburdening herself in whispers no one else would hear. She told the doll about the master’s nightly visitors, the lady’s hidden laudanum habit, and the baby that cried from the attic when the family insisted there were no children left in the house.

One night, the whispers stopped.

Days later, the Hargrove household was found empty, the fires in the hearth still burning. Only the doll remained—placed neatly on the dining table beside a single brass key.

Modern owners claim Alice still keeps house, but her methods are unsettling. Dust vanishes, but walls begin to hum with whispers. Tables are reset as if for unseen guests. Once, a tenant awoke to find a message etched in silver polish on the mirror:

“She told me everything.”