Tim

Tim was discovered bricked behind the fireplace of a derelict London row house, his porcelain face blackened with soot and his small wooden crutch still clutched in his hand. The property had once belonged to a charitable home for sick children — one that burned down during an especially cruel winter.

When the walls were opened during renovation, workers reported hearing faint coughing before the doll tumbled out. The air smelled of coal smoke and sweet syrup. His small vest was scorched in the shape of fingers, as if someone had tried to pull him free from the flames — or push him deeper in.

Owners of Tim’s doll often report ghostly drafts that seem to sigh like children. Rooms grow unnaturally cold near the fireplace, though the logs still burn bright. On rare nights, soot collects on windowpanes in the shape of small handprints.

Sometimes, at exactly 3:03 a.m., a soft voice echoes from the dark:

“God bless us… every one…”

The tone shifts — not kind, but desperate.
Those who respond hear a second voice whisper back, “Too late.”

Mirrors fog from the inside. Toys left near the doll begin to rock or spin in uneven rhythms, as though played with by unseen hands. Those who move Tim from his place find him returned to the hearth by morning — legs folded neatly, watching the embers.

In 1984, a London collector displayed Tim beside a vintage toy train for a Christmas exhibit. Visitors reported feeling warmth from the display though the glass case was cold. On the final night, the security guard found the case cracked open — Tim sitting atop the train, head tilted.

The model had derailed and burned.
The doll’s porcelain hands were smeared with ash.