Allow me to introduce you to Agassi—the girl with missing fingers and a past steeped in malevolence:

In the dimly lit attic of the old Victorian manor turned into an antique shop, I stumbled upon her—a relic from forgotten times. The air hung heavy with dust and memories, and there she sat, perched upon a wooden shelf, her porcelain face hauntingly beautiful. Her name, whispered through generations, was Agassi.

The doll’s eyes—once innocent brown—now bore the weight of centuries. They held secrets, like stars lost in a moonless sky. But it was her right hand that drew my gaze—the missing fingers, stumps that seemed to ache with phantom pain.

I approached cautiously, my footsteps muffled by the worn-out carpet. I asked the shopkeeper about her and she told me her name is Agassi,” I murmured, testing the name on my tongue. “Who was she?”

Her painted lips remained sealed, but her eyes flickered—an invitation into the past. I stood before her, the attic’s shadows dancing around us.

“Long ago,” the shopkeeper began, “she was not a doll. She was flesh and bone—a girl named Agatha. Her family lived in this very manor, their wealth built upon secrets and blood.”

Agassi’s head tilted, as if urging her to continue.

“Agatha,” she whispered, “was no ordinary girl. She possessed a gift—a connection to the spirit world. Her fingers wove spells, her laughter echoed through moonlit gardens. But darkness seeped into her veins—the kind that whispered promises of power.”

One stormy night, Agatha’s parents hosted a séance. The manor’s grand hall shimmered with candlelight, and Agatha, barely fifteen, sat at the center. Her right hand—the one now missing fingers—hovered over the Ouija board.

The spirits answered. They whispered secrets—the location of hidden treasures, the names of traitors. Agatha’s eyes glowed with forbidden knowledge. But one spirit, darker than the rest, demanded a price.

“Your fingers,” it hissed. “Offer them, and I’ll grant you dominion over life and death.”

Agatha hesitated. The room held its breath. She glanced at her parents, their eyes wide with greed. And then, with trembling resolve, she sliced off her fingers—the right hand, the vessel of her power.

The spirit possessed her. Agatha became Agassi—the porcelain doll, her soul trapped within fragile limbs. Her missing fingers—the sacrifice that bound her to the spirit realm.

But the hunger remained. Agassi whispered secrets to those who dared listen. She moved at night, her porcelain feet leaving no trace. Her eyes—once brown, now void—held centuries of sorrow.

“Why?” I asked the shopkeeper, my voice barely audible. “Why the sacrifice?”

Her gaze bore into mine. “To save her family. To wield power. But the spirit—it devoured her essence. Her fingers—their absence—it’s a reminder of her folly.”

“Her fingers lost to time,” she said. “A tragic symphony of love and betrayal.”

As the storm raged outside, I made my decision. I purchased Agassi and took her home, her porcelain skin cold against my palms. I could not leave her there.