It was not a dark and stormy night.  It was a balmy summer's eve. 
I was not in the antechamber of an ancient castle upon a hill overlooking a tiny village. 
I was in my little house in my quiet little neighborhood. 
The sound of a giggling child emanated from somewhere upstairs. 
Except that I had no children. 
I did not light a candle or grab a flashlight to investigate.  I turned on the lights.  Perhaps some child from the neighborhood had snuck into the house (doors were open at this time of year, after all) and crept up the stairs undetected. 

Up I went.  There were only four rooms and each was absolutely devoid of children.  Except that I could hear one.  The sound seemed to be coming from the attic above.  But the only access to the attic is through a door in the ceiling.  A door which could not be opened quietly.  A door which a child couldn't even reach.  Nevertheless, it sounded as if there was something up there, so I pulled down the door and unfolded the stairs. 

Up I went.  I couldn't see a thing.  I returned to the kitchen to retrieve a flashlight.  No electricity in the attic.  Back up the stairs into the attic.  I flashed the beam in all directions.  Light crept into every corner of the room.  There in the naked beam of light I saw—nothing.  Only a lot of dust and the empty boxes that I had tossed up there after moving in.  There was the box for the computer.  Another for the television.  Yet another for the microwave oven.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Except for the doll. 

I was startled when the flashlight beam fell upon it.  I did not remember ever seeing it before.  I picked it up.  It was very old and very worn.  A soft-bodied doll with a plastic head.  It was filthy.  I brought it downstairs and put it out with the trash. 

That's when the real haunting began. 

That night I distinctly heard the sounds of a little girl crying.  I needn't tell you that it sounded like it was coming from the attic.  At two o'clock in the morning, having had enough, I retrieved the flashlight and went once again up into the attic, where I found—nothing.  But the sound of crying didn't stop.  When I had opened the door earlier in the evening the sound of giggling had ceased immediately and hadn't returned.  But now I could still hear the sobbing of a child.  I climbed down from the attic, closed the door and decided to wait until morning to figure out what to do. 

In the morning all was quiet.  No sobbing.  It had stopped sometime during the night.  I chalked it up to an over-active imagination and went off to work. 

I returned home to the sound of running water.  I raced upstairs to find the bathtub overflowing.  I certainly hadn't left the water running.  At least I didn't believe I had.  I shut it off and proceeded to clean up. 

The sound of a child sobbing woke me for a second night in a row.  This time I didn't get out of bed to investigate; I was sure I would find nothing. 

The next day I returned from work to find toothpaste all over the bathroom.  It was everywhere.  The entire tube had been squeezed out.  I knew for sure that I hadn't done that.  I decided to keep the bathroom door locked.  That night more sobbing. 

The day after that I returned to find the contents of my closet strewn about the bedroom floor.  My shirts, shoes and trousers were all over the room as if someone had simply thrown everything into the air.  I decided to lock that door as well.  I also locked the door to the spare bedroom.  I was not convinced that locked doors would keep this mischief at bay, but I figured it couldn't hurt. 

That night there came a horrendous banging.  Someone was pounding on all the doors I had closed including the one to the room I was in.  It sounded like a full-blown temper tantrum.  I leapt from the bed and yanked open the door to the hall.  This time I was able to see nothing.  The banging stopped.  As I stood there staring at the empty hallway, the sobbing began.  It sounded as if it were coming from the attic.  I went back to bed. 

In the morning I went to work.  I returned to find an unmistakable message.  On the wall of the living room, in red crayon, were scrawled the words, “I WANT MY DOLLY”.  Having never before been the victim of a haunting and becoming more and more convinced that this is exactly what I was, I decided to give the "ghost" what it wanted.  Or at least a substitute.  I went to a toy store and bought a brand new Barbie doll, complete with a couple of different little outfits.  I brought the doll home, removed it from the packaging and placed it upstairs in the attic.  That night there was no sobbing. 

When I returned from work the next day, I was shocked to find the head.  Barbie's head was in the middle of the hallway that leads to the dining room.  Not far away was a leg.  And the other leg.  The two arms were close by as well.  The torso was on the dining room table.  Apparently the child hadn't taken to the gift.  I knew not what to do. 

That night the sobbing returned.  But I also had a dream.  I dreamt of a child.  A little girl about five or six years old with blond hair and blue eyes.  Her arms held the doll, the one I had thrown away, but it didn't seem to be very old.  Her eyes held a terrible fear.  The door to the attic was open.  Suddenly the hand of an adult gripped the girl's shoulder.  Still clutching her doll, she was made to climb the stairs to the attic.  Tears streamed down her face.  The door was closed.  I woke up screaming. 

In the morning I had a new understanding of my ghost.  She had been made to sit alone in that dark and dusty place.  But she had her doll to hold on to.  You can't squeeze a Barbie doll.  I made another trip to the toy store.  This time I found what I was looking for.  Not a duplicate of the doll I had thrown away, but a much better substitute.  This one could be clutched in the dark and held close. 

I haven't heard any sobbing since.  Just a giggle now and then.  And that's just fine with me.