Miss Thistle - 1911

They boarded the 7:10 morning train in Marietta, bound for Cartersville. Just a girl and her doll. Loretta Mae Cartwright was 9 years old - solemn, polite, wearing a ribbon in her hair and clutching a porcelain doll with pale cheeks and soft eyes. The conductor was given a handwritten note: “Please see that Loretta gets off at Cartersville. My sister will be waiting.” But Loretta never arrived. Between Marietta and Allatoona Pass, she vanished without a sound. No one saw her leave the train. There were no sudden stops. No unusual passengers. When the conductor returned to check her row, the seat was empty…except for the doll. Miss Thistle was no longer the same. Her once-delicate white glaze had turned to a muted soot gray, as though she’d been pulled through smoke and cinders. Tiny cracks spiderwebbed across her face and limbs, glowing faintly with shades of ember red and sulfurous yellow, like sparks frozen mid-flight from the train’s own smokestack. Her eyes no longer looked painted on-they looked deep. No one could explain it. The train car was intact. The doors had remained closed. But when an inspector picked up the doll, he swore her ceramic was warm to the touch, as though she’d been sitting too close to the engine. Miss Thistle was handed over to the sheriff, then quietly passed down through years of local families. Today, she rests with other Fractured Playthings - always waiting for the next train.