The hospital doll at three

 Two fifty nine in the AM
The abandoned doll from the child's ward
hanging off the stretcher
One eye looking toward the corridor doors
The other eye aimed at the ceiling
The clock hand on the wall hits three
The doll's eye blinks

There's no air movement
the insistant glow of the overhead fixtures
The corridor is empty I hesitate to approach
I focus on it's eye looking at the door
The zipper the doll had for a mouth clicks
I take a step back but the zipper opens
I gasp as it emits a tiny sinister shriek