It started with my neighbor, Linda, a harmless woman who watches the street like it’s her favorite soap opera. She kept telling me she saw my daughter, Emily, at home during school hours. I dismissed it at first. Emily was at boarding school; I’d taken her to the bus myself. But Linda was persistent, her voice dropping to a serious whisper one afternoon. She described seeing Emily standing at her second-floor bedroom window, staring directly across the street. A cold dread settled in my stomach. The security cameras showed nothing, but doubt had already planted its seed.
The uncertainty became unbearable. I devised a plan that felt ridiculous yet necessary. One morning, I went through the motions of leaving for work. I drove my car around the block, then quietly returned and sneaked back into my own house through the back door. My heart pounded as I crawled under the bed in Emily’s empty room. The house was silent, holding its breath with me. Then, I heard it. The distinct sound of the front door unlocking and opening. Light, familiar footsteps moved down the hallway.
The sounds that followed were mundane yet terrifying: a chair scraping in the kitchen, a drawer opening. Then a voice, clear as day, called out, “Mommy… you’re home so early?” It was Emily’s voice, the exact cadence and tone. I bit down on my hand to silence a scream. The footsteps came toward the bedroom. The door opened, and I saw a pair of small feet in familiar shoes enter the room. I dared to peek from my hiding place. There, standing in the middle of the room, was a girl who looked exactly like my daughter, wearing the blue birthday dress hanging in the closet.
But the eyes were all wrong. They were hollow and cold, devoid of the warmth I knew. The girl’s gaze swept the room and then lowered, finding me in the shadows under the bed. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “You’re good at hiding, Mom,” she whispered. “But you shouldn’t have listened to the neighbor.” A scream tore from my throat, and everything went black.
I woke up in a hospital bed, surrounded by police officers. They spoke of stress-induced hallucinations. They assured me my daughter was safe at school, that the house was empty. But as one young officer left, he leaned close and whispered that the neighbor’s security camera had captured something, too. I wasn’t alone in what I saw. Days later, I viewed the footage. It showed a girl entering and leaving my home, her routine precise, her face a perfect copy of Emily’s. Yet when the image was enhanced, there was nothing—no reflection, no definable data, just a chilling blankness where a person should be.
I moved away, trying to leave the horror behind. But some things don’t stay in old houses. Last night, in my new home, I heard a whisper from the dark hallway. A voice I know too well said, “Mom… I’m home.” This time, I didn’t need to look. I know she’s standing right outside my door, and whatever followed me isn’t finished yet.
