It began with a neighbor’s innocent observation. Linda, from across the street, mentioned seeing my daughter at home when she should have been at boarding school. I laughed it off, attributing it to a busybody’s overactive imagination. But the comments continued, each one more specific and unsettling. The final straw was her description of Emily standing statue-still at her bedroom window, staring out with an intensity that didn’t sound like my cheerful girl. A deep, primal fear began to stir.
Logic demanded proof, so I abandoned logic entirely. I faked leaving for work one morning, then slipped back into my own home like a thief. Hiding under my daughter’s bed, I felt a fool—until I heard the front door open. The footsteps that followed were not those of an intruder; they were the comfortable, familiar steps of someone who belonged there. I listened to the creature move through my kitchen, and then it spoke. The voice was a perfect replica of Emily’s, calling out for a mother who was supposed to be gone. My blood turned to ice.
The bedroom door opened. From my cramped hiding place, I saw the hem of a blue dress, a birthday gift from a happier time. The child walked into the center of the room and stopped. I will never forget the moment I looked up and saw my daughter’s face looking down at me. Every detail was flawless, a masterful copy. But the soul behind the eyes was missing, replaced by a cold, intelligent emptiness. It smiled, a gesture that held no joy, and whispered a threat that was also a confession. It knew I was there. It knew everything.
I woke up in the hospital to comforting explanations about nervous exhaustion. The authorities were keen to close the case as a mental health episode. But a piece of evidence existed—the neighbor’s camera footage. It confirmed the impossible: a girl who was not my daughter living in my house on a schedule. Technical analysis yielded nothing; the figure was a ghost in the machine, lacking all normal traces. It was a presence that officially did not exist.
I left everything behind, seeking safety in a new address. But terror is not a place; it’s a passenger. Last night, in the stillness of my new bedroom, the familiar, sweet voice floated from the hallway. “Mom… I’m home.” The words were a door slamming shut on my escape. The copy has followed me, and I now understand that some mysteries are not puzzles to be solved, but predators to be endured. The game of hide-and-seek is over, and it has always known exactly where I am.
