Mia in the hallway and said gently, “Sweetheart, it was probably just a scary sound. You’re safe. We’ll call your parents and they’ll be home soon.”
Mia’s face crumpled. “You didn’t look under the bed!”
Honestly, I thought it was a formality. The house was clear. But a frightened five-year-old deserves the courtesy of being believed all the way through. If a child tells you where the fear lives, you don’t stop one inch short of that place just because the rest of the house makes sense.
“Okay,” I told her. “I’ll check.”
Mia clutched the teddy harder. “Please, really look.”
“I will.”
“Please, really look.”
I went back into the room alone and lowered myself onto one knee beside the bed. Something still didn’t feel right.
At first, all I saw was darkness. Dust near the baseboard. A dropped sock. The edge of a board game box.
Then I heard it. A faint sound. Not a growl. Not a scrape. Just the smallest catch of breath, like someone trying very hard to stay still.
Every muscle in my back went rigid.
“Oh my God,” I said before I could stop myself. Because tucked against the wall under Mia’s bed was not a shadow or a stranger. It was another little girl.
She was curled on her side, shivering under a thin yellow sweater. Big, frightened eyes stared back at me through the dimness.
Tucked against the wall under Mia’s bed was not a shadow or a stranger.
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