It began shortly after we moved into the farmhouse outside town. My six-year-old daughter Emma loved the new house immediately. She spent hours exploring the fields behind the property and talking excitedly about her “new friend.” At first, I assumed she meant another child from nearby farms, but whenever I asked for details, she became strangely quiet. One night, after putting her to bed, I heard her laughing softly through the baby monitor. Thinking she was awake playing with toys, I walked toward her room.
But when I opened the door, Emma was sitting beside the window whispering into the darkness outside.
“There she is again,” she said happily.
I looked outside immediately.
Nothing.
Just empty fields and trees moving in the wind.
The next morning, Emma casually described the woman she claimed visited her every night. She said the woman wore a long white sweater and stood near the old tree beside the fence. Then she said something that made my stomach tighten instantly.
“She told me she used to live here before she got hurt.”
Later that week, our elderly neighbor stopped by unexpectedly. While looking at old family photographs hanging in our hallway, she suddenly froze when she saw Emma.
Then quietly whispered:
“She looks exactly like the little girl who disappeared here thirty years ago.”