The Forgotten Child

Chapter 8: The Haunting Intensifies

October 12th

I haven't written in a few days again. I've lost track of time, honestly. It feels like everything is unraveling, spinning out of control. The house—our home—isn't a safe place anymore. Not for us, not for Emily, not for Sam. I keep thinking that maybe it's all in my head, that this can't really be happening, but then the cold reality hits me. This is real. And it's getting worse.

Yesterday... or was it two days ago? I don't even know. The nights and days are blurring together now, but I know it started in the kitchen. I remember that clearly.

I was making breakfast—eggs, I think. Jessica had just left for work, and Sam was upstairs getting ready for school. Emily had already been sitting at the kitchen table for a while, her crayons spread out around her like usual. She's always drawing now, lost in her world, and it's always the same. The woman. Margaret.

This time, though, the drawing was different. There was no stroller. No foggy road. It was the front door of our house, and standing just outside of it was Margaret, with her back turned to the house, as if she was waiting for something.

I asked Emily what she was drawing, trying to keep my voice light, as if I wasn't terrified by what I was seeing. She didn't look up, just kept coloring in the dark outline of Margaret.

"She's leaving soon," Emily whispered, almost like she was talking to herself.

My blood ran cold. "Leaving? What do you mean?"

"She said she's going to take me with her. She misses me."

Her words sank in, each one like a punch to the gut. I tried to breathe, tried to stay calm, but panic clawed its way up my throat. "Emily, she can't take you. You're staying here, with us. No one's taking you anywhere."

But Emily just kept drawing, her crayon moving smoothly over the paper, like none of this mattered. Like I didn't matter.

I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed the drawing and crumpled it in my hand, my breath coming in shallow gasps. "Enough, Emily. This stops now."

That finally got her attention. She looked up at me, her eyes wide, her face blank. There was no fear there. No sadness. Just that unsettling calm.

"Daddy," she said softly, "you can't stop her."

I felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me. I was about to say something—anything—but then the lights in the kitchen flickered. Once. Twice. And then the room was plunged into darkness.

For a moment, I thought it was just a power outage. But then the air changed.

It grew colder. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, freezing you from the inside out. The room felt smaller, like the walls were closing in, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic creaking of something moving across the floor.

My heart started racing. I turned toward the source of the sound, and there it was—the stroller. Sitting in the middle of the room, just like before. I hadn't even heard it appear, but it was there, rocking back and forth as if someone had just pushed it.

I backed away, the cold gripping me tighter with every step.

"Emily," I whispered, "we need to leave. Right now."

But she didn't move. She just stared at the stroller, her expression unchanged.

"She's here," Emily whispered. "She's waiting.

I don't know how I managed to get Emily out of that room. My body moved on instinct, dragging her away, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears that it drowned out everything else. I didn't even look back at the stroller. I couldn't.