The Forgotten Child

Chapter 11: Facing the Spirit

October 17th

I barely remember the last few days. Everything feels like a blur—a nightmare that I can't even wake up from. I don't know where to begin, or if it even matters anymore. All I know is that I'm running out of time.

Emily's words from that night still echo in my mind: "She's waiting for you, Daddy." What did she mean? Was Margaret targeting me now? And if so, why?

I've spent hours trying to figure it out, going over every moment, every sign, but it's like trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. Nothing makes sense. I've read everything I could find about hauntings, spirits, possessions—but none of it seems to help.

The truth is, I'm scared, really scared. I'm not just afraid of losing Emily—I'm afraid of what Margaret even wants from me.

It's been quiet since that night. Too quiet. I should feel relieved, but the silence feels wrong, heavy, like the house is holding its breath. The tension is unbearable. Jessica's been on edge, constantly looking over her shoulder, jumping at every little sound. Sam barely talks anymore, and when he does, it's in short, hushed whispers, as if he's afraid to say too much.

Emily... she's worse. She's stopped eating, stopped drawing, stopped talking. She just sits in her room, staring out the window. Waiting.

I don't know what she's waiting for, but I have a terrible feeling that whatever it is, it's coming. And soon.

Yesterday, I did something I never thought I would. I contacted a paranormal investigator, named Peter Grant,

He claimed that he could help us. That he'd seen spirits like Margaret before, and that with the right tools and knowledge, we could force her to leave. But I realize now that Margaret is different. She's not just any type of spirit. She's something far worse, something far older and angrier than I ever imagined.

Peter wasn't what I expected when I first called him. I had imagined some eccentric, maybe even theatrical, ghost hunter—someone who would come in with crystals, chanting, and waving sage around the house like the fake mediums you see on TV. But Peter was... cold, practical, almost clinical in his approach to the supernatural.

When he arrived, his appearance threw me off. He was in his late fifties, tall and wiry, his graying hair combed back neatly. His clothes were simple—just a dark jacket, jeans, and a pair of worn boots that looked like they'd trudged through graveyards more often than streets. His eyes, though, were the most unsettling. They were sharp and intense, like he had seen things most people couldn't even fathom. He didn't smile and when he spoke, didn't offer any comforting words. It was clear he wasn't here to make us feel better—he was here because he had to be.

"I've been doing this for a long time, Mark," he had said the first time we met, his voice low and gravelly, like someone who smoked too many cigarettes late at night. "Spirits are drawn to trauma, to obsession. The longer they stay, the harder they are to remove. Margaret... she's stronger than most."

He told me about his past, how he'd started out as a historian, investigating old buildings and forgotten places. But it was never the history itself that fascinated him—it was the dark energy that lingered in those places. He'd seen things. He'd confronted spirits that had been tied to the living, trapped between the worlds by their own grief or fury. It became his life's work, not because he wanted it to be, but because he couldn't escape it.

"I've seen spirits that cling to houses, families, entire towns," he said, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. "But Margaret... she's different. She's attached herself to your daughter. That's not something that happens by accident. Spirits like her—they feed on something. And the bond grows stronger the longer they stay."