It was just past 7 p.m. in the quiet suburb of Hollow Creek when the first call came in.
“There’s a little girl standing on the corner of Maple and Rosewood,” the caller said. “Alone. She looks… lost. Or confused. Please send someone.”
By the time Sergeant Kevin Morrow arrived, a small crowd had gathered. The child stood perfectly still, barefoot, in a pink tulle dress that glittered faintly under the streetlights. Her hair was neatly brushed. Her hands clutched a single, wrinkled paper flower.
She didn’t speak until Kevin approached and knelt beside her.
“Hi,” he said gently. “I’m Kevin. I’m here to help. Can you tell me your name?”
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes distant, almost… listening.
Then, softly:
“Emily.”
“Emily,” Kevin repeated. “Where are your parents?”
She looked past him, toward the end of the street.
“That house,” she said, pointing. “They’re in there.”
Kevin followed her gaze.
It was a gray Victorian house. Windows dark. Overgrown hedges. The kind of place that looked like time had forgotten it.
“Did you live there?” he asked.
She nodded. Then added, in a whisper:
“But the voices told me to leave.”
Kevin’s stomach tightened.
“What voices, Emily?”
She blinked slowly, as if remembering. “The ones in the walls. They said it wasn’t safe anymore. That it was time to go.”
He frowned. “Did someone hurt you?”
She shook her head. “They were loud. They said, ‘Don’t be like the others.’”
Kevin felt a cold wave pass over him. “What others?”
Emily finally turned to meet his eyes. “The other children. They stayed too long.”
Behind them, one of the neighbors gasped.
Kevin stood. “Stay here,” he told her. “Don’t move.”
He walked toward the house. His flashlight flicked on. A few steps in, and the temperature seemed to drop. He tried the front door. Unlocked.
The air inside was stale. Dust coated everything. But there were fresh toys in the hallway. Shoes too small for adults. A faint music box playing upstairs.
Then — a creak.
Kevin froze.
He followed the sound to the basement door.
Inside, beneath the steps, he found a row of dusty children’s shoes. And a journal. Its first page read:
“Emily’s turning six today. The voices don’t like that.”
The last entry was dated three days ago.
Kevin radioed for backup.
Back outside, Emily still stood silently — but this time, she was holding another child’s paper flower.
One no one had seen her holding before.