While I was at home one rainy evening, I heard a knock at the door. Opening it, I was surprised to see a little girl standing there, drenched from the rain and with tears running down her cheeks. She looked absolutely terrified and in need of help.
“Hi, this is my mom’s house. Can you get her for me?” she asked in a shaky voice.
I knelt down to her level and gently replied, “Sweetheart, I think you might be mistaken. Your mom isn’t here…”
“No, that can’t be!” she cried, her desperation growing. “Dad says she’s gone too, but that’s not possible! This is her house!! WHERE’S MY MOMMY?!”
I was at a loss. Unsure of what to do, I decided to comfort her. “Come inside, honey. Let’s get you some cookies and try to figure this out,” I said, inviting her in. She hesitated but eventually stepped inside, still shaking with sobs.
I went to the kitchen to get some cookies and milk, hoping to contact her parents or the authorities.
When I returned, the living room was empty. The girl was gone. She had vanished without a trace. I searched every room, every corner, but she was nowhere to be found. I even ran outside, calling out for her, but there was no sign of her anywhere.
That night, I couldn’t shake off the uneasy feeling, wondering if I had imagined the entire incident. But the next day, I opened the door and saw her again. This time, she looked even more distressed, her eyes wide with fear.
“Oh God,” I muttered to myself. “This poor child…”
“Please, help me find my mommy,” she pleaded. “I know she’s here. She has to be here.”
Determined to get to the bottom of this, I took a deep breath and said, “Come in,” once more, but this time, I stayed by her side. “What’s your name?” I asked cautiously, trying to calm her.
“Emily,” she whispered.
“Emily, I’m going to help you, okay? But I need you to stay here with me.”
I picked up the phone and called the local police, describing the strange situation as clearly as I could. When the officers arrived, they took my statement and searched the house, but just like before, Emily was gone. They reassured me they would look into it and left, leaving me with more questions than answers.
That night, I couldn’t sleep, my thoughts filled with Emily and her desperate quest to find her mom.
The next morning, as I was getting ready for work, I found a note slipped under my door, written in a child’s handwriting.
“Thank you for trying to help me. I know my mommy is close. I’ll keep looking. Love, Emily.”
With the note in my hands, I felt a strange mix of sadness and determination. I couldn’t let this go. Over the next few days, I dived into researching the history of my house and the neighborhood. I visited the local library, spoke with longtime residents, and even contacted the historical society.
What I uncovered was chilling. Decades ago, a woman named Margaret had lived in my house with her young daughter, Emily. Margaret had mysteriously disappeared, and Emily had been placed in foster care. The case remained unsolved, and Emily eventually ran away from her foster home, vanishing without a trace.
Everything started to make sense. Emily’s spirit was still searching for her mother, unaware that so much time had passed. I decided to hold a small ceremony in the house, hoping to bring peace to both mother and daughter. I lit candles, placed flowers, and spoke aloud, assuring Emily that her mother loved her and that they would be reunited in peace.
That night, a calm settled over the house. I knew that Emily and her mother were finally at rest. I never saw Emily again, but I often felt a warm presence in the house, as if someone was watching over me.
From that day on, I was determined to help those in need, inspired by Emily’s unwavering love for her mother. Every time I heard a knock at the door, I couldn’t help but remember the little girl who taught me the true meaning of family and love.
