Here’s a suspenseful 500-word version of the story:
For the past few weeks, strange things had been happening in my house. My seven-year-old daughter, Emma, kept complaining that her clothes and toys were going missing. At first, I thought she was just being forgetful—misplacing things as kids often do. But then, her favorite stuffed bunny disappeared. Then her favorite pink dress.
I searched everywhere. Under the bed, in the laundry, even in the attic. Nothing.
That’s when I knew something was wrong.
To ease my growing paranoia, I decided to install a hidden camera in her room. I didn’t tell Emma—I didn’t want to scare her—but I needed to know what was happening.
The next morning, I checked the footage. My heart pounded as I scrolled through the night’s recording. Most of it was normal—Emma sleeping peacefully, shifting under the blankets. But then, at around 2:30 a.m., the door creaked open.
I leaned closer to the screen, my breath caught in my throat.
A shadow moved inside.
It wasn’t Emma.
A figure, small and hunched, crept into the room. My stomach twisted as I watched it move toward Emma’s closet. The dim light from the hallway barely illuminated its face, but I could see just enough—messy hair, ragged clothes.
It wasn’t a ghost.
It was a child.
I gasped.
The boy, no older than ten, rummaged through Emma’s things. He carefully picked up her stuffed bunny, hugging it to his chest before slipping it into a small backpack. Then, he took one of her dresses—folding it neatly, as if it were a precious treasure.
I was frozen, watching in horror and confusion. Who was he? How did he get inside?
The boy hesitated, then tiptoed toward Emma’s bed. My heart nearly stopped. Was he going to hurt her?
But he didn’t.
Instead, he gently pulled her blanket up, tucking her in before slipping back out of the room.
I sat in stunned silence.
The next night, I stayed awake. I wanted to see him with my own eyes. When 2:30 a.m. came, I heard the faintest creak. I rushed to Emma’s room, but by the time I got there, the boy was gone.
I followed the sound of shuffling down the hallway and then into the basement. My hands trembled as I turned on the light.
There, curled up in the corner behind an old stack of boxes, was the boy. His face was streaked with dirt, his eyes wide with fear. He clutched Emma’s stuffed bunny tightly.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Don’t send me back.”
Tears filled my eyes. This wasn’t a thief. This was a lost child.
I knelt beside him. “Who are you?” I asked gently.
He sniffled. “My name is Daniel… I ran away from my foster home.”
At that moment, I knew—I had found him, but maybe, in a way, he had also found us.
