The Girl Behind the Curtain: A Sleepover Secret That Should've Stayed Buried

It was supposed to be just a harmless sleepover. Me, my little sister Kylie, and my two best friends: Alina and Jess. A Friday night filled with pizza, TikTok dances, and gossip under a pink star projector in my bedroom.

Then Kylie said it.

“Let’s play Dare or Die.”

She’d heard about it on YouTube, some creepy underground trend from a supposedly cursed app. We laughed it off, but Kylie—8 going on 18—insisted. The rules were simple: Sit in a circle, light a single candle, and whisper a dare to the flame. If you back out, “she” comes. The girl behind the curtain.

It sounded like the kind of story you hear on Reddit. Urban legend garbage. But we were bored. And kids crave fear like sugar.

So we played.

Alina went first. Her dare: Open the closet and knock three times. Easy. She did it, giggling, then turned back toward us.

“See?” she smirked. “Totally fake.”

Then it was Jess’s turn. Her dare: Stand in the hallway, alone, for 60 seconds.

The moment she stepped out, the candle flickered hard. We heard whispering.

Not from Jess.

From the window.

We all turned. The curtain—my plain pink bedroom curtain—fluttered once. The window was closed.

“Kylie,” I snapped. “Is this a prank?”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “You have to finish the round,” she whispered. “Or she gets mad.”

Jess came back pale, saying she saw someone standing at the end of the hallway.

“There’s no one else here,” I said. “You’re just freaking yourself out.”

Then came my dare.

“Kiss the curtain,” Kylie whispered.

I scoffed. “What does that even—?”

“You heard her,” said Alina. Her voice didn’t sound right.

The air had gone cold.

I walked over, rolled my eyes, and kissed the fabric. It was colder than it should’ve been. Damp.

Something moved behind it.

I screamed and yanked it back.

There was no one there.

But…

There was a smudge of something on the wall. Brownish red. Like fingers dragging.

We ended the game. Blew out the candle. Laughed nervously. Ate more pizza. Tried to forget.

At 2:34 a.m., I woke to whispering.

“Let’s play again…”

It came from the curtain.

I bolted upright. Kylie was asleep beside me. So were the others. I told myself it was a dream.

Until I looked toward the window.

The curtain was open.

Just a little.

And someone’s hair—long and wet—was poking out.

The next morning, Kylie was gone.

Her spot on the sleeping bag was cold. No note. No sign of struggle. Just a single handprint on the wall behind the curtain. Same as before.

We searched the house. The police searched the neighborhood. Nothing.

For two days, the media said she “wandered off.” That “kids do this.” But she wouldn’t have. She wasn’t scared. She was the one daring us.

We told the cops everything. They didn’t believe us.

Until Jess disappeared a week later.

She was home. In her own bed. Her parents found her curtains ripped down. Her walls smeared with the same red handprints.

No signs of forced entry.

No signs at all.

Then Alina.

She posted a TikTok about it, mocking the whole thing. Said she was “the last one standing.”

That night, her house caught fire. Only her room was touched. The fire report said it “started at the window.” But there were no electrical sources there. No flammable materials.

Just a candle.

Burned to the floorboards.

Now it’s just me.

I haven’t slept in a week. I moved to the basement. Covered every window with blackout curtains. Burned the one from that night.

But every time I close my eyes, I hear her voice.

“Let’s play again…”

I tried to end it.

Rituals, prayers, even therapy.

Nothing stops her.

Because this isn’t a game. It never was.

There was no app. No trend.

Kylie lied.

She found something in the attic—an old journal that belonged to a girl who lived here before us. A girl who died in 1957 after being locked in her room during a house fire. Her name?

Kara.

The last entry?

“If you see her behind the curtain… never dare her back.”