The Other Child

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

Jake and Mary had just moved into their dream home—a grand, weathered house, 132 years old. Its creaking floors and dusty corners whispered stories of a time long past. Cindy, their three-year-old daughter, loved the place instantly, particularly her new room next to her parents’. They decorated it just for her, filling it with soft pinks and cozy toys.

For the first week, everything was perfect. But then, like clockwork, Cindy began appearing in their room at exactly 3 a.m. every night. Jake, too exhausted to argue, would scoop her up and let her sleep between him and Mary. But as the nights passed, he grew concerned. They had to get her sleeping in her own bed again.

One night, determined to break the habit, Jake decided to walk her back to her room. He listened to her soft footsteps padding toward him, but his eyes stayed closed. Just a quick grab, he thought. He lifted her small body and laid her between him and Mary, feeling her snuggle in. Relieved, he got up to use the bathroom.

As Jake stood up to go to the bathroom, the little girl cuddled beside him whispered, “Daddy, don’t open the door to my room.” Still groggy and half-asleep, Jake barely registered her words and brushed them off without a second thought.

As he passed Cindy’s room, Jake noticed the light was still on. He frowned. Peeking in, he froze. There, sitting up in bed, was Cindy, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “There’s a little girl in our house.”

Jake’s heart raced. Slowly, he turned back toward his bed. Something small still lay nestled between him and Mary. Something that wasn’t Cindy.