**My Daughter Always Comes Home at 1:00 AM from SchoolAnd Her Shadow Doesnt Follow**
Some things you only notice when you look too hard or when something refuses to look back. For me, it started with something I *didnt* see.
A shadow.
My daughters shadow.
It was gone.
And it hasnt come back since.
Her name is Emily. Shes twelve. She loves strawberries, maths, and practising TikTok dances in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. For the first twelve years of her life, Emily was pure sunshinemessy ponytails, grass-stained trainers, always humming some off-key tune.
Until three weeks ago.
Thats when she started coming home at 1:00 AM.
The first night, I nearly fainted when the front door creaked open so late. Id dozed off on the sofa waiting for her after her after-school club. She was supposed to be home by 6:30 PM. By 10:00, I rang the school, her friends, her tutorno one had seen her.
Then, at 1:00 AM, she walked in.
Too calm. Far too calm.
I jumped up.
Emily! Where *were* you? I was
But she just lifted her hand slowly and said,
Dont worry. I got home fine.
That was it.
No tears. No apologies. No fear.
She walked straight to her room and locked the door.
I stared at the floor for ages. Something felt off. The air around her was icy, like shed stepped out of a freezer. The hallway lights flickered once, then steadied. I told myself I was overthinking it. Kids her age get weird, right?
Wrong.
The next night, same thing. She didnt return until 1:00 AM. Again, she walked in like she was on a different time zone, no explanations. Same words. Same flat tone.
But this time, I noticed.
She passed the hallway lamp and her shadow didnt.
It just *wasnt there*.
No outline. No shape.
Nothing.
I thought I was hallucinating. I turned on every light in the house and made her stand under them. Nothing. The light hit her face, but the floor behind her stayed empty. She caught me staring.
Whats wrong, Mum? she asked.
I blinked. Nothing. Just tired.
She nodded and walked off.
And I watched her go. Her body moved but no shadow followed.
The next day, I rang the school and asked why they were letting her out so late. The woman on the phone hesitated. Then she said,
Mrs. Whitmore, your daughter hasnt attended since mid-term exams over three weeks ago. We sent letters. You never replied.
My heart stopped.
She leaves every morning, I whispered. Wears her uniform. Even takes her water bottle.
I checked the fridge after the call. Her water bottle was still there. Untouched. Exactly where Id left it the day of her last exam.
That night, I didnt sleep.
I turned off all the lights. Sat by the living room window. And waited.
At exactly 1:00 AM, the front gate opened by itself.
And she walked in.
Emily. But not Emily.
On the outside, she looked the same. But her eyes didnt blink right. Her breath came in odd, uneven rasps. She tilted her head at me.
Why are you awake, Mum? she asked.
I forced a smile. Waiting for you.
Then I said something I hadnt planned:
Wheres your shadow?
She smiled.
But not with her mouthwith something colder.
It stayed behind.
And she walked past me.
But I swearwhen she passed the hallway mirror, something *did* flicker for a second.
Something taller than her.
Something with eyes too wide and a smile too thin.
Now shes in her room.
Sleeping in her bed.
Breathing.
Silent. Still.
But her shadow?
Her *real* shadow?
I think its still outside.
And I think its waiting to come in.
**Part 2: What Slithers Under the Door**
Since Emily came back, the house doesnt breathe right.
During the day, everything seems normal.
Emily gets up, sits at breakfast, but doesnt eat. Just stirs her cereal.
Pretends to flip through her notebooks. Sometimes she hums songs Ive never heard. The words arent in any language I know.
And in the evenings, she just vanishes.
No goodbyes. No asking to go out.
The door opens and shuts itself at 6:45 PM. Not a minute early. Not a second late.
And Im left here waiting. In the dark. Alone.
With one gnawing question:
*Is that thing really my daughter?*
Ive started noticing little things.
The walls, for instance, *breathe*.
At least, they do when Emilys home.
The cracks in the ceiling stretch slightly, like theyre expanding around her.
And the plantsthe ones Ive kept alive for yearsare wilting only in her room.
Like something invisible touches them every night.
One night, I woke up thirsty.
Passed her door. It was ajar.
Inside, she wasnt sleeping.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, back to me.
Humming that wordless song.
Brushing the hair of a doll with no eyes.
And on the wall, right behind her, was a shadow.
But not hers.
Taller. Thinner. It moved *before* she did, not after.
Like it was pulling her strings, not the other way around.
I ran to my room. Barricaded the door.
Prayed.
But not even God answers when evil lets itself in.
The next day, I did something desperate.
I compared a recent photo of Emily to one from a month ago.
And there it was.
The eyes.
In the old Emily, her irises were hazel.
In this Emily a murky grey-green, like stagnant water.
And then I saw something else.
Her pupils werent round. They were slits. Like a cats. Or a snakes.
That night, I sprinkled flour on the hallway floor.
A trap. Simple.
At 1:00 AM, I heard the door open.
Soft footsteps.
Then, a pause.
I pretended to sleep but kept one eye cracked open.
Emily stood in my doorway.
Didnt speak. Didnt move.
Then I saw something shift under her feet.
In the flour, there were no human footprints.
Just thin, dragging marks like something with long claws skimming the floor.
But the worst part was the last mark:
a long, curved line, like a tail dragging behind her.
This morning, I found a note under my pillow.
Not handwritten. Like the words had been burned into the paper.
It said:
*Mum, Im trapped. This isnt me. Dont let her in tomorrow.*
And now Im scared.
Because its 12:59.
And the gate outside
is already opening by itself.
**Part 3: The Voice Behind the Door**
1:00 AM.
The clock ticked over.
Then: the front door opened on its own.
I was in the living room, gripping the note, my heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted to escape without me.
But I didnt go to her. Not this time.
I hid behind the curtains, phone silenced, lights off.
I heard the steps.
One. Two. Three.
Not the light patter of a teenage girl.
Heavier. Like she was carrying something. Or like she wasnt entirely human.
Then her voice.
Mum Im home.
But it wasnt *her* voice.
Not quite.
Too deep, with a strange echo, like two mouths speaking at once.
One higher, trying to sound like Emily.
The other dragging syllables like claws on glass.
Mum are you awake?
The doorknob turned.
I held my breath.
She didnt come in. Not yet.
Just pressed her forehead to the door.
And started crying.
But the tears didnt sound like tears.
Not wet. Not soft.
Dry, crackling, like something inside her was splintering.
Mum Im cold. Let me in
I wanted to. I *ached* to run to her.
It was my daughters voice.
At least, part of it was.
But then I remembered the note.
*This isnt me. Dont let her in tomorrow.*
And even though that thing was *already* inside I understood.
The real Emily was outside.
And
