My kid always gets home at one in the morning from school— and her shadow never follows.
You only notice the weird stuff when you stare at it long enough, or when something refuses to look back at you. For me it all started with something I didn’t see: a shadow.
The shadow of my daughter.
It wasn’t there.
And it hasn’t been since.
Her name’s Lily. She’s twelve, loves mangoes, maths and dancing TikTok routines in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. For the first twelve years she was pure joy on two legs—messy braids, grubby socks, humming off‑key songs all the time.
Until three weeks ago.
That’s when she began slipping through the front door at one a.m.
The first night I almost fainted when the house creaked open so late. I’d dozed off on the sofa waiting for her after her after‑school clubs. She was supposed to be back by half past six. When it hit ten I called the school, her friends, her private tutor—no one had seen her.
Then, at one o’clock, the front door swung in.
She was calm. Way too calm.
I leapt up. “Lily! Where have you been? I was—” but she lifted a hand slowly and said, “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
That was it. No tears, no apologies, no fear. She headed straight to her room and locked the door.
I stared at the floor for a while. Something felt… off. The air she brought in was icy, like it’d come out of a freezer. The hallway lights flickered once, then steadied. I told myself I was over‑thinking it. Kids that age can be strange, right?
Wrong.
The next night the same thing happened. She didn’t show up until one a.m., walked in as if she lived in a different time zone, gave the same bland line in the same tone.
But this time I noticed something. She passed the dining‑room wall‑lamp… and her shadow didn’t.
It was just… gone. No outline, no shape, nothing.
I thought I was hallucinating. I turned on every light in the house and made her stand under them. Still nothing. The light lit up her face, but the floor behind her stayed empty. She caught me watching.
“What’s up, Mum?” she asked.
I blinked. “Nothing. Just tired.” I nodded and she walked off. I watched her go one more time. Her body moved, but there was no shadow trailing her.
The next day I rang the school to ask why they were letting her out so late every day. The lady on the phone hesitated, then said, “Madam, your daughter hasn’t been at school since the last mid‑term exam… over three weeks ago. We’ve sent several notices, but you never replied.”
My heart stopped. “She goes out every morning,” I whispered. “She puts on her uniform. She even takes her water bottle.”
I checked the fridge after the call. Her water bottle was still there, untouched, exactly where I’d left it the day of that last exam.
That night I didn’t sleep. I turned off all the lights, sat by the living‑room window and waited.
Exactly at one a.m. the front gate swung open on its own and she slipped in. Lily, but not Lily.
Outwardly she looked the same. Her eyes didn’t flutter like before. Her breathing had an odd rhythm. She stared at me and tilted her head.
“Why are you up, Mum?” she asked.
I forced a smile. “Waiting for you.” Then I blurted, “Where’s your shadow?”
She smiled, but not with her mouth—something colder. “It stayed behind.” She drifted past me.
When she passed the wall‑mirror, something flashed for a split second.
A figure taller than her, eyes way too big, a grin too thin.
I turned away, heart hammering, hands trembling.
Now she’s in her room, sleeping in her bed, breathing, quiet. But her shadow… her true shadow? I think it’s still out there, waiting for a chance to get back in.
Episode 2: What Crawls Beneath the Door
Since Lily “came back,” the house never feels the same.
During the day everything looks normal. Lily gets up, sits down for breakfast but never actually eats—just stirs her cereal. She pretends the notebooks, hums strange songs no one’s ever heard. The lyrics are in no language I recognise. In the afternoons she simply vanishes.
She never says where she’s going. The front door opens and shuts by itself at exactly six forty‑five, not a minute before or after. I sit there in the dark, alone, waiting, the question getting louder: Is that thing really my daughter?
I’ve started noticing small things. The walls seem to breathe when Lily’s home. The ceiling cracks widen a little, as if they’re expanding with her presence. The plants I’ve tended for years are wilting only in her room, as if something invisible is touching them each night.
One night I got up thirsty and walked past her door. It was ajar. Inside she wasn’t sleeping—she was perched on the edge of the bed, back to me, humming that unrecognisable tune while brushing the hair of a faceless doll.
And on the wall behind her, I saw a shadow. Not hers.
It was taller, thinner, moved before she did, as if it were leading her.
I sprinted back to my room, slammed the door, propped a chair against it, and prayed. But prayer didn’t get an answer.
The next day I went desperate. I pulled the most recent photo of Lily and compared it to one from a month ago. The eyes had changed—from light brown to a sickly grey‑green, like stagnant water. The pupils were no longer round; they were vertical, like a cat’s or a snake’s.
That night I spread flour on the hallway floor—a simple trap. At one a.m. I heard the front door open, soft footsteps, then a pause. I pretended to be asleep, one eye cracked open.
Lily stood in the doorway of my room, silent, unmoving. Then I saw something shift under her feet.
The flour bore no human prints, only fine, dragged marks, as if something with long claws was skittering just above the ground. The worst part was a long, curved line—like a tail—trailing behind her.
Morning brought a note tucked under my pillow. It wasn’t handwritten; the words looked as if they’d been burnt into the paper. It read:
“Mum, I’m trapped. This isn’t me. Don’t let her in tomorrow.”
Now I’m terrified because it’s fifty‑nine minutes to midnight, and the front gate is already starting to swing open on its own‑self.
Episode 3: The Voice Behind the Door
One a.m., the clock clicked, and the front door swung open again.
I was sitting in the lounge, the note still in my hand, my heart hammering as if trying to break my ribs. This time I didn’t go to answer. I curled behind the curtain, phone silenced, lights off.
Footsteps. One, two, three. Not the light tread of a teen; they were heavier, as if something was being carried, or perhaps it wasn’t fully human.
Then a voice.
“Mum… I’m here.”
It wasn’t entirely Lily’s voice. It was deeper, echoing, as if two mouths were speaking at once—one trying to sound like Lily, the other dragging syllables like claws on glass.
“Mum… are you awake?”
The doorknob turned. I held my breath. No one entered—not yet. She just pressed her forehead against the door and began to weep.
But the tears weren’t wet. They were dry, cracked, as if something inside her was shattering.
“Mum… I’m cold. Let me in…”
I wanted to rush to her, to open the door. The voice sounded like my child… a part of it. Yet the note nagged at me. “This isn’t me. Don’t let her in tomorrow.” I realised the real Lily was outside, and whatever was inside wasn’t her.
At 3:33 a.m. the footsteps receded, the door shut, silence fell, and finally I could breathe again.
At dawn I checked Lily’s room. It was empty, but not completely. On her bed lay a box wrapped in black cloth, tied with a strip of human hair.
Inside was a doll—an exact replica of me. On the back of its head, a knife‑scratched message:
“You’ll be next.”
Episode 4: The Mirror That Won’t Reflect
The next day was surreal. Lily didn’t return to school, didn’t answer her friends. Her phone stayed dead. The doll on her bed stayed, its eyes, its clothes, my terrified expression frozen in fabric.
I tried to burn it. It didn’t catch fire, only smelled of charred meat.
At 12:55 a.m. I did something foolish. I propped a mirror in front of the front door. It wasn’t superstition; it was desperation. If whatever was coming in wasn’t Lily, I wanted proof.
The lock clicked at one. I was crouched in the dark hallway, breath held. The door opened slowly. A figure stepped in—Lily, in her blue jacket, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair tied back, skin pale as chalk.
“Hi, Mum,” she said, as always.
She didn’t look at me. She stared at the mirror, and the mirror showed nothing.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the glass with a cold smile.
“Nothing, love,” I replied, voice cracked. “How was school?”
“Great,” she answered. “We learned about photosynthesis.” I knew that lesson had been two weeks ago.
She walked past the mirror without casting a shadow, without an image, without any presence at all. Only a chill brushed my feet.
I slept with the door bolted, the doll stuffed in a bag and buried in the back garden. At three a.m. I heard giggling—not from the hallway, but from my wardrobe. I opened it slowly. The doll sat there, now smiling, a lock of my hair clutched in its tiny hand.
I took the doll to a church the next day. The priest wouldn’t even touch it, muttering “parasite” under the breath. He whispered that there are entities that mimic, that learn and infiltrate, that sometimes need an invitation, other times just belief.
I asked, “Where is my daughter?”
He looked pitying. “If her shadow doesn’t follow… she may already be beyond this world.”
That night I set up hidden night‑vision cameras, hoping for evidence. What they caught made my skin crawl.
My daughter entered the house—not through the door, but dropping from the roof like a broken puppet. She rose with jerky, disjointed movements, and as she shuffled down the corridor something slithered behind her. No shape, no face, just invisible claws scraping the walls.
She looked straight into the camera and said, “Mum… stop watching.” The screen went black.
Episode 5: The Place She Goes When She Leaves
After seeing that footage I couldn’t sleep. I smashed the cameras, threw the doll into the river, prayed with every breath I had, but nothing changed. Lily still slipped in at one a.m., colder each night, more perfect, more empty.
One morning I rifled through her school bag while she slept. No books, only damp, black earth—like fresh grave soil. Tucked inside was a folded note that read:
“She’s at school. I’m the one who comes back. Don’t ask any more.”
I called the school.
“Has Lily been attending?” I asked, trying not to cry.
There was a long silence. “Ma’am… your daughter hasn’t been here since last month.” “What? We thought she’d been withdrawn. Did you receive any calls?”
“No. Someone else answered for me, used my voice, lived my routine, slept in my bed.”
That night I waited for “Lily.” I hid behind the curtain, the clock struck one, the house was dead quiet. Then a soft thump on the roof, the same lifeless drop. She rose, walked straight to my bedroom. I followed.
From the half‑open door I saw something impossible: she knelt before the wardrobe, whispering in a language that sounded like reversed wails. The wardrobe swung open on its own and another girl emerged—pale, dirt‑stained, lips sewn shut with black thread, trembling, mute.
The impostor hugged her and murmured, “Almost ready.” Both turned to the door, to me.
“Mum,” they said in unison, “your turn now.”
I ran. I don’t the stairs, I just know I was outside, barefoot, screaming. No neighbour’s lights flickered on; the whole street seemed asleep under some strange spell.
The next day I went to the police. The house was empty, the wardrobe vanished, no cameras, no earth in the bag, no doll. All that remained was a carving on my wall: “She’s not yours.”
I didn’t give up. I demanded the school’s security footage. There, I saw Lily—the real one—trapped in a room that didn’t exist on any floor plan. No windows, just a desk, a chair, a mirror. In the mirror I was smiling, but it wasn’t me.
Now I understand. My daughter is stuck somewhere between worlds. The thing that lives with me, that walks like her, calls me “Mum,” will never give her back—unless I can pull her out.
Episode 6: The Name I Mustn’t Speak
I scoured old books, obscure forums, seldom‑visited churches, and a dark corner of the internet where no one should go. I found a single word—supposedly a name that could summon whatever hides behind mirrors. There was a warning:
“Say it once, she sees you. The second time, she hears you. Three times, she’s yours.”
I wrote it down, burned the paper, but the letters seemed to breathe, to linger in my mind.
That night “Lily” made breakfast—perfect pancakes, too perfect. “Did you like them, Mum?” she asked. I nodded, feeling those dark eyes pierce me. She knew I knew.
I went down to the basement, behind the boiler, and found the mirror we’d thrown away weeks before. Someone had brought it back, draped in a black sheet. I pulled it off. Nothing reflected—no me, no Lily—just empty.
I whispered the name once. Nothing. Twice, the mirror shivered. I was about to say it a third time when I stopped. I thought, what if I can’t come back? What if I become the thing that never returns?
Then I remembered Lily’s sketches, her laughter, the terror in her eyes the last time I saw her. I said it, third time.
Everything went black.
I opened my eyes to a damp, dark hallway. At the far end was an empty classroom. I stepped in. There, chained to a chair, was Lily. I lunged, wrapped my arms around her “Mum.” She whispered, “She’s coming. Don’t say the name again.” I asked, “Who?” She could only shake her head. The mirror on the far wall began to bleed, and from the blood rose a faceless woman—the one that had taken my daughter, the one that had been copying Lily.
We ran down the corridor, the woman trailing behind, not walking, just a spreading shadow on the walls like a living stain. “Don’t look back,” I told Lily. We reached the door to the real world, the only exit.
Lily leapt. I was about to follow when a cold hand grabbed my ankle and hissed, “You said my name.”
I jolted awake in my own bed. Lily was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes. Her shadow trailed her, exactly as it always had. “Mum, you okay?” she asked.
I nodded, though my voice felt hollow.
I went to the bathroom, stared into the mirror. No one was there.
Episode 7: Mum Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
The house smelled of fresh pancakes, of normalcy. Yet I was no longer myself. Lily looked at me with love, as if none of the dark hallway ever existed, that faceless woman never chased us.
“Feel better, Mum?” she asked.
“Yes,” I lied, though my voice echoed from a well‑no‑longer‑my mouth—empty, like a pit.
I tried to touch my face; my hand passed through the mirror’s reflection. My own shadow stood still, watching me, waiting.
That night I curled up next to Lily, held her tight. She shivered.
“Mum?” she whispered.
“You’re not my mum,” she said.
I pulled away, hurt, wondering if I was lying or if she finally saw something I couldn’t.
I went to the basement, searched for the mirror. It was gone. In its place a note, written in a hand that wasn’t mine:
“The body returns. The soul, not always.” Below, in fresh blood, the question: “Who sleeps in your bed?”
Since then strange things have been happening. My reflection blinks when I don’t. My shadow walks the hallway alone. Lily now keeps the door locked, sleeps with the light on, mutters in the night, “Give me my mum back.”
One day I found her diary under my pillow. Inside were drawings, one of Lily standing beside a woman with empty eyes and a second‑hand smile. In shaky letters it read: “She wears my skin. She isn’t me.”
I went to the school, hoping someone could help. The headmistress looked at me with terror. “Your daughter Lily hasn’t been here for weeks.” “What? I see her every night!” She sighed, “Lily died two months ago. You attended the funeral. You just don’t remember, do you?”
I ran home. Lily was there, playing with a doll.
“What are you?” I shouted.
She didn’t answer, just smiled. In her eyes I saw only void.
I looked into the mirrorAnd as the glass finally reflected my own hollow eyes, I realized I was the one forever locked inside the mirror, watching Lily live her life from the other side.
