Every night at exactly 2:13 a.m. Raya heard someone walking outside her bedroom. It always started with three slow footsteps, then stopped directly outside her door. The first night, she thought it was her mother. The second night, she thought it was her imagination. By the seventh night, she was too scared to even move when it happened. Her parents were asleep downstairs, and whenever she checked the hallway in the morning, there was nothing there. One night, she decided to stay awake and prove to herself that she was imagining it. At 2:13, she heard the footsteps again. One. Two. Three. Then silence. Raya stared at the gap beneath her bedroom door. A shadow appeared on the other side. Someone was standing there.
She held her breath and watched the shadow move slowly across the gap. It stopped. Then a voice whispered, “Raya.” It was her mother's voice. Raya almost opened the door, but then she heard her mother laughing downstairs. She froze. The voice outside whispered her name again, this time sounding like her father. Then like her brother. Then like Raya herself. She pulled her blanket over her head and waited until morning. When the sun finally came through the curtains, she found four muddy footprints outside her bedroom door. They were small, like a child's footprints. Raya showed them to her parents, but her father said they must have come from the garden. Her mother cleaned them without saying anything. But Raya noticed something strange. Her mother kept looking at the corner of the hallway.
That afternoon, Raya asked her mother if anyone had ever lived in their house before them. Her mother hesitated and said the house had been empty for years. “Why?” Raya asked. Her mother smiled nervously. “Nothing. Just don't go into the attic.” Raya immediately knew there was something wrong. That night, she waited until everyone was asleep and climbed the stairs to the attic. The door was locked, but the key was hanging beside it. Inside, there were old boxes, broken furniture and covered paintings. Raya searched through everything until she found a small wooden box. Inside was a photograph of a little girl standing in the hallway. The girl was smiling at the camera. Raya stared at the photograph because the hallway looked exactly like the one in her house. On the back of the photograph were four words: SHE DOES NOT LEAVE.
Raya dropped the photograph. Then she heard a tiny laugh behind her. She turned around. Nothing was there. The attic door slowly creaked open by itself. Raya ran downstairs and locked herself in her bedroom. She didn't sleep that night. At 2:13 a.m., the footsteps came again. This time there were more than three. They walked from the stairs to her door, stopped, and then continued into her room. Raya couldn't move. She felt someone standing beside her bed. She kept her eyes closed. A cold hand touched the blanket near her shoulder. Then a little girl's voice whispered, “Why did you forget me?”
Raya opened her eyes.
The room was empty.
She screamed and ran downstairs. Her parents rushed into the hallway, but Raya couldn't explain what had happened. Her mother looked terrified. She finally sat down and told Raya the truth. Before Raya was born, there had been another child in the family. A little girl named Tara. Tara had disappeared from the house when she was six years old. Nobody had ever found her. After that, Raya's mother had refused to speak about her because it was too painful. Raya stared at her mother. “Why don't I remember her?” she asked. Her mother didn't answer. Raya suddenly remembered something from when she was very small. She remembered playing in the hallway with another little girl. She remembered calling her “Tara.” Then the memory disappeared
That night, Raya decided she would find out what happened. She returned to the attic and searched through the old boxes again. Behind a broken cupboard, she found a small door in the wall. It was covered in scratches. There were dozens of children's handprints around it. Raya slowly opened it. Inside was a small room with no windows. There were toys across the floor, all covered in dust. On the wall were drawings made by a child. Most of them showed a little girl standing beside a tall black figure. One drawing showed Raya's family sitting at the dinner table. Everyone was smiling except Tara. In the corner, Tara had written: HE DOESN'T LIKE IT WHEN YOU REMEMBER ME.
Raya heard breathing behind her.
She turned around.
A little girl was standing at the end of the room.
It was Tara.
She looked exactly like the photograph.
Raya couldn't speak. Tara slowly pointed toward the wall behind Raya. Raya turned and saw a large mirror she hadn't noticed before. Her reflection was standing in front of it.
But Tara wasn't reflected.
Neither was Raya's reflection moving.
Raya stared in horror as her reflection slowly turned its head toward her.
Then it smiled.
Tara grabbed Raya's hand and pulled her out of the room. The moment they stepped into the attic, the door slammed shut behind them. Something began pounding against it from inside. Raya and Tara ran downstairs. Tara kept pulling her toward the front door, but when Raya reached it, Tara suddenly stopped.
She pointed toward the hallway.
Raya looked.
Her parents were standing there.
Both of them were completely still.
Their faces were blank.
Then her mother slowly smiled.
“Raya,” she whispered.
Tara shook her head violently.
“That's not your mother.”
The figures began walking toward them.
Raya grabbed Tara's hand and ran outside.
The moment they crossed the gate; the house became silent.
Raya turned around.
There was no one in the doorway.
She looked at Tara.
But Tara was gone.
Raya searched the street, shouting her name.
Then she noticed something on the ground.
The old photograph.
She picked it up.
The little girl in the photograph was still there.
But now Raya was standing beside her.
And behind them, in the dark hallway of the house, stood a tall figure. Raya turned around.
The house was completely dark.
Then, from inside her own bedroom window, she saw herself staring back.
The other Raya raised one hand.
And smiled.
The next morning, Raya's parents told the police that their daughter had disappeared during the night.
They searched the house.
They found nothing.
Except for an old photograph lying on the floor of the attic.
In it, two little girls were standing together.
One was Tara.
The other was Raya.
And in the corner of the photograph, written in childish handwriting, were the words:
NOW THERE ARE TWO OF HER.
