Claire Harper had never believed in the supernatural. She was practical, grounded—a single mother doing her best to raise her five-year-old daughter, Amelia. But when Amelia started talking to someone who wasn’t there, Claire’s reality began to crack.
It started small.
"Mommy, he doesn’t like when you close my door at night," Amelia had said at dinner one evening, absently stirring her macaroni and cheese.
Claire glanced up from her plate. "Who doesn’t?"
Amelia shrugged, as if it was obvious. "My friend."
Claire smiled. "What’s his name?"
Amelia hesitated. "He doesn’t have one."
That should have been the first sign—something wasn’t right. But Claire dismissed it, assuming it was just an imaginary friend. Kids did that. It was normal.
But the next night, Claire woke up to the sound of whispering.
At first, she thought Amelia was talking in her sleep. But when she pushed open her daughter’s bedroom door, she found her sitting upright in bed, her head slightly tilted, as if listening to something just out of reach.
"Sweetheart, who are you talking to?"
Amelia turned her head slowly. "Him."
Claire felt a small chill creep up her spine. The room was cold—too cold for a summer night. She forced a chuckle. "Your friend again?"
Amelia nodded. "He doesn’t like you in here."
Claire swallowed and brushed it off, tucking her daughter in and kissing her forehead. But as she turned to leave, she could have sworn she heard another voice whisper from the corner of the room.
A voice that wasn’t Amelia’s.
The Change
Over the next few weeks, things escalated.
The house smelled different—like damp earth and something metallic, something rotten. The smell was strongest in Amelia’s room, but no matter how much Claire cleaned, it never went away.
Then came the scratching.
It started one night around 3 a.m.—a slow, deliberate scraping sound coming from inside the walls. Claire tried to tell herself it was mice, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t.
Then Amelia started changing.
She stopped playing with her dolls. Stopped coloring. Stopped laughing. Instead, she spent hours sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring at the wall, her lips moving silently.
"Who are you talking to, baby?" Claire asked one afternoon.
Amelia blinked up at her.
"He says you shouldn’t ask things you don’t want to know."
Claire felt a knot tighten in her stomach.
That night, she heard Amelia whispering again. But this time, the voice whispering back was lower.
Deeper.
Not human.
Something in the Dark
Claire woke to the sound of Amelia screaming.
She ran to her daughter’s room, her heart pounding. The second she opened the door, the stench hit her—thick, putrid, suffocating.
Amelia was curled in the corner, trembling. The nightlight flickered, casting erratic shadows across the walls.
"He’s mad," Amelia whimpered.
Claire scooped her up, holding her close. "Who’s mad, baby?"
Amelia lifted her head slowly, and Claire’s breath caught in her throat.
Her daughter’s eyes—her bright, hazel eyes—were darker. Not just in the dim light, but deeper, like something else was looking through them.
"You shouldn’t have made him angry."
Claire didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did Amelia.
The Priest
The next day, Claire did something she never thought she would do—she called a priest.
Father Morales arrived that afternoon. He was older, with a calm presence that made Claire feel safe, even if only for a moment.
She told him everything. The whispers. The smell. The changes in Amelia.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look surprised.
"I’d like to speak with your daughter," he said.
Claire hesitated but agreed.
She waited outside the room while the priest sat with Amelia. The door was slightly ajar, just enough for Claire to hear their conversation.
"Hello, Amelia," Father Morales said gently.
Amelia didn’t respond.
"You know why I’m here, don’t you?"
A long silence. Then—
"He won’t let you take me."
Claire’s blood ran cold.
Father Morales’ voice remained steady. "Who won’t?"
A small giggle. But it wasn’t Amelia’s. It was something else. Something wrong.
"You already know."
The priest came out ten minutes later, his face pale. He took Claire aside, gripping his rosary tightly.
"Miss Harper," he said carefully, "I don’t think your daughter is pretending."
Claire felt dizzy. "Then what’s wrong with her?"
Father Morales swallowed. "Something is attached to her. Something… old."
Claire shook her head. "No. No, that’s not possible—"
The priest cut her off. "I need to perform a blessing. Tonight."
The Ritual
That night, the house felt heavier.
Claire could feel it in the air—something watching. Something waiting.
Father Morales lit candles, murmuring prayers in Latin. Amelia sat on the floor, cross-legged, watching him with an eerie calm.
"That won’t help," she said softly.
The priest ignored her, continuing the prayer.
Then Amelia started laughing.
The lights flickered. The candles went out all at once, plunging the room into darkness.
Claire’s chest tightened. "Father?"
The priest fumbled for his crucifix.
Amelia—or whatever was inside her—grinned. "He’s here."
A shadow stretched along the wall. Too tall. Too thin.
The air turned frigid. The room vibrated with something unseen.
Then Amelia’s body convulsed. Her small frame jerked violently as a guttural growl ripped from her throat.
Claire screamed, reaching for her daughter—
And then everything went black.
Aftermath
Claire woke up on the floor, her head throbbing. The candles were relit. The room was silent.
Amelia lay motionless in the center of the floor.
Father Morales knelt beside her, his face pale and soaked with sweat. He placed a shaking hand on Claire’s shoulder.
"It’s not gone."
Claire’s breath hitched. "What do you mean?!"
The priest looked at Amelia, his voice barely above a whisper.
"He’s still in there."
Claire’s stomach twisted as Amelia’s eyes fluttered open.
She sat up slowly. Smiled.
And in that moment, Claire knew—
Whatever had been inside her daughter…
It had won.
The End
