A week ago, we lost our daughter, Emily.
She was hit by a car on her way home from school. I fell into deep grief, barely able to function. My husband and our 5-year-old son, Ben, were all I had left.
One night, Ben came to me and whispered, “Mommy, Emily waves to me every night from that house.”
I froze. “What house?”
He pointed out his bedroom window to the house across the street. It had been empty for months. My heart ached. He must be imagining things, missing his sister.
“I’ll stay with you tonight,” I said, brushing his hair back.
At 9 p.m., Ben sat up in bed and pointed again. “Look,” he whispered.
I turned to the window, ready to gently remind him that Emily was gone.
Then I gasped.
In the window of the abandoned house, I saw a shadow. A small figure, standing still.
A child.
I bolted upright, my breath catching in my throat. It had to be my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe a curtain moving in the breeze?
But then the figure moved.
A small hand lifted.
It waved.
I grabbed Ben and rushed out of the room. My husband, Mark, found me shaking in the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed.
I hesitated. How could I explain? That I’d just seen our dead daughter standing in a house that should be empty?
Instead, I said, “There’s someone in the house across the street.”
Mark frowned. “That place has been locked up for months.”
“I saw—” I stopped myself. “We need to check.”
Mark grabbed a flashlight, and we crossed the street. The front door was locked. No lights were on inside. Everything was silent.
“Maybe someone broke in,” Mark whispered, trying to stay rational.
I nodded, though my hands trembled.
We walked around to the back and found a window slightly open. Mark hesitated before pushing it up and climbing inside. I followed, my heart hammering.
The house smelled of dust and neglect. The floor creaked beneath our feet as we moved through the empty living room.
Then I heard it.
A soft giggle.
My blood ran cold.
Mark turned to me, his face pale. He’d heard it too.
We followed the sound up the stairs. The giggle came again, just beyond a closed door at the end of the hall.
Emily’s old laugh.
I reached for the doorknob with a shaking hand and pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
Except for one thing.
A photograph.
It sat in the middle of the dusty floor. My breath caught as I picked it up.
It was a picture of our family—taken last summer at the beach. Emily stood between Ben and me, her bright smile forever frozen in time.
I turned the photo over.
A single word was written on the back in a child’s handwriting.
Mommy.
My hands went numb.
A cold breeze passed through the room, though the windows were shut. And then—
A whisper. Right behind me.
“Mommy, I’m still here.”
I spun around, but there was nothing.
Nothing but the sound of Ben’s voice, calling from our house.
“Mommy?”
I grabbed the photo and ran.
We never spoke about that night again.
The next morning, the house across the street was empty once more. The window where I had seen the shadow was now covered in dust.
But I kept the photograph.
Because deep down, I knew.
Emily had come back to say goodbye.