It was just before noon.
Their mother was busy rocking the newborn, humming softly — tired but peaceful.
Unnoticed, her two daughters, four and two years old, slipped away, giggling down the hallway. They were supposed to play downstairs, but the new room upstairs was calling. It was almost done, just missing the doorknob.
That didn't matter.
Their toys were in there. Their dresses.
Their tiny kingdom.
The older girl led the way, pushing the door shut behind them.
The room smelled like sawdust and new paint. Light pooled on the floor like syrup, catching on scattered toys. They twirled in their dresses and spun until they were dizzy with laughter.
But as they played, the younger girl paused.
Something in the room… shifted.
She looked at the door.
Just a hole where the knob should be.
And through it — a flicker of movement.
Quick as a blink.
She pointed, wide-eyed.
Her sister glanced over. "What? Is someone out there?"
She marched to the door, fearless.
"Hello?" she called into the hallway. "Is someone there?"
Silence.
With a shrug, she turned back. "No one. Guess they left."
And they played again.
A moment later, a sound reached them — a whisper of paper sliding under the door.
The younger girl gasped and tugged at her sister's sleeve.
The older one bent to pick up the page.
It was a drawing.
Crayon scribbles of the two of them, playing together.
But behind them…
A black shape.
A crooked silhouette.
And one yellow eye.
"Very funny," she said aloud, and yanked the door open.
The hallway was empty.
She shut the door slowly. "See? Nothing to worry about."
But the younger girl couldn't settle.
She kept glancing back.
And then, she froze.
Beneath the door, a thin, pale finger slid into view.
She went to speak, but her breath caught.
An eye appeared at the hole — yellow and sickly, bloodshot and seemingly grinning.
She grabbed her sister, pulling hard.
The older girl turned, her voice hushed now.
"Is it back?"
And she saw it too.
Her hands trembling, she rushed to the door and pulled it open.
Nothing.
But before she could close it, she saw something — a shadow at the top of the stairs.
Twisted and too tall.
Its edges bled into the walls.
And then it began to move.
Closer.
The older sister gasped, slammed the door, and threw her weight against it.
The little one pressed her hands to the wood.
They felt the door shudder — as if something on the other side was leaning into it.
And under their palms, a steady, terrible pressure.
The wood groaned.
And the girls ran — hearts pounding, feet stumbling — into the farthest corner of the room.
They squeezed their eyes shut, breath trembling.
And then—
A hand gripped their shoulders.
"Girls," a voice said gently. "Didn't I tell you not to come up here?"
It was their mother.
Tired and smiling.
"Come on, lunch is ready," she said, leading them downstairs.
They passed the dining room — plates already set — but their mother paused.
"Girls, please wash your hands first," she said softly.
And so the girls turned back, heading past the stairs toward the washroom.
The older sister led the way. The little one trailed behind.
And as they passed, the little one felt it again.
That pressure. That knowing.
She looked up the staircase.
And there…
It stood.
Too tall, too long — its head tilted at a wrong angle.
Its yellow eye glinted.
Its grin stretched too far across its face.
And one pale finger curled slowly.
Beckoning.
And beckoning.
And though the house was quiet, she thought — just for a moment — she could hear it breathing.
Waiting.