Emily's Shadow

 

I was never one to believe in destiny. Luck? Sure. Coincidence? Maybe, but if there was anything I’d learned from my degree in child psychology, it was that people always had to have answers. Always.

Even if a rational explanation was nowhere to be found, they’d be just as content to make something up. Somehow, it was easier to accept alien abductions and flesh-eating bacteria than the snore-inducing truth of the mundane. After all, nobody knew how kids were disappearing from our shabby corner of Huntington Park. There was never any mention of foul play or forced entry. They simply vanished from their beds in the middle of the night without a sound or a trace. Snatched by an evil, unseen force. The Reaper, as it quickly came to be dubbed.

            As a mother of two little ones myself, you would’ve thought I’d be terrified. Steve’s trucking job sent him across the country for weeks at a time, often leaving me to defend the house all alone. I had my usual routine of locking down before hitting the sack, checking the front and back doors for a deadbolt, then grabbing Ol’ Silver. That was Steve’s trusty five-iron golf club, my weapon of choice. I’d prop it against the nightstand, its blend of carbon fiber and titanium offering a light yet sturdy peace of mind. It wasn’t the most robust security system, but it was the best we could afford after moving to the south suburbs of Los Angeles.

            To be fair, the neighborhood wasn’t always so dangerous. There were other budding families like ours just trying to lay down their roots. The Lins. The Biglers. Rosita Morales and her two boys. None of us could’ve predicted how fast the housing market would crash. As our values plummeted, the gangs started to move in, swallowing up the streets in violence and drugs. Before long, it wasn’t safe to go out after dark. Maybe that’s why rumors of the Reaper didn’t faze me. I was already accustomed to far more tangible threats. Or rather, the baseline of my day to day fears was probably too high to notice.  

            The morning it all began, Emily had gone to play quietly in her room. I was still in the kitchen, finishing up with Tristan’s breakfast. He sat happy as a clam, slapping the tray of his high chair while I fed him another spoonful of carrot purée. The stuff was like catnip for the little guy, dribbling its way down his chin and onto his bib. As I went to wipe his face, a chuckle arose from Emily’s room. It was guarded at first, almost reluctant, but swiftly grew into a full-fledged belly laugh. 

            “Hey, Em! What’s got you so tickled?” I called over my shoulder. She didn’t seem to hear me, continuing to giggle hysterically. “Em? What are you doing up there? You better not be messing around with my make-up again! Clowns are not funny!”

I hurried to pull Tristan from his chair, checking his diaper with a sniff before heading up the stairs. By the time I reached the top, Emily’s laughter had reduced to a low snicker, her voice pausing at intervals as though holding a conversation. 

            “How old are you?…Wow, really?…No, you are!”

            I stopped outside the bedroom door, listening closely through the open crack.

            “Y-you want to play?…Yeah, Mommy’s downstairs…What? Why can’t I?”

            Who was she talking to, I wondered. One of her dolls? The silence between her questions seemed to support that theory, but I’d never known Emily to keep such a vivid imagination. It was hard enough getting her to play alone with her toys, but to catch her arguing with them? I leaned forward, straining to peek inside when Tristan decided to blow my cover, burping in my arms.

Emily fell quiet, her eyes snapping to the doorway as I begrudgingly pushed on through. For some reason, it surprised me to find her all by herself in the middle of the room. She stood facing the closet, her hands tucked behind her back as if she were hiding something.

“Hi, Mommy. We were just playing,” Emily said with a pleasant smile.

            I furrowed my brow. “We?” Glancing past her, I noticed the window beside her bed had been slid all the way open, inviting a soft breeze from the nearby sycamores. “Emily Justine Windsor, how many times have I told you never to open that without permission?” I stormed across the room, shifting Tristan onto my hip as I pulled down the window. “A broken latch is no excuse to do whatever you want, young lady. What if you were to fall out and hurt yourself? It’s a long drop into the yard.”

Emily hung her head in shame. “Sorry, Mommy,” she pouted. “I was just trying to help my new friend. He wanted to come inside.”

“Friend? What friend?” I asked.

Emily gestured towards the closet, her face lighting up. “His name is Yuriel, Mommy. He’s super funny.”

“Yuriel?” I stared at the closet doors, the name sending a chill down my spine. It wasn’t something a four-year-old would come up with on her own. It was too foreign. Too deliberate. She had to have heard it from somewhere. A TV show? Maybe someone at the store? My mind raced to divine a source, my voice trembling as I moved in front of Emily. “Where did you meet this friend of yours?” I whispered. “What is he doing here?”

“He was standing outside the window,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “He told me I remind him of someone precious. He asked if we could play for a while.”
            I reached for the closet doors, bracing myself for whatever horrors might be lurking inside. After taking a deep breath, I threw them open, jumping backward with a yelp as an avalanche of toys and dirty laundry came tumbling out.

“Son of a banshee!” I cried, struggling to regain my composure. The kids thought it was hilarious, even Tristan laughing with glee. “Come on, Emily, this is not how you clean your room.” I inspected the mess with a sigh, relieved that it was all I found waiting in the closet. “Looks like your friend isn’t here anymore.”

Emily looked up at me with a huge grin. “What do you mean, Mommy? You walked right through him. He’s behind you now.”

I rolled my eyes, embarrassed that it took me this long to confirm what was really going on here. With nearly all of our friends and family having moved away, Emily’s loneliness had driven her to concoct an imaginary cure. It was nothing to be stressed about. Plenty of young children have been known to exert confidence and control through a projected companion. I decided to lean into it, coaxing Emily to flex her creativity. 

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Could you draw me a picture of Yuriel? Maybe if I knew what he looked like, I’d be able to find him.”

“Ooooh, that’s a great idea!” Emily said, clapping her hands.

She rushed over to her desk, pulling her collection of art supplies from the drawer. While most other kids her age would’ve opted for crayons or markers, she was impressively good with color pencils. I watched her throw down a blank piece of paper, expecting to see a rainbow of hues explode across the page.

She only grabbed three.

Black was the first, its inky shadow tracing the outline of a man. He wore a cloak over his loose-fitting robes, his raven hair draping down to his shoulders. For the skin of his hands and face, Emily used an ashen gray. The color of flesh in a state of death and decay. Then came the eyes—a bright, piercing yellow—their gaze leaping off the paper to capture mine. Before she could finish detailing his goatee, I snatched up the portrait, waving it around in frustration.

“Where did you see this?” I demanded. “Has Daddy been letting you watch movies you shouldn’t?”

“That’s my friend,” Emily said timidly. “You wanted to know what he looked like.”

“How about something cuter? Couldn’t your friend be a unicorn or a teddy bear?”

She glanced over my shoulder, her expression darkening. “He says I shouldn’t talk about him anymore.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t want to scare you.”

I pursed my lips, turning back to the doorway with a shake of my head. “Just…play nice and keep the window closed, okay, Em?”

“Okay…”

I trudged downstairs to the kitchen, Tristan cooing happily as I crumpled up the drawing and threw it in the trash. Where was all of this coming from? When did my daughter gain such a disturbing sense of humor? I tried to push the whole incident to the back of my mind, hoping she would outgrow her imaginary friend sooner than later. The following day, I realized I wasn’t that lucky.

We’d just sat down at the table for lunch. Emily prodded her chicken nuggets while Tristan went to town on a pile of yogurt puffs. As I waited for my spaghetti leftovers to finish cooking in the microwave, the ring of my cell phone began to echo from the living room couch. Eager for some adult interaction, I shuffled over to retrieve it, noticing Steve’s caller ID on the screen. I pressed the phone to my ear, the receiver immediately filling with static.

“Steve? Steve, are you there?”

After a few seconds, a voice whispered back, distant and garbled. “…Hide the children…”

“Steve…is that you? Please drop the act. I’m not in the mood for theatrics.”

The voice came again, clearer this time. A deep, raspy growl. “HIDE THE CHILDREN!”

The line suddenly went dead. Before I could decide what to make of it, a violent medley of sounds erupted from the kitchen. 

CRASH! POP! POP! POP!

Tristan’s screams had me sprinting across the house, darting around the corner to find his high chair lying on its side. He was still strapped in the seat, sobbing against the tiled floor as Emily stood over him, staring at me like a deer in the headlights.

“What did you do?” I demanded, rushing to his side. “Did you push your brother on purpose?”

Emily backed away, bursting into tears. “It wasn’t me, Mommy. It was Yuriel.”

“Don’t lie to me!” I yelled, scooping Tristan into my arms. “Yuriel isn’t real! You were the only one that could’ve done it!” Emily scurried out of the kitchen, leaving me to console the traumatized infant. I bent over to lift his chair, noticing something on the window pane behind it.

A scattered trio of bullet holes.

Each was about the size of my pinky, the closest one aligning perfectly with where Tristan’s head had been only moments before. My eyes followed its path, discovering the shattered remains of our microwave on the counter across from it. The end result of a drive-by shooting. 

 

“We are so out of here!” I shouted into the phone. “I’m done, Steve! I’m calling up a realtor and getting us out of this hellhole ASAP!”

“Rebecca, could you please slow it down for a second?” Steve begged. “What’s this about some mouth-breather heckling you from my number? I’m not seeing anything in my call history.” 

“Somebody’s gotta be targeting us. That creeper on the phone was probably working with the same dirtbags that riddled the house. If Emily hadn’t pushed Tristan out of the way, he could’ve…” The words caught in my throat, too painful to utter. “Somehow, Emily knew what was going to happen…but why would she lie to me about it?”

Steve paused on the other end of the line, his voice dripping with skepticism. “You don’t honestly think her made-up playmate is real, do you?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but you should’ve seen the picture she drew. Where would she come up with something like that? It’s got me expecting the dang Boogeyman to come shrieking out from under the bed.” I let myself fall backwards onto the couch, clutching my head. “I’ve been cooped up in this house for too long. It’s making me lose my mind.”

“Babe…listen…I’ll be home in another week or so. We’ll get a babysitter and have a night on the town. If you still want to move, we can hash out the details then. In the meantime, you guys need to interact with other human beings. Try video chatting with your sister. Take the kids to a park or something.”

“Yeah…you’re right. That should do the trick…”

It didn’t. No matter where we went, no matter what we did, I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being watched. The weekend soon rolled around, bringing a massive storm and fresh bout of paranoia along with it. The rain was so hard it knocked out the power, forcing me to put the kids to bed in the dark. Fortunately, Tristan slept like…well, a baby. Emily, however, took a bit more effort. After an hour of reading by cell phone light, she finally started to pass out, collapsing onto her pillow with a yawn.

“Nigh-night, Em.”

“Nigh-night, Mommy.”

Without much else to do myself, I initiated the usual shuttering sequence, making sure the entrances were secure before heading back upstairs to my room. I closed the door behind me, pushing the button on the knob to lock it for good measure. It was an old habit of mine, reasoning that if any intruders were to get inside the house, at least they wouldn’t be able to surprise me in my sleep. Of course, the last line of defense was Ol’ Silver, ready and waiting beside the bed.

Content with my precautions, I crawled under the covers, listening to the rain patter over the roof until my eyelids grew heavy. It felt as though they’d only closed for a second when a scream from Emily’s room split the air.

I sat up with a start, my blood running cold as I noticed the door hanging wide open. My hand instinctively reached for Ol’ Silver, panic washing over me as it came up empty.

This wasn’t a dream.

Someone was here.

In my house.

Hidden next to me before I even drifted off.

Letting the adrenaline take over, I scrambled to my feet and bolted into the hall, sliding to a stop in front of Emily’s room. Her door was already open as well. I found her huddled at the edge of her bed, clutching her sheets in terror. The window beside her had been pushed to the top of its frame, rain pouring over the sill onto the carpet. I stumbled to her side, scanning the darkness for any movement. 

“What happened?” I said, taking Emily in my arms. “Did someone hurt you?”

She buried her face in my chest, shivering uncontrollably. “He…he was so angry, Mommy…so angry…”

“Who was? What did he do? Where did he go?”

Emily pointed to the window, grasping me tighter as I crept over to peer outside. In the yard below, stretching from the base of the house, I spotted the metallic gleam of a ladder. It rested over the lawn, the far end pinning a strange man against the sidewalk. He wore a long black coat with a hood, a narrow gash across his forehead as he lay seemingly unconscious. 

Thankfully, he stayed that way until the police arrived. After waking him up, they were able to confirm his identity as the Reaper. Or rather, the one kidnapping local children for a human trafficking ring. As far as the cops could tell, he was banking on the storm to cover the sound of his invasion. The rungs of his ladder had become slick with rainwater, causing him to slip and bash his head on the windowsill.

“An act of divine intervention,” they said before hauling the perpetrator away.

I didn’t buy it. Something wasn’t adding up.

While Emily fell asleep in the safety of my own bed, I went back to her room to investigate. The police hadn’t found anything suspicious when they swept it earlier, but with the clutter of toys all over the floor and a lack of proper lighting, that didn’t come as much of a surprise.

I got down on my hands and knees, crawling around below the window when the power suddenly came back on. The overhead lamp fully illuminated the room, drawing my attention to the bed beside me. There was something shiny underneath. I reached over, hairs prickling on the back of my neck as I pulled my missing golf club into the light. Its shaft was bent at an angle, the height of its curve spattered with blood. 

I dropped it in shock, realizing we still weren’t alone. My renewed fear for the children had me staggering back into the hall, checking to be sure Tristan was sleeping peacefully before heading to the master bedroom. I halted at the doorway, my hand groping along the wall to flick on the light switch. To my relief, Emily was safe and sound, her eyes closed as she rolled over on the mattress. I let out a deep sigh, stepping forward to resume my patrol. 

That’s when I saw them.

Impressions sinking into the carpet in front of me. A man’s boot prints, wide and heavy, toes pointed in my direction. I stared at them for what felt like forever, petrified as they turned heel and slowly walked to Emily’s bedside. Her fallen covers lifted on their own, snuggly tucking her in, the lock of hair in her face gently brushing to the side.

“Love you too, Yuriel,” she whispered, rousing ever so slightly.

After a short pause, the footprints rounded the bed, strolling past me to the opposing window. They stopped at the glass, gazing as though into the night before silently vanishing, never to be seen again.

We moved out two weeks later.