I called the police.
They traced the number within minutes.
It didn’t belong to anyone local.
It was registered under a name that hadn’t been active in over ten years.
A man who had died.
In the same house we were living in.
Before we moved in.
Before Emma was even born.
They searched the house that night.
Every room.
Every wall.
And then they found it.
Behind the closet in Emma’s room—
A narrow crawlspace.
Barely big enough for someone to lie flat.
Inside…
A mattress.
Empty water bottles.
And a second phone charger plugged into an outlet that didn’t exist on any floor plan.
Someone had been living inside our house.
Watching us.
Listening.
Waiting.
Emma was found the next morning.
Two blocks away.
Sitting on a curb.
Silent.
Unharmed.
But she wouldn’t talk about what happened.
Not then.
Not later.
The man was never found.
The crawlspace is sealed now.
We moved out two weeks after.
Emma sleeps with the lights on.
And sometimes, late at night—
I still hear her whispering.