I really wanted to believe it was just stress. Maybe I was overthinking. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t imagining it—and I wish more than anything I had been wrong.
My name is Martha. My husband, Jason, and I both work full-time, so our four-year-old daughter, Beverly, spends most weekdays at daycare. It’s not perfect, but she was happy, and we made it work.
One morning, while packing lunch, I told Jason,
“I don’t want Bev to feel like we’re pushing her away.”
“She’s doing great, love,” he said reassuringly.
Then, about a month ago, Cheryl—my mother-in-law—offered to babysit Beverly on Wednesdays.
“Let her have a break from daycare and some Grandma time,” she said.
She even said she’d watch her at our place so Bev would be more comfortable. It felt thoughtful, and honestly, it helped us save a little money. I agreed.
At first, it was all fine. Nothing unusual.
Then Bev started acting… different. Small things.
One evening at dinner, she pushed her food away and said,
“I only want to eat with Daddy, Grandma, and her friend today.”
“Who’s Grandma’s friend, sweetheart?” I asked.
She just smiled and sipped her juice.
The name came up more and more.
Then one night, as I tucked her in, she whispered,
“Mommy, why don’t you like our friend?”
“Who told you that?” I asked.
She paused, then said in a strange, grown-up voice,
“Our friend is part of the family. You just don’t see it yet.”
I felt a chill crawl down my spine.
That weekend over breakfast, I asked Cheryl,
“Has Bev made any new friends? She keeps talking about someone.”
Without looking up, she said,
“Oh, you know kids. Probably just an imaginary friend.”
But her tone felt too rehearsed. My gut said she was hiding something.
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That night, I did something I never thought I would. I dug out the old hidden nanny cam we used when Bev was a baby. I set it up in the living room.
The following Wednesday, I left for work like normal. At lunch, I checked the footage. My hands were shaking.
At first, all looked normal. Bev played on the floor while Cheryl read a book.
Then Cheryl checked her watch.
“Bev, sweetheart, are you ready? Our friend will be here any minute.”
“Yes, Gran! I love her! Do you think she’ll play with my hair again?”
Her.
Then Cheryl said,
“You remember, right? What we don’t tell Mommy?”
“Yes. Not a word to Mom,” Bev said, smiling.
My heart sank.
The doorbell rang.
Cheryl got up and walked to the door.
I had no idea what—or who—I was about to see… but my stomach dropped.
And then, I saw her.
A woman. Mid-30s, pale as porcelain, with long, jet-black hair that looked almost… damp. She stepped into the room like she belonged there. Like she had always belonged.
Bev ran to her with a giggle.
“You came!”
The woman knelt and opened her arms.
“Of course, little one. You called me, didn’t you?”
I froze. Called her?
Cheryl stood nearby, watching, smiling—not in a sweet grandmotherly way, but in something colder… reverent.
The woman brushed Bev’s hair back and whispered something into her ear. My daughter laughed and nodded.
Then Cheryl spoke.
“She’s ready. It’s time.”
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The woman stood and looked straight at the camera—straight at me—as if she knew.
I slammed my laptop shut, heart racing.
That night, I came home early. Cheryl wasn’t expecting me.
When I opened the door, Beverly was sitting alone on the couch, humming to herself. Cheryl stood in the kitchen, startled.
“Oh, you’re home early,” she said, her eyes narrowing.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
“Where’s who, dear?”
“You know who. The woman. The one who comes every Wednesday.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“You need rest, Martha. You’re not well.”
But before I could respond, Bev walked over and tugged at my hand.
“Don’t be mad, Mommy,” she said. “She said you’d understand… when it’s time.”
“Who is she?” I asked, kneeling down. “Bev, what’s her name?”
Bev tilted her head, puzzled.
“She doesn’t have a name. She said she had to give it up… when she came through.”
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