It was Emma’s first time babysitting for the Millers, whose house sat quietly at the edge of town.
The kids were asleep by nine. The house was large, creaky, but peaceful—until Emma got a text from Mrs. Miller.
“Everything okay? Did he try to come inside yet?”
Emma blinked.
“Who?” she replied.
No answer.
Then came a knock at the door. Slow. Rhythmic.
She peeked through the peephole—just darkness. Then another text lit up her phone.
“Whatever you do, don’t let him in. He’s not real.”
Emma backed away. Her heart pounded. Suddenly, a voice whispered from the other side:
“Emma… I forgot my keys. It’s Mr. Miller.”
But Emma had met Mr. Miller earlier. His voice was deeper.
This one sounded like a child imitating a man.
She stayed silent. The knocking stopped.
Hours passed. Nothing. At dawn, the Millers returned.
“Everything go okay?” Mrs. Miller asked, smiling.
Emma nodded, pale but calm.
“Good,” Mr. Miller said warmly. “Sorry if anything spooked you. Ever since the last babysitter went missing, this place gets a bit of a reputation.”
Emma froze.
“…Last babysitter?”
Mrs. Miller tilted her head. “Didn’t we tell you? That’s why we needed someone on short notice.”
Emma turned toward the living room.
The mirror above the fireplace still showed her reflection.
But in the reflection, someone was standing behind her.
Wearing a smile.
And Mr. Miller’s face.