I Heard My Daughter Talking to Someone Every Night at 3:17 AM

Children have imaginary friends. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. My daughter Emma was six years old when it started. At first, it seemed harmless. Every morning at breakfast, she would mention a boy named Daniel. "Daniel likes pancakes." "Daniel says our cat is rude." "Daniel doesn't like sunlight." I smiled and played along. "Where does Daniel live?" I asked one morning. Emma shrugged. "He lives downstairs." We didn't have a downstairs. Our small house was a single-story bungalow inherited from my late grandmother. There was an attic, but no basement, no lower floor, and certainly no hidden room where a little boy could stay. Still, children imagine strange things. I thought nothing of it. Until I woke up one night. The digital clock beside my bed read 3:17 AM. I heard giggling. Soft, whispering giggles. At first, I assumed Emma had woken from a dream. Then I heard her voice. "No, Daniel, Daddy said I can't go outside at night." A pause. More whispering. Then Emma laughed. "You're funny." I got out of bed and walked quietly toward her room. Her door was slightly open. Moonlight spilled across the floor. Emma sat upright in bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit. She faced the empty rocking chair in the corner. Smiling. Talking. To someone I couldn't see. "Emma?" She jumped and looked at me. "Daddy! You scared Daniel." I turned toward the chair. There was nobody there. "Sweetheart, you're dreaming." "No." She frowned. "Daniel was right there." I kissed her forehead and tucked her back into bed. The next morning, I mentioned it to my wife. She laughed. "I had an imaginary friend named Lucy until I was eight." Maybe she was right. Maybe I was overreacting. But things became stranger. Emma began leaving food on an empty plate at dinner. She drew pictures of herself holding hands with a boy. The boy was always shaded completely black. No facial features. No eyes. Just a dark silhouette. One afternoon, I asked her to draw Daniel again. She worked silently for several minutes. When she finished, I felt my stomach tighten. The figure now had eyes. Large circles. Completely white. No pupils. No expression. Only white eyes staring directly outward. "Why did you draw his eyes like that?" Emma looked confused. "Because that's what he looks like." I decided enough was enough. I searched through old family photographs hoping to distract myself. Instead, I discovered something unsettling. In an album belonging to my grandmother was a faded photograph from 1964. Five children stood outside the house. Four smiled at the camera. One boy stood apart. Thin. Expressionless. White-blond hair. And pale eyes that seemed almost colorless. Written on the back was a single sentence. Daniel Harper. Missing since October 1964. My hands trembled. I called my mother. She became unusually quiet when I mentioned the name. "You shouldn't talk about him." "Why?" "Because your grandmother believed she still heard him." "What do you mean?" Mom sighed. "Daniel disappeared near your house. Some people thought he wandered into the woods. Others believed he drowned in the river." "And Grandma?" "She used to wake up screaming." I swallowed hard. "What did she say?" "She claimed a little boy stood beside her bed every night." That evening, I didn't sleep. I sat outside Emma's room waiting. At exactly 3:17 AM, the temperature dropped. The hallway felt icy. Emma sat up in bed. Smiling. "Daniel's here." I stepped inside. "No one is here." She pointed behind me. "He is." Slowly, I turned around. At first, there was nothing. Then I noticed the rocking chair moving. Back and forth. Back and forth. On its own. A faint creak echoed through the room. My heart pounded. And then I heard breathing. Not mine. Not Emma's. Someone else's. Right beside my ear. A child's voice whispered. "She can come downstairs now." I spun around. Nothing. The chair stopped moving. Emma burst into tears. "He says you're mean." The next day, we packed our belongings and moved into a hotel. Emma cried for hours. She didn't want to leave Daniel. Weeks passed. Eventually, she stopped mentioning him. She returned to school. She laughed again. Life slowly became normal. Until last month. Emma is ten years old now. She was doing homework at the kitchen table when she suddenly looked up. "Daddy?" "Yes?" She smiled softly. "Daniel says hello." I froze. "What?" She looked toward the empty hallway. "He says he found our new house." And for the first time in four years... The grandfather clock in our living room chimed. Three times. Then seventeen minutes later... It chimed again.