It was one of those rare days with a soft breeze in the air, and we were outside just enjoying it. I had the baby on my hip, Josie was being her usual self—pretending she wasn’t posing—and Caleb was wrapped around her leg like always. We hardly ever stay still long enough for a proper photo, but our neighbor Rick happened to stroll by and offered to snap one for us. I didn’t give it a second thought at the time.
Later that night, after the kids were tucked in, I found a drawing on the kitchen table. Crayon scribbled on the back of an old flyer—definitely Caleb’s handiwork. It showed the four of us, standing out by the gravel drive, just like earlier that day. My striped shirt, Josie’s red dress, the baby balanced on my hip—it was all there.
But something was off.
There was a fifth figure in the drawing.
A little girl in a pale yellow dress. Standing just behind Josie. Holding her hand.
At first, I figured Caleb had imagined a friend. He does that sometimes. Since he was three, his imagination has been wildly creative. Once, he told us a giant frog lived under the porch and only came out when it rained. Sweet, harmless things.
But this? This felt different.
I called him into the kitchen and gently pointed to the mystery girl in the picture.
“Hey buddy, who’s this?”
Caleb smiled like I should already know. “That’s Ava,” he said, reaching for a banana on the counter.
I blinked. “Ava? Who’s Ava?”
He peeled the banana with the dramatic flair only a five-year-old can manage and shrugged. “She lives here.”
I laughed nervously. “Oh yeah? Where does she sleep?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Sometimes in Josie’s bed. Sometimes on the floor next to mine. She doesn’t like the dark.”
That made my stomach twist.
“You’ve… seen her before?” I asked.
He nodded like it was no big deal. “Yeah. She’s always been here. She’s nice. She likes our dog.”
We don’t have a dog.
I didn’t press him. Not yet. Kids say strange things, and I didn’t want to blow it out of proportion. Still, I kept the drawing. Slipped it into the drawer with the bills and the paper clips.
That night, I stood at Josie’s door for a long while, just watching her sleep. Part of me expected to see a little blonde girl curled up next to her. But there was no one there—just the quiet rhythm of Josie’s breathing and her worn-out bunny clutched under one arm.
The next few days passed without incident. No more strange drawings. No odd comments. I let myself forget about Ava.
Until the day I heard Josie talking in her room.
Not singing. Not whispering. But talking—like she was having a full-on conversation.
I paused outside her door that afternoon, while she was supposed to be tidying up…