See Emily Play

This is a warning. If you hear kids calling outside your window after 2AM—don’t go. Don’t answer. And whatever you do, don’t say your name.There’s something wrong with my street—my town—and it starts after midnight. You’ll hear laughter—children playing. Sometimes tag, sometimes jump rope, sometimes just… calling.

But we all know better. You don’t open the window. You don’t peek through the blinds. You never go outside.

I told Emily this, but she didn’t believe me. She thought it was just some dumb story I made up to scare her.

She doesn’t think that anymore.

Because she’s gone.

Emily came to live with us in January. Her mom—my aunt—was diagnosed with leukemia, and my parents said it’d just be “for a while.” But I knew better. The grown-ups had that quiet, serious tone they only use when things are really bad.

Her mother’s condition weighed on her greatly. They were all each other had.

Emily and I were both in fifth grade, but we weren’t exactly close. I mean, she was my cousin, but we weren’t friends. She cried a lot. Didn’t talk much at school. We didn’t like the same things. My mom said she just needed time to adjust—and she needed me.

The Community Creek school was just a block away, at the dead-end of our street. A small charter school, praised for its community atmosphere, small class sizes and great test scores. Emily got assigned to Miss Blackburn’s class—the Miss Blackburn.

Everyone knew about her. She’d been teaching fifth grade since the '90s and somehow still looked like she was in her thirties. All the boys called her a MILF but I was pretty sure she didn’t have kids.

The juicy rumor was she was a witch who fed on kids to stay young. Dumb story, right?

Our town had lots of these stupid tales. The older kids always used to try and scare us with the same one about, “the night kids”:

“If you hear kids playing outside your house after 2AM—don’t go. Don’t answer. Don’t say your name. Or you’ll join them.”

We were out in the yard late one night riding bikes. Mom called for us to come inside jokingly warning us that the night kids would get us. Afterwards I explained the tale from our neighborhood to her. “If you hear the kids, don’t go outside.”

She laughed. “What kids?”

“The night kids. The ones that call you out. They only come after 2AM.”

She gave me a look. “That’s so stupid.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

But I didn’t sleep well that night.

I woke up to whispers. Giggles. A skipping rope sound.

Then I heard the front door close.

I sat up and went to Emily’s room. Her bed was empty.

I ran downstairs and flung open the door into the cold. Across the street, by the creek, I saw them—figures, maybe eight or nine of them.

Kids in Halloween costumes, pajamas, even clothes that looked way too old. One had a cone party hat, another in a ‘90s windbreaker. Their eyes glinted like mirrors. And in the middle of them, I saw Emily. Dazed. Pale. Walking like she was half-asleep.

I screamed her name. I ran to her—but she turned and looked at me like she didn’t recognize who I was.

I yelled her name again but one of the children grabbed her hand and started pulling.

Several then turned their glares towards me. Cold dead eyes warning me.

One boy in pajamas started towards me with teeth bared and hands raised. I stumbled backward into the street. Opening his mouth, he released a chilling wail that sounded like a thousand children in agony screaming all at once.

He grabbed my arm and my flesh scorched with an icy chill. I screamed, wrenched my arm free and stumbled onto the ground. He lunged again. I crawled away, scraping my knee and elbow but managed to scramble to my feet.

All I could do was run.

When I got to the porch, panting, I turned to look back. I watched helplessly, terrified as they vanished into the woods with Emily.

The cops were called. Flyers went up. Dogs sniffed. Drones flew.

Nothing. No sign. No prints. No Emily.

My personal, horrific experience meant nothing to my family. My mother patronized me for the story I told her. Calling my recollection, unnerving and unrealistic, I was demoralized by her rude, dismissive tone.

Weeks passed. My aunt passed. The dark cloud of Emily’s disappearance has scarred our family forever, just like the mark his hand left on my arm.

My skin is a slightly darker color with shiner, scaled flesh where he touched me. It leaves me feeling branded and singled out. Alone, yet watched or even hunted.

At school, we started working on the fifth-grade legacy project—something each class does to “leave a piece of themselves behind.” This year’s class chose a mural: hearts painted on the back wall with our names inside.

But while we were outside looking at projects from the past, something caught my eye.

In the back corner stood a totem-like pole made of a wood block adorned with plaster casts—faces.

I stared at one near the bottom. I knew it.

Emily’s face.

The plaque read: “Fifth Grade Class Legacy Project – 1997. Guided by Miss Blackburn.”

That would’ve been her first year here.

And if that’s true…

How does she still look exactly the same?

That afternoon, I went to her classroom after hours. Her blinds were drawn. The room was empty, quiet—but something felt off. A drawer on her desk was slightly open. So I peeked.

Inside, I saw something small and plastic—Emily’s hair clip. My hair clip. The sparkly pink one with stars I let her borrow the night she vanished before she went to bed.

That night, the handprint shaped scar on my arm itched. I locked my window. I stuffed towels under the crack in the door. I buried myself in blankets. Every light was on.

Still, I heard it. The giggles, the skipping, the whispering.

They had come for me.

Then Emily’s voice, unmistakably terrifying and upsetting.

Right outside my window.

She called my name.