When my five-year-old granddaughter Lila called me late one night asking if she could sleep over, I knew something was wrong. Lila never calls on her own—and she never whispers. But that night, her tiny voice was quiet and serious. “Is Mommy there?” I asked. “Yes,” she whispered. “But she’s pretending.” “Pretending what, baby?” “That she’s not scared.” Then the line went dead. I couldn’t reach my daughter Emma,
so I grabbed my keys and rushed over. No porch light. Front door unlocked. The house was still and eerie. I called out—no answer—until I heard the faint sound of running water and a sudden scream from the bathroom I burst in to find Emma gripping a mop,