The Count of Eight

The house on Hemlock Lane was a fixer-upper, and we knew it. The paint peeled like dead skin, the porch sagged, and the previous owners had left a peculiar smell of mothballs and old paper. We moved in at the end of March, hoping the spring would breathe life into the place. The kids were excited, especially the twins, Maya and Ethan, who were seven and shared a room at the back of the house. Their window faced the overgrown garden and the tall wooden fence that enclosed it, with a gate that always seemed to stick.

Our first week was chaos, boxes everywhere, the hum of unpacking, and the constant shuffle of feet. We were exhausted, so we didn’t think much when we found the twins’ window open the morning after we’d closed it. We figured one of them had sleepwalked, though they’d never done it before. The screens were still intact, the gate was latched, but the window was wide open, letting in the cool dawn air. We shrugged it off, chiding the kids to stay in bed.

Then the noises started. My middle son, thirteen-year-old Liam, was the first to hear it. He came down one morning, pale and hesitant, and told me he heard a little girl counting in the hallway at night. ‘One, two, three…’ it would go, and then stop at eight. And then footsteps, soft, padding, as if someone was walking past his door repeatedly. I told him it was the house settling, or maybe a cat, but a part of me felt a chill. That night, I stayed up, listening. Sure enough, at 2:00 AM, I heard it too. A child’s voice, clear and playful, counting in the hall. But our hallway is short; it ends at the bathroom door. And it stopped at eight, each time. I counted the numbers with it, and my heart pounded when it reached eight and there was silence, then the shuffle of small feet retreating.

The morning after, I decided to check the twins’ room more carefully. The door was closed, and when I opened it, their window was wide open again. The screen was still there, unbroken. I looked out into the garden, and the gate was still latched from the outside. How could that be? I locked the window from the inside, using a wooden dowel to jam it shut. That night, I checked it multiple times before bed.

A few days later, I had a particularly busy morning. I drove the twins to school, dropped Liam at a friend’s, and came back alone. My husband, Jack, had left for work early, and my oldest, Ryan, was at a sleepover. The house was empty. I went upstairs to use the bathroom in my bedroom. The pocket door was shut, and I could see light seeping through the crack. Odd, I thought, I always leave it open. I slid it, but it wouldn’t budge. It was locked. I knocked and called out, ‘Hey, anyone in there?’ No answer. I tried the handle, but it was stuck. A sudden fear gripped me. What if Ryan had come home sick and was lying in there, hurt? I shoved harder, and the door finally slid open.

Inside, the bathroom was empty. The light was on. The air felt cold, and there was a faint smell of lavender, like children’s soap. I stood there, my heart racing, trying to rationalize. Maybe Liam had come back and locked the door, but he was at a friend’s. I checked the whole house, every room, every closet. Nothing. I called Jack, and he said no one else was home. That night, I told Jack about the counting, the window, and the locked door. He suggested we install cameras. So we did, small ones in the hallway and by the twins’ window.

The cameras didn’t work as expected. The footage from the hallway showed nothing at first, just the empty corridor. But then, on the eighth night, something appeared. At 2:00 AM, a thin, translucent figure of a little girl, about eight years old, materialized in the hallway. She was wearing an old-fashioned nightgown, her hair in two braids. She started counting, her lips moving, but the audio was garbled. She counted to eight, then turned and stared directly at the camera. Her eyes were dark, and her mouth stretched into an unnatural smile. Then she walked towards the twins’ room and vanished through the wall.

The next morning, the footage showed the twins’ window open again, even though the wooden dowel was still in place inside. We tried to lock the window with a latch, but it wouldn’t hold. Every night, the little girl would appear, count, and then the window would open in the morning. The twins started having nightmares, talking about a girl who wanted to play but always counted to eight. They said she had a scratch on her cheek and smelled like lavender.

One evening, I was going through old records from the previous owner, which we’d found in the attic. There was a faded newspaper clipping from thirty years ago. A family had lived here, with a daughter named Emily. She was eight years old and had died in a fire that started in her room. The article mentioned her favorite game was hide-and-seek, and she used to count to eight before seeking. I felt a cold knot in my stomach. The gate, the window, the counting, all seemed to point to her.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I paced the hallway, and at 2:00 AM, she appeared. I saw her, this time in my periphery, counting. I felt a cold draft, and I turned to face her. She stood at the end of the hall, looking at me. She counted to eight, then said, ‘Ready or not, here I come.’ She started walking towards me, and as she passed Liam’s door, I saw the door open slightly, and I heard Liam cry out. I rushed in, and he was sitting up in bed, eyes wide. ‘She was here,’ he whispered. ‘She said she wants to play with the twins.’

I knew we had to leave. We packed a few things and drove to a motel that night, but the next morning, we returned to find the house in disarray. Furniture overturned, drawers open, and written on the mirror in the bathroom with soap: ‘Eight’s not enough.’ We called a priest, a medium, anyone who would listen. The medium, an old woman with a heavy accent, told us that Emily was stuck, believing she was still playing. She needed someone to count to eight with her and then find her, to end the game.

That evening, feeling desperate, I decided to do it. I went to the hallway at 2:00 AM, alone. She was there, waiting. She started counting, and I joined her. ‘One, two, three…’ we counted together. When we reached eight, she looked at me, and I said, ‘Ready or not, here I come.’ I walked towards her, and she led me to the twins’ window. She pointed outside into the garden. In the moonlight, I saw a small, rusted metal box buried near the fence, under an overgrown rose bush. I dug it out with my hands, and inside was a child’s diary, scorched at the edges. The last entry read: ‘I found a hiding spot they’ll never find. Count to eight and look in the shed.’ There was a shed at the back, we’d never thought to open it. It was locked, but we broke the padlock. Inside, behind an old workbench, was a small, locked chest. Inside were the remains of a child’s bones, mostly ash but recognizable.

The next day, we arranged for a proper burial in the local cemetery. That night, there was no counting. The house was silent. The window stayed closed. We moved out a week later, but sometimes, in the quiet moments, I still hear a faint echo of a child’s voice, counting, and stopping at eight. And I wonder if maybe she didn’t want to be found, but simply wanted someone to play with, forever.