The Peek-a-Boo Child

After the fire that took our last place, my partner and I moved into a cramped third-floor walk-up on the eastern edge of Meridian. The building smelled of boiled cabbage and stale cigarettes, and the radiators clanked like old bones. But it was cheap, and we were desperate. I told myself the move would be a fresh start, that the shadows of our previous life wouldn’t follow us here. I was wrong.

For the first two weeks, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses on your eardrums and makes you hear your own blood. I’d lie in bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a weeping eye, and feel a creeping unease. My partner, Lena, slept like the dead, but I couldn’t shake the sense that we weren’t alone. Then, on the fifteenth night, I saw her.

I was on the verge of sleep, the room bathed in the sickly glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The closet door, which had been slightly ajar, creaked open a few more inches. A small face peered out from behind the doorframe. A girl, maybe five years old, with shoulder-length hair the color of autumn leaves, tangled and wild. She looked at me with eyes too large and dark, and then she pulled back, a tiny giggle echoing in the dark.

I should have been terrified. Any sane person would have screamed. But a strange calm washed over me, and I found myself smiling. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ I whispered. She peeked again, a flash of a grin, then vanished behind the door. I laughed, a soft, disbelieving laugh. This was absurd. But I felt a warmth, a strange comfort, as if I knew her.

The next night, I sat up waiting, a bowl of strawberries on the nightstand. Just past midnight, the closet door creaked. I held my breath. A tiny hand, pale and delicate, curled around the edge, then a head tilted out. I saw her full face this time, her skin the color of old paper, her eyes deep wells. ‘Hello,’ I said. She tilted her head, mimicking me. ‘Hello,’ she echoed, her voice like wind chimes in a storm. I offered a strawberry. She hesitated, then darted forward, snatched it, and retreated, a flash of movement. I heard crunching from behind the door. When I peeked, she was gone.

The visits became a nightly ritual. I’d leave small offerings, a cracker, a piece of candy, and she’d appear, always playing the same game of hide and seek. She never spoke more than that single echo of a word, but I felt a connection, a bond that defied reason. I began to think of her as a playmate, a lonely spirit trapped in this building. I told Lena, who scoffed and called it stress. But I knew better.

One night, I decided to leave my bed and investigate. I crept to the closet, my heart pounding. I pulled the door wide, expecting to find nothing but empty shelves. But there, in the corner, sat an old photograph, yellowed and creased. It was a portrait of a family, a Victorian-style family, with a stern father, a sad-eyed mother, and three children. The youngest girl, with the same tangled hair and hollow eyes, stood slightly apart. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘Lily, 1897.’

I brought the photo to my bedside, and when I set it down, the girl’s face seemed to change, her eyes following me. That night, she appeared not at the closet but at the foot of my bed. She pointed at the photo, then at me. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, the warmth I’d felt before turning to ice. ‘What do you want?’ I whispered. She tilted her head, and for the first time, her expression turned sorrowful, her eyes filling with tears. Then she faded, leaving only a faint cold spot.

I couldn’t sleep. I did research the next day. Lily was the daughter of the original owners of the building, die in 1897 of pneumonia, but there was more. A newspaper article from 1897 reported that the child’s death was suspicious, that she was said to have been beaten by her father, a man known for his temper. The article hinted that the mother had fled, leaving Lily behind. And then, a chilling footnote: the father had been found dead a year later, his neck broken at the foot of the stairs, the death ruled an accident.

I returned to the apartment with a new understanding. Lily was a victim, a tortured soul. But why was she here with me? That night, as I lay in bed, the closet door didn’t move. The room stayed still. A wave of disappointment and then fear washed over me. Had I scared her away? I closed my eyes, and then I felt a cold hand touch my cheek. I opened them to see Lily hovering over me, her face inches from mine, her eyes wet. ‘Hide,’ she whispered, and then she vanished.

The next morning, I told Lena I wanted to move again. She was furious, said we couldn’t keep running. But I couldn’t explain the feeling that something was coming. Over the next week, the temperature in the apartment dropped, and I began to see Lily’s face in mirrors, in the flickering of lights. One night, I woke to find her standing in the corner, her finger pressed to her lips, her gaze fixed on the bedroom door. I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway, a man’s gruff voice humming an old tune. The footsteps stopped at our door. Lily’s eyes widened in terror, and she mouthed, ‘Hide.’

I grabbed Lena, who was groggy, and dragged her to the closet. We huddled behind the coats, the door ajar. I peered through the crack. The bedroom door creaked open. A tall, gaunt figure entered, his face shadowed, his eyes burning with rage. He scanned the room, and I could feel the intensity of his gaze. He walked to the bed, tore off the covers, and let out a guttural scream of frustration. He turned, and his eyes locked onto the closet. I stopped breathing. He began to walk toward us, each step a thunderclap.

But then, Lily stepped out from behind him, standing in the middle of the room. She pointed at him, and her mouth opened in a silent scream that seemed to shake the very walls. The man froze, his face contorting. He clutched his neck, gasping, and then he crumbled to the floor, as lifeless as a puppet with its strings cut. Lily stood over him, her face calm, and then she looked at me. A sad smile crossed her lips. She pointed at the door, as if to say, ‘Go.’

I pulled Lena out of the closet, and we fled the apartment. We never went back. We left everything, only taking the photo, which I now keep in a locked drawer. Lena doesn’t remember the details, just a sense of danger. I know what I saw. Lily was not playing hide and seek; she was protecting me, from the man who killed her, and perhaps from something worse. Now, whenever I’m in a new place, I look for a small child in the shadows, a girl with tangled hair, playing a game that never ends. And I wonder if she’ll follow me, or if she found her peace. But deep down, I know. She’s still searching for someone to hide with, until her story is told.