I didn’t sleep that night.
After Ellie went to bed, I walked through the house room by room, checking every door and window twice.
Eventually I sat on the couch with my phone in my lap, running through every neighbor, every parent from daycare, every man I’d ever met named Tom.
Nothing.
It had to be Ellie’s imagination.
Then, at 1:13 a.m., I heard it.
The faintest sound somewhere down the hallway. A soft tap—like a single knuckle barely brushing glass.
Once.
Then silence.
I sat completely frozen, telling myself it was a tree branch. The house settling. Anything except what my instincts were screaming.
By the time I finally forced myself down the hallway, Ellie’s room was quiet.
The hallway was empty.
But her curtain was moving.
There was no wind.
Not even the slightest breeze.
I stood in the doorway watching the curtain sway, and right then I made a decision.
The next morning, I bought a camera.
I placed it on Ellie’s bookshelf between her stuffed giraffe and a stack of board books—small enough that a five-year-old who names blankets wouldn’t notice it. I angled it directly toward the window.
I didn’t tell Ellie.
I told myself it was just for peace of mind. That I’d watch a few nights of empty footage and calm down.
That night I went to bed at 10:05 with my phone beside my pillow, the camera app open and the screen dimmed.
At 2:13 a.m., the phone buzzed.
I was staring at the screen before I was fully awake.
The video was grainy and gray—greenish shapes and flattened shadows—but I could clearly see Ellie sitting upright in bed, talking softly toward the window.
She looked completely relaxed, like this was perfectly normal.
And near the glass, close enough to almost press against it, stood a silhouette.
Tall.
Still.
Older, judging by the hunched shape of his shoulders.
