I don’t know why I remember her face. It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d think would stick with you. But it does. Every time I close my eyes. Every time I turn the corner in my own house. Every time I walk past a dark room, a shadow in the corner. I see her.
Her name was Emma.
I don’t know much about her life before the night, but I know exactly what happened in those final moments. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. No one does. But I’ll tell you anyway.
Emma was only eight when the burglary happened. It was late. Her parents were out, and she was home alone. That was her mistake. She shouldn’t have been there. The man—whoever he was—must have been looking for something more than just cash. Maybe something valuable, something he thought was hidden, maybe just the thrill.
We don’t know for sure. But we know what he did. He got into her room. And that’s when it happened.
Emma was scared, just like any kid would be, right? She saw him—saw him in the doorway—and instead of running, she did something… different. She grabbed a blanket from her bed. She covered her face with it.
People say it’s a natural instinct to hide when we’re afraid. But what Emma did wasn’t like that. She didn’t just hide her face—she buried it, wrapped it tight, as though she was trying to disappear. Her little fingers clutched the fabric so tightly that when the police arrived, it was the blanket that told the story, not the girl.
The man never left her room. And the next thing they found was the picture.
It wasn’t the picture they wanted. It was the last thing Emma saw before… whatever happened. The blanket. The blanket was over her head when it was taken. But there was something strange in that photo.
Her face.
It wasn’t there.
Not because it was covered, but because the blanket had… changed. You couldn’t see it in the picture right away, but if you stared long enough, you’d notice. The fabric was moved. It wasn’t just a blanket.
I know it sounds stupid. But it was like the blanket had a shape of its own. And Emma—Emma was gone. Completely gone. There was nothing but that blanket, folded in a way that made it seem like something else was under it. Something that wasn’t Emma.
And then the stories started.
They say that if you’re scared enough, if you hide under your blanket—if you pull it over your head and stay still long enough—you’ll see her. You’ll see Emma. Her face will be hidden, but her presence will fill the room. Her hands will reach through the fabric, dragging you deeper into the darkness.
The thing is, no one really talks about Emma anymore. At least, no one talks about her in a way you’d expect. Her story’s faded, just like all the others. But sometimes… sometimes I hear whispers.
The problem isn’t just the fear. It’s the blanket. If you ever cover your face in fear—really cover it, like you think you can hide, like you’re trying to escape—the blanket moves. It shifts. It folds into the shape of a face you don’t recognize, but you feel it. You feel it, even if you don’t see it.
And once it touches you, you’re already gone.
The thing about Emma is that she doesn’t let you run. If you hide, if you try to hide, she’ll find you. Her fingers will slip under the blanket, just like she did that night.
And when you open your eyes again, when you look at the space you thought was empty, you’ll know she’s there. You’ll know she’s taken you. You won’t see her face. You won’t even see her hands.
But you’ll feel her, and that’s enough.
She won’t ever leave.
She’ll be with you, in every corner, in every shadow. And you’ll never be able to pull the blanket off.
