I used to babysit for a woman named Marla when I was in college. She lived in a quiet, upper-middle-class suburb—big house, nice car, overly sanitized smile. Her daughter, Emily, was five years old at the time. Quiet. Pale. Always holding her Hello Kitty plush.
And the strangest part? She never let it go. Ever.
Even when she bathed, Marla told me, Emily insisted the plush sit on the bathroom sink where she could see it. If they were watching a movie, Hello Kitty sat in a little chair next to her. When she slept, she clutched it so tightly that its seams started to tear over time.
I thought it was just a comfort thing—kids get attached to toys. No big deal.
But I was wrong.
So wrong.
The first few nights I babysat, it was normal. I’d give Emily dinner, read her a bedtime story, and wait for Marla to return. She’d fall asleep within minutes, always curled around Hello Kitty.
Then one evening, Marla called and asked if I could stay overnight. Some emergency had come up, she’d be gone until morning. I hesitated—I had an early class—but the pay was double.
I agreed.
By 9:00 p.m., Emily was asleep, and I had the house to myself. I sat in the living room watching Netflix, trying to ignore the strange silence that filled the halls. No cars. No wind. Not even crickets. Just a heavy stillness that pressed on my chest.
At 1:03 a.m., I heard a thud.
From upstairs.
I paused the TV. Waited. Nothing.
Then another thud. This time louder.
I climbed the stairs quietly, heart pounding. Emily’s door was cracked open. Soft pink light glowed from a Hello Kitty nightlight. The walls were plastered with Hello Kitty wallpaper. Dolls. Pillows. Posters.
She was obsessed.
I stepped inside.
Emily was still asleep, curled up with the plush, but something was… off. The air was cold. Unnaturally so. And the plush—Hello Kitty—was facing me.
But her eyes were open.
Not stitched eyes.
Real ones.
Human. Wet. Blinking.
I froze.
And then they closed again.
I stared for what felt like hours, until I finally convinced myself I was overtired. Maybe hallucinating. Maybe I imagined it.
I left the room and shut the door quietly.
But I didn’t sleep.
I stayed on the couch, wide awake, watching the hallway through the kitchen reflection.
At 2:34 a.m., I saw her.
Emily.
Or… something that looked like her.
She was walking down the hall, slowly. Dragging Hello Kitty by the arm. Her head was tilted at an unnatural angle. Her nightgown stained red. She walked into the kitchen, turned toward the reflection in the glass, and smiled.
But not at herself.
At me.
I turned.
No one was there.
I rushed up the stairs, panicking. I opened Emily’s door—
She was asleep. Exactly as I left her. No blood. No weird posture. Just a child and her creepy stuffed animal.
But Hello Kitty…
Was sitting upright on the pillow, staring at me again.
Its eyes blinked once. Slowly. Then stopped.
I backed away, closed the door, and locked myself in the guest room.
The next morning, Marla returned.
I told her everything.
She didn’t look surprised.
In fact, she sighed like someone who had been holding a secret too long.
And then she told me the truth.
Emily wasn’t her first daughter.
Her first daughter, Lacey, had died five years ago at the age of six.
Choked during sleep. A freak accident, they said. But Marla always believed something else—something darker. She said the night Lacey died, she’d been talking to the Hello Kitty plush as if it were real. Whispering things to it. Laughing at things it “said” back.
The next morning, Lacey was cold. Lifeless. With Hello Kitty clutched in her arms.
The autopsy said asphyxiation.
But the coroner noted something strange.
Tiny claw marks on her throat. Too small for human fingers. Too sharp for fingernails.
Marla buried Lacey with the toy.
But two weeks later, it reappeared.
On her doorstep.
Clean. Untouched.
And Emily found it.
She was just a baby then, barely crawling. But when she saw the toy, she reached for it and didn’t let go. Not once in five years.
Marla tried everything. Burning it. Burying it again. Throwing it in the river.
It always came back.
Always.
“Do you want to quit?” she asked me that morning. Her eyes were tired. Her voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded.
I never went back.
But that wasn’t the end.
Because last week—five years later—I got a call.
Blocked number.
Static on the line.
Then a tiny, distorted voice:
“Hello… do you want to play with me?”
And in the background…
The sound of a stuffed animal giggling.
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