It was 2:13 a.m. when Michael Carter jolted awake to the sound of his seven-year-old daughter, Lily, screaming. He stumbled down the hallway, heart hammering, and found her sitting bolt upright in bed. Her small fists gripped her blanket so tightly her knuckles were white, tears streaking her cheeks.

“No! Please—stop! It hurts!” Lily sobbed, thrashing against the air as though fighting someone only she could see.

Michael gathered her in his arms, rocking her gently. “Shh… it’s Daddy. You’re safe. You’re here at home. Nothing can hurt you.”

But even in her half-sleep, Lily kept repeating it: *“No… it hurts. Stop. Please stop.”*

This wasn’t the first time. For nearly three weeks now, she had been waking with the same terror, the same words spilling from her lips as though rehearsed. At first, Michael told himself it was stress, or nightmares from some story she had overheard. But the exact same words, every single night, began to feel less like a dream and more like… a memory.

By morning, Lily was quiet, withdrawn. When he asked at breakfast, “Honey, do you remember your dream last night?” she froze. Her spoon hovered above her cereal. Then she whispered, “Just bad dreams,” refusing to meet his eyes.

Michael’s gut twisted. Something was terribly wrong.

That night, after she fell asleep, he set up his old camcorder in the corner of her room. He told himself it was only to ease his own mind. Just to prove nothing strange was happening—just a child with nightmares. But deep down, he knew the truth: he was terrified of what the camera might actually show.

At 2:06 a.m., Lily began to toss. At 2:13, the screaming started again. Michael stood outside her door, fists clenched, fighting every instinct to rush in. He listened, tears stinging his eyes, as her cries clawed down the hallway. Eventually, she grew quiet again. He tucked her back in, whispered, “Daddy loves you,” and kissed her damp hair.

The next morning, after dropping her at school, Michael sat at the kitchen table with the camera. His hands shook as he pressed play. The footage flickered in static, then cleared.

At first, it showed only Lily, tossing in bed. Then—suddenly—she stopped thrashing. Her eyes opened wide, staring directly into the corner of the room… directly into the lens of the camera.

And then—clear as day—a shadowed hand, long and pale, reached across her blanket.

Michael’s heart stopped as Lily whispered to the camera, in a voice that wasn’t hers:

**“Daddy… do you remember what you did?”**

Michael’s breath caught. His finger hovered over the pause button, but he couldn’t move. The voice wasn’t Lily’s. It was deeper, rougher, layered with something that felt *inhuman.*

On the screen, Lily’s small body lay rigid. The shadowed hand lingered over her chest as if pressing her down. Michael’s stomach churned. He knew there was no one else in the room.

The footage warped with static. When it cleared, Lily was sitting upright, eyes wide open, staring straight at the camera.

Her lips parted. But the words weren’t hers:

**“Do you remember what you did, Michael?”**

Michael’s entire body went numb. His mind spun. What did that mean?

He slammed the laptop shut, but the words echoed in his ears. Guilt—long buried—clawed its way back. He thought of *that night,* years ago, the one he had never spoken of. The night when his wife, Anna, had died. Officially, it was an accident. An overdose. But Michael knew the truth: their fight, the pills, his rage.

“No…” he whispered, trembling. “She doesn’t know. She *can’t* know.”

But the next night, it happened again.

At 2:13 a.m., Lily woke screaming. Michael rushed in this time, desperate. She was pointing at the corner of the room, her face pale with terror.

“She’s here, Daddy!” she cried. “The lady with the dark hair—she says you hurt her! She says she wants me to remind you!”

Michael froze. His knees buckled. Lily clutched him, sobbing into his chest.

And then, behind her, in the reflection of the nightlight against the mirror, he saw it—*Anna.* Her face pale, her eyes hollow, her mouth twisted in fury.

Michael staggered back, gasping. Anna’s reflection leaned closer to Lily, whispering into her ear.

Lily’s trembling voice repeated it, word for word:

**“She says… she won’t stop until you confess.”**

The room grew cold. The mirror cracked with a sharp *snap.*

Michael sank to his knees, tears flooding his eyes. “I’m sorry!” he sobbed to the empty air. “I never meant for it to happen! I didn’t mean to kill you, Anna!”

The lights flickered. The shadowed hand withdrew. Lily slumped against him, finally asleep, breathing steady.

Michael looked back at the mirror. The reflection was gone. But scrawled across the fractured glass, in letters only he could read, was the final warning:

**“This is not forgiveness. This is the beginning.”**