Chapter 2
Selly's Shadowy Visits
Selly starts appearing more often, always in dark corners or by windows. Emily begins acting strangely, mirroring Selly's quiet, watchful demeanor, making Sally uneasy.
Sally’s initial dismissal of Emily’s new friend, Selly, began to fray at the edges. It started subtly, like a whisper of wind that you almost don’t hear, but then it rustles the leaves. Emily, usually a whirlwind of giggles and boundless energy, began to exhibit a peculiar stillness. It was during those long afternoons, when the sun slanted through the living room window, casting lazy stripes of light across the rug, that Sally first noticed it. Emily would be playing, her dolls arranged in a meticulous tea party, but her eyes wouldn't be on them. They'd be fixed, wide and unblinking, on the darkest corner of the room, the one where the shadows gathered like spilled ink.
“Emily, honey, what are you looking at?” Sally would ask, her voice light, trying to coax her daughter back to the present.
Emily would blink, a slow, deliberate movement, as if emerging from a deep sleep. “Selly,” she’d murmur, her voice strangely flat. “She’s watching the window.”
Sally would follow Emily’s gaze, but there was nothing there but the dusty glass and the ordinary world outside. A bird flitting past, a car driving down the street. Nothing unusual. Yet, Emily’s focus remained unwavering. It was this unwavering focus that began to prickle Sally’s skin. Selly, the tall, dark-skinned, naked friend who brought gifts, was becoming more than just a figment of a five-year-old’s imagination. She was becoming a presence.
The shadows in the house seemed to deepen, to cling to the corners with a newfound tenacity. Sally found herself glancing into those dim spaces, a shiver tracing its way down her spine. It was as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting. And Selly, or rather, the space where Emily insisted Selly was, seemed to be at the heart of it all. Emily would sit for hours, her small body curled up on the floor, her gaze locked on the windows. It wasn’t the innocent curiosity of a child watching the world go by. It was a quiet, intense observation, a mimicry of Selly’s supposed habit.
One evening, Sally was preparing dinner, the aroma of roasting chicken filling the kitchen. Emily was in the living room, a place usually filled with the clatter of toys and the sound of her happy chatter. Tonight, however, it was silent. Too silent. Sally peeked around the doorway. Emily was sitting on the floor, her back to Sally, facing the large bay window that overlooked the darkening garden. She wasn’t playing. She was just… sitting. Staring. Her small shoulders were hunched, and her breathing seemed shallow.
“Emily?” Sally’s voice was soft, laced with a growing apprehension.
Emily didn’t turn. “Selly likes to watch the stars come out,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “She says they’re pretty when no one else is looking.”
Sally’s heart gave a queasy lurch. Selly. Always Selly. She walked over to Emily and knelt beside her. The glass of the window was cool against Sally’s cheek as she tried to see what Emily saw. The sky was indeed beginning to blush with the soft hues of twilight, and the first shy stars were beginning to prick through the deepening blue. It was beautiful, in a quiet, melancholic way. But Emily’s posture, her stillness, it was wrong. It was like watching a small bird frozen in fear.
“But honey,” Sally said, her voice carefully neutral, “we can see the stars from anywhere. We don’t have to sit in the dark to see them.”
Emily finally turned her head, and Sally was struck by the unnatural solemnity in her daughter’s eyes. They seemed older, shadowed with a knowledge that was too heavy for such young eyes. “Selly says… some people don’t like seeing the stars,” Emily said, her voice a low, almost conspiratorial murmur. “She says it’s better to watch them when it’s quiet.”
A chill, unrelated to the evening air, settled over Sally. It wasn’t just that Emily was talking about Selly’s preferences; it was the way she was acting them out. The stillness, the hushed tones, the fixation on the dark corners and the watching windows. It was as if a shadow had fallen over her daughter, a shadow that Emily was embracing.
Later that night, as Sally tucked Emily into bed, she noticed a small, intricately carved wooden bird placed on Emily’s bedside table. It was unlike any toy Emily owned. Its wings were spread as if in flight, and its eyes were tiny, dark beads that seemed to gleam with a strange inner light.
“Where did this come from, sweetie?” Sally asked, picking it up. It felt smooth and cool in her hand.
Emily’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something Sally couldn’t quite decipher passing through them. “Selly gave it to me,” she whispered. “She said it would help me watch the birds.”
Sally placed the bird back on the table, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach. Selly. The gifts. It was all so strange. She looked around Emily’s room, which was usually a riot of colour and scattered toys. Now, it felt… subdued. Emily’s favourite stuffed unicorn was tucked away under the covers, and the brightly coloured drawing easel was pushed against the wall, unused. The room seemed to be mirroring the quietude that had settled over Emily.
Sally sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Emily’s hair. “Are you happy, honey?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Emily turned her face into Sally’s hand, her eyes closed. “Selly makes me happy,” she mumbled, her voice muffled. “She knows what I like.”
Sally’s mind raced. She tried to rationalize it. It was just Emily’s vivid imagination. She was a creative child. But the depth of Emily’s stillness, the way she seemed to be absorbing Selly’s strange habits, it felt like more than just play. It felt like an influence. A subtle, insidious creep of something alien into her daughter’s world. The shadows in the corners of the house seemed to stretch a little longer each day, and Sally found herself always looking, always listening, for the faintest sign of Selly’s presence, a presence that was slowly, terrifyingly, beginning to feel very real. The quiet in the house was no longer a peaceful silence, but a watchful, waiting one, and Sally was beginning to feel like a trespasser in her own home.