Crestwood County Sheriff’s Department, Maine. Night shift.

On the dispatch desk, a red light was flashing—an emergency call from an unknown number. Operator Martha Hill, who had been on the job for 18 years, pressed the answer button.

“911, hello, what do you need?”

“Uncle… my mom is tied up in the closet.”

The voice was small and shaky, that of a girl about 7 years old. Martha suddenly tightened her grip on her pen.

“Calm down, what’s your name?”

“I’m Emily. My mom can’t talk, uncle, there’s a lot of blood.”

“Do you know our address, Emily?”

“36 Maple Street.”

Martha quickly typed into the system—it was an old residential area 12 miles from downtown.

“Okay, Emily, I’m listening. The police are on their way. Where are you in the house?”

“Living room. The closet door is still locked. I heard mom… moaning softly.”

Then suddenly, a loud knocking sound came from the other end. A little girl’s scream.

“Uncle, someone’s coming up the stairs… they’re almost there—”
Ryeow. The call ended.

Martha jumped to her feet.

“God… patrol near Maple Street, red alert.”

Officers Ryan Cooper and Ellen Brooks were the first to arrive.

The old wooden house was nestled in the fog, the porch light still on but the yellow light was dim as if it were about to go out. The front door was unlocked.

Ryan went in first, Ellen followed, flashlight in hand.

“Police! Is anyone home?”

No answer. Just the ticking of a grandfather clock and the wind whistling through the cracks in the door.

The inside was cluttered, the old furniture covered in dust. On the table were two cups of cold tea, one of which still had a faint steam.

“There must be someone new here,” Ellen said.

“Yeah… or just left,” Ryan said, glancing around.

Then he heard a slight noise from the right corner of the room—the tall, old wooden cabinet with the iron-locked door.

“Police! Is anyone in there?”

No response, but a soft gasp. Ryan nodded to Ellen, then kicked hard. The door swung open.

There was no one inside.
Just an old doll in a dirty white dress, its hands stained with dried blood.

On its head was real, dark brown, tangled hair.

Ellen held the flashlight closer.

“Ryan, look—this isn’t doll hair. It’s real human hair.”

Ryan frowned, bending down to examine it. Scrawled in red pen on the back of the doll’s neck was:

“EMILY.”

Ellen shuddered.

“The girl who called… right?”
Ryan nodded.

“Yes. But how—”

Before he could finish, a crackling sound came from the living room. The old landline phone turned on, playing back the 911 recording.
The little girl’s voice rang out clearly through the speaker:

“Uncle… my mom’s tied up in the closet…”

Ryan clenched his fists.

“Let’s check the whole house. Room by room.”

They walked up to the second floor. The hallway was dusty, but on the wooden floor, a trail of blood led to the bedroom.
The door was ajar. Inside—a bed covered with old sheets, a cracked photo frame on the table.
Ellen picked it up: a photo of a young woman holding her daughter, about 7 years old. In the corner of the photo was written:

“Sarah & Emily – 2008.”

Ryan sighed softly:

“If this photo was taken in 2008… then Emily must be in her 20s now.”

“But the voice on the call was a child.”

Ellen nodded. The air was heavy, unusually cold.

Then from behind, the closet door shook slightly.

Ellen raised her gun and opened it.
A black cat darted out, meowing loudly, and disappeared down the stairs. They both gasped.

But then Ryan noticed that there was an engraving on the closet wall — dozens of small, sharp marks:

HELP ME
MOM IS HERE
DON’T OPEN THE CLOSET

They returned to the living room and checked the home security camera. Despite the old system, the hard drive was still intact. Ryan plugged it in.
The video showed the date March 12, 2009.

The footage was blurry, but it was clear that the woman in the photo — Sarah — was holding her little daughter, Emily, and walking into the living room.
Sarah said something and walked toward the closet and opened the door.
Emily stood outside, smiling, waving to the camera.

Then Sarah disappeared into the closet. The door closed.
And Emily – still standing there – continued waving, until the image froze.

Ellen whispered:

“Oh my God… this video is sixteen years old.”

Back at the station, they asked to check the records of 36 Maple Street.
The results left the team speechless:

Homeowner name: Sarah Langford, 35.
Daughter: Emily Langford, 7.
Date of disappearance: March 13, 2009.
Case: unsolved, mother suspected of murder, body not found.

House abandoned since then.

Ryan looked at the records. It was indeed the mother and daughter in the frame they saw.

“So… who called 911 tonight?”

Martha – the operator – interjected:

“I confirm. The voice was brand new, the signal came from the exact same address. I also recorded the wind and the clock in the house.”

Ryan’s spine shivered:

“But… the house has no electricity, no internet, no working phone.”

That night, they decided to return to the scene.

Ryan plugged in the automatic recorder, placed it right in the wooden cabinet.

The two of them sat waiting, the clock showing 0:59 AM.

Everything was quiet. Until the light flickered slightly, then a child’s voice rang out in the air:

“Uncle… my mother is tied up in the cabinet…”

The voice rang out right behind them, even though the recorder had not started.

Ellen turned around — on the floor, the doll was still lying there, but its hair was longer than before, hanging down, covering its shoulders as if… growing.

Then suddenly, the wooden cabinet door opened by itself.

Inside, instead of being empty as before, was a brown-haired woman, her body withered, tied up, her face crying for help.

Ellen screamed, rushing over. But when she touched it — the body turned to ash, falling limply to the floor.

The police were called in. But when they arrived, only Ryan was standing in the house, eyes wide open, holding a tape recorder.

Ellen was nowhere to be seen.

Ryan whispered:

“She… is in the closet.”

They opened the closet. It was empty. There were only two dolls — one with brown hair, one with blonde hair (like Ellen).

On the neck of the second doll, there was a line written in red pen:

ELLEN.

Ryan collapsed.

When examining the tape recorder, the forensic team discovered a strange sound.

Ryan and Ellen were chatting normally, and then at 12:03, a little girl’s voice was heard:

“Uncle, don’t open the cupboard. If you do, Mommy will take you with her.”

Then Ellen’s scream, and the sound of a door slamming.

Then, only the sound of children’s laughter faded, then silence.

The police investigated the neighborhood. They asked every house.
No one had ever heard the name “Emily Langford.”
No one remembered a woman named Sarah living on Maple Street.
When they checked the residential records, the names Sarah and Emily Langford were no longer in the system.

As if they had never existed.

Ryan was suspended from work and hospitalized in a psychiatric hospital. In his final report, there was only a scribbled sentence:

“I heard her talking to me every night. She asked: Uncle, do you want to play with me?”

2035. 36 Maple Street is purchased by a young family.

Their little girl — Emma, ​​6 — tells her mother that she has a “new friend named Emily” who often plays in the closet.

Her mother laughs, thinking it’s an imaginary friend.

Until one evening, she hears her daughter’s voice coming from the room:

“Mommy’s tied up in the closet, Uncle!”

She opens the closet door.

Her daughter is gone — just a doll in a white dress, waist-length brown hair, a wax face… and a small card hanging on its chest that reads:

EMMA.

The 36 Maple Street case file is closed with the note:

“No signs of forced entry, no physical evidence, only unidentified voice on the 911 tape.”

The tape is stored in the cold case file, code #911-EMILY.

But sometimes, around 1:12 a.m., the guards said they heard a small sound coming from inside the storage locker —

“Uncle… my mother is tied up in the locker…”

Then silence.
Just the smell of burning hair and the soft laughter of children.