I was babysitting for my new neighbors, watching two sweet kids who kept me busy with games and giggles. While they played, I wandered into the living room and glanced at the family photos on the wall. That’s when I noticed something strange—the children in the pictures weren’t the ones I was babysitting. They were older, different faces, smiling in ways that felt frozen in time. I laughed nervously and asked the little girl, “Hey, where are your brother and sister?” She stopped mid-game, stared at me, and whispered, “We’re the only ones. Mommy sent the others away.”
Her words chilled me. I tried to brush it off, maybe she was joking, maybe I misunderstood. But the way she said it—soft, serious, like a secret she wasn’t supposed to share—lingered. I kept playing with them, trying to shake the unease. When the parents came home and offered to drive me back, I accepted, hoping the ride would clear my head. As we pulled away, I casually mentioned the photos. “They’re lovely,” I said. “But they don’t look like your kids.” The mother smiled, too calmly.
“Oh, those?” she said. “The people who lived here before left them behind. They had kids too… but they disappeared.” Her voice was light, almost cheerful, like she was talking about old furniture. “We keep the photos just in case the owners claim them back.” I nodded, unsure how to respond. The father didn’t say a word. I stared out the window, heart thudding, wondering what kind of story I’d just stepped into. The kids had gone quiet in the back seat, watching me with unreadable expressions.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The photos, the whisper, the mother’s smile. It felt like I’d brushed against something hidden, something no one wanted to explain. I searched online for missing children in the area, but found nothing. No reports, no names, no clues. Just silence. I never babysat for them again. I told myself it was just a misunderstanding, a weird coincidence. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. That house held stories no one was telling.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to the kids in those photos. Did they move away? Were they taken? Did someone forget them? I think about the little girl’s whisper, the way she said “Mommy sent the others away.” It wasn’t fear—it was fact. Like she’d accepted it. Like it was normal. I’ve told a few friends the story, but they always laugh it off. I don’t. I remember the way the air felt in that house. Still. Watching. Waiting.
I never saw the family again. They moved a few months later, no notice, no forwarding address. The house sat empty for a while, then new tenants arrived. I’ve walked past it since, and the photos are gone. But I still think about that night. About the kids who disappeared. About the ones who stayed. And about the mother who smiled too easily when I asked the wrong question.
