On the outskirts of Envigado, Antioquia, stands an old two-story house surrounded by guaduales and constant humidity. The property belonged to Camila’s family until her grandmother passed away in 2017. Since then, it has remained abandoned, with its windows boarded up and the garden overrun by weeds.

Camila, a thirty-two-year-old graphic designer living in Medellín, received the first message on a Thursday night in December. She was alone in her apartment in the El Poblado neighborhood, checking emails before going to bed.

The number was unknown, but the text sent a chill down her spine:

⏤ Mommy… why did you leave me?

Camila frowned and replied curtly, thinking it was a bad joke. The conversation continued, each message more precise and painful. The sender claimed to be Sofía and described the grandmother’s house with exact detail: the faded wallpaper in the hallway, the smell of damp wood in the kitchen, and the one-eyed teddy bear.

⏤ You told me you would be back soon. Eight years have passed.

Camila felt a shiver. She had never had children. However, in 2018, during a severe episode of depression after her grandmother’s death, she had spent several nights in that house. She vaguely remembered walking through the empty rooms, talking to herself, but nothing more.

That same night, the contact sent a photograph. It showed a girl of about five years old sitting on the broken tile floor of the abandoned house. Her white dress was dirty with soil and mold. The image had an old quality, as if taken with an outdated phone, and in the background was the second-floor window that Camila knew perfectly.

At eleven forty-five, another message arrived:

⏤ I’m here. Come. I’m very hungry. And I’m alone.

Camila called her husband, who was away on a trip. She sent him screenshots, but he asked her to block the number and rest. Minutes later, she received an audio message. The voice of a small girl, interrupted by sobs, whispered:

⏤ Mommy… you’re finally here.

At that exact moment, Camila heard a noise in the hallway of her apartment. A soft sound, like bare feet on the wooden floor. The temperature dropped sharply. The scent of roses that her grandmother used to wear filled the air.

Trembling, she stood up and walked toward the bedroom door. It was closed. As she turned the handle, she felt a cold hand gripping hers from the other side. A child’s voice, very close to her ear, murmured:

⏤ You’re not going to leave me again.

The police arrived at the apartment the next morning after an anonymous call. They found Camila’s phone lying on the floor, the screen still lit on the conversation. The house was freezing, even though the air conditioning was turned off. On the bed was a small, old teddy bear covered in mold, which no one in the building recognized.

In the abandoned house in Envigado, neighbors continue to report faint lights in the second-floor window. Some claim to see an adult woman and a little girl holding hands, looking toward the road, waiting for someone to come back for them.

Since then, on December nights, certain unknown numbers send messages to women in Medellín and its surroundings:

⏤ Mommy… why did you leave me?

Months after Camila’s disappearance, the case remained open but showed no significant progress. The Envigado police had temporarily archived the file, attributing the events to a possible kidnapping or voluntary flight. However, in the neighborhood where the abandoned house stood, the rumors did not cease.

Laura, a thirty-eight-year-old local journalist, decided to investigate on her own. She had heard the stories about the grandmother’s house and felt there was something deeper behind Camila’s disappearance. On a cloudy March afternoon, she arrived at the location with her recorder and camera.

The property looked even more deteriorated. The guaduales had almost completely taken over the garden, and an oppressive silence enveloped the humid air. Laura pushed the main door, which yielded with a prolonged creak.

As she walked through the first-floor rooms, she took detailed notes on the condition of the house. Suddenly, her phone vibrated. Unknown number.

⏤Why doesn’t anyone come for me?

Laura stopped abruptly. She looked at the screen with a frown.

⏤ I’m Sofía. I’m alone again. Mrs. Camila left me too.

Laura felt a knot in her throat. She replied quickly, trying to stay calm:

Who are you? How do you know about Camila?

⏤ Everyone forgets me. Mom left me here. Camila promised to stay with me, but she left too. Now you are here.

The temperature inside the house dropped noticeably. Laura heard small footsteps on the upper floor, as if bare feet were running down the hallway. She climbed the stairs cautiously, her heart beating strongly.

When she reached the second floor, she found the room where the photograph Camila had received was supposedly taken. In the center of the room, on the dusty floor, lay a teddy bear identical to the one found in Camila’s apartment, but this one looked newer, as if it had just been placed there.

Her phone vibrated again.

⏤ Do you want to play with me? No one wants to play with me.

Laura recorded an audio with a trembling voice:

This is not funny. If this is a joke, end it now.

Suddenly, a childish giggle echoed in the adjacent room, followed by a very clear whisper:

⏤ It’s not a joke. You will love me too, right? Don’t leave me like the others…

Laura retreated toward the stairs. As she descended, she felt a small, cold hand brush against hers. She turned sharply, but there was no one. However, a red mark remained on her hand, as if small fingers had squeezed it tightly.

That night, Laura did not return home. Her husband reported her disappearance the next morning. When the police inspected the abandoned house, they only found Laura’s recorder lying on the floor of the second floor. The last audio file played the voice of a small girl saying through sobs:

⏤ Now we are three. Mom, Camila, and Laura. But I’m still hungry for affection…

The neighbors of Envigado claim that, since then, on clear nights, childish laughter mixed with cries can be heard coming from the house. Some say they have seen three figures —a little girl and two women— standing at the second-floor window, looking toward the road with hope.

And sometimes, when someone passes near the property, they receive a message from an unknown number:

⏤ Do you want to be my new mommy?