The Forgotten Girl

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 The image had an old quality, as if taken with an outdated phone, and in the background was the second-floor window that Camila knew perfectly.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?

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