My Daughter Says She’s Not Scared of the Dark

Last week, I was tucking my six-year-old, Lily, into bed when she said something that stopped me cold. “Daddy, I’m not scared of the dark anymore,” she whispered, her little face half-lit by the glow of her unicorn nightlight. I smiled, ready to praise her bravery, but then she added, “Because my friend comes to play when it’s dark.” My stomach twisted. We live in a creaky old house, just the two of us, and I’ve never been one for ghost stories—but that night, I locked every door twice. Ever have a kid say something so innocent it sends a chill down your spine?

There’s something about kids, isn’t there? They see the world differently—half magic, half mystery, like they’re tuned into something we’ve forgotten. Lily’s always been fearless, climbing trees higher than I’d like, chasing fireflies barefoot in the yard. But this? This was new. I asked her about her “friend,” trying to keep my voice light. She just giggled, said his name was “Mr. Shadow,” and that he tells her stories when the lights go out. I laughed it off, told her she had a big imagination. But inside, I was rattled. You know that feeling when you’re not sure if you’re overreacting or not reacting enough?

The next night, I stayed up late, listening. Our house is old, full of groans and whispers—normal stuff, I told myself. Pipes, wind, the usual. But around midnight, I heard it: a soft murmur from Lily’s room, like a conversation, too quiet to make out. I crept to her door, my heart thudding, and peeked in. She was asleep, curled up with her stuffed rabbit. No one else was there. But her nightlight was off, and I know I’d left it on. I flicked it back on, checked the bulb—worked fine. I didn’t sleep much after that.

I started asking around, casually, not wanting to sound like that dad. My neighbor, Mrs. Ellis, who’s lived here forever, got this funny look when I mentioned Lily’s “friend.” She told me about the previous owners, a family who moved out quickly in the ‘90s. “The mom said her kid kept talking about someone in the dark,” she said, stirring her tea a little too fast. “They didn’t stay long after that.” I tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. Was it just a coincidence? Or was there something in this house, something tied to the shadows?

Lily keeps talking about Mr. Shadow. She says he’s nice, that he makes her laugh. I’ve started leaving more lights on, telling her it’s to save electricity or some nonsense. But last night, I heard her giggling again, long after bedtime. I stood outside her door, frozen, listening to her whisper, “You’re funny, Mr. Shadow.” Then, clear as day, a deeper voice answered, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” My hands shook as I opened the door. Lily was alone, fast asleep. The nightlight was off again.

I’m not sure what to believe anymore. Maybe it’s just her imagination, or maybe I’m the one who’s scared of the dark now. I think about my own childhood, how I’d swear I saw things in the shadows—monsters, ghosts, whatever my mind cooked up. But this feels different. Heavier. I’ve been googling “kids and imaginary friends,” but the stories I find—old forum posts, local legends—don’t comfort me. They talk about things that linger, things that only kids can see. What if Lily’s not scared because she doesn’t know to be? If your kid said they had a friend in the dark, would you believe them—or would you start sleeping with the lights on, too?