Emma’s mother, Rachel, was called in because her 10-year-old daughter had been drawing the same figure over and over again — a woman with long black hair, a torn blue dress, and hollow eyes. The figure appeared in Emma’s homework margins, art class, and even carved lightly into her pencil box.

When asked who the woman was, Emma replied casually:
“That’s Lucy. She talks to me when I can’t sleep.”

“Face intentionally obscured at the request of the police“

At first, Rachel assumed it was an imaginary friend. Kids have wild imaginations. But when she saw the drawing herself, her blood ran cold. The image was too detailed. The bruises, the faded scar on the cheek — it looked disturbingly real.

Out of curiosity — and growing unease — Rachel posted one of Emma’s drawings to a local Facebook group. “Has anyone seen a woman who looks like this? My daughter says she’s real.”

The comments exploded.

One woman replied within minutes. “This looks like my sister. She went missing in 2002.”

The post was flagged by moderators and taken to police. It took just 48 hours for investigators to cross-check the drawing with a 23-year-old cold case. A woman named Lucy Albright, who had vanished after leaving work late at night. No body was ever found.

The sketch matched her description almost perfectly — even the torn dress.

And here’s where it gets strange.

Emma had never heard of Lucy. She wasn’t alive when Lucy disappeared. Her family had no connection to the Albrights. And yet, when detectives asked Emma to point to a map, she placed her finger on an abandoned farmhouse exactly 2.3 miles from Lucy’s last known location.

When a search team arrived at the site, they discovered something chilling:
A locket with the initials L.A. buried beneath a loose floorboard.

Forensics are still underway. But the question remains:
How did a 10-year-old know about a woman who vanished two decades ago?

Emma now refuses to talk about Lucy. She says she’s “gone quiet.”
But sometimes, late at night, she still sleepwalks — always toward the window. Always whispering the same words:

“Tell her story. She’s still waiting.”