The Riverside house had been a steal at $287,000—a four-bedroom colonial in a neighborhood where similar homes sold for nearly double. When Rachel and Michael Brennan first walked through it with their realtor, they understood why. The house had sat vacant for eighteen months after the previous owners moved out abruptly, and it showed. Water-stained ceilings, outdated fixtures, a kitchen stuck in 1987, and a musty smell that permeated everything.
“It needs work,” their realtor, Patricia, had said with characteristic understatement. “But the bones are good. And in this market, you won’t find another deal like this.”
Rachel had been skeptical, but Michael, ever the optimist, saw potential. He was handy with renovations, having helped his contractor father growing up. They could fix the cosmetic issues themselves and save money. With their seven-year-old daughter Emma starting second grade in the fall, they needed more space than their cramped two-bedroom apartment provided, drawing from common ghost story elements about families moving into troubled homes.​
They’d made an offer that same day.
The basement had been the only part of the house that gave Rachel real pause. It wasn’t finished—just exposed brick walls, a concrete floor, and bare bulb lighting. The wooden stairs leading down from the kitchen were steep and narrow, the kind that seemed designed to cause accidents. And there was something about the space that felt wrong, though Rachel couldn’t articulate what exactly bothered her.
“We’ll finish it eventually,” Michael had assured her. “Turn it into a proper family room. But for now, it’s just storage.”
They’d moved in on June 1st, 2025, and for the first three weeks, everything was normal. They unpacked, painted Emma’s room her favorite shade of purple, and began the slow process of making the house feel like home. Emma adjusted quickly, making friends with the neighbor kids and declaring her new room “the best ever.”
The counting started on June 23rd, a Monday night.
The First Night
Rachel woke at 2:47 AM to the sound of a child’s voice. For a confused moment, she thought Emma was having a nightmare. But as consciousness fully returned, she realized the voice was coming from downstairs, not from Emma’s room across the hall.
“One… two… three…”
A child counting slowly, deliberately. The voice was young—maybe five or six years old, younger than Emma. And it was coming from the direction of the basement stairs.
Rachel shook Michael awake. “Do you hear that?”
Michael mumbled something incoherent and rolled over. Rachel listened, her heart beating faster. The counting continued.
“Four… five… six…”
She slipped out of bed and crept into the hallway. Emma’s door was closed, and when Rachel peeked inside, her daughter was sound asleep, her nightlight casting familiar shadows across the stuffed animals lined up on her shelves.
“Seven… eight… nine…”
Rachel moved to the top of the main staircase. The counting was definitely coming from the first floor, from the kitchen where the basement door was located. The voice was clear now, high-pitched and sing-song, the way children count when they’re playing hide-and-seek.
“Ten! Ready or not, here I come!”
Then silence.
Rachel stood frozen at the top of the stairs, every instinct screaming at her not to go down, not to investigate. But this was her house. Her home. There had to be a rational explanation—maybe a neighbor’s TV, or sound carrying strangely through the old pipes, or even residual effects from the construction Michael had been doing in the kitchen earlier that day.
She forced herself down the stairs, turning on lights as she went. The living room was empty and undisturbed. The kitchen looked exactly as she’d left it after cleaning up from dinner—counters wiped down, dishes in the drying rack, the basement door firmly closed.
Rachel approached the door slowly. Her hand trembled as she reached for the knob. She pressed her ear against the wood, listening.
Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the wall clock.
She opened the door. The basement stairs descended into darkness—she’d turned off the light earlier after bringing up laundry. Rachel flipped the switch, and the bare bulb at the bottom of the stairs flickered to life, illuminating concrete and brick and the scattered boxes they’d stored down there.
Empty. Completely empty.
Rachel stood at the top of the stairs, peering down, counting the steps without really thinking about it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Ten steps down to the basement floor.
She closed the door, locked it for good measure even though it didn’t have a lock, and went back to bed. Michael was still asleep. Rachel lay awake until dawn, telling herself it had been a dream, or the house settling, or her imagination activated by moving into an old house, inspired by psychological elements common to horror narratives.​
But she knew what she’d heard.
The Pattern Emerges
The counting happened again two nights later. Same time—2:47 AM. Same voice. Same slow, deliberate count from one to ten, followed by “Ready or not, here I come!”
This time, Rachel woke Michael. Together they crept downstairs, Michael armed with a baseball bat they kept in the closet. They found nothing. No signs of intrusion, no open windows, no rational explanation for the child’s voice they’d both clearly heard coming from the basement stairs.
“Maybe it’s coming from outside,” Michael suggested. “Sound bouncing off the houses, carrying from somewhere else.”
But they both knew that didn’t make sense. The voice was too clear, too close. It was inside their house.
They didn’t tell Emma. What would they say? That a ghost child was counting on their basement stairs in the middle of the night? Emma was already nervous about the basement—she refused to go down there even in daylight, claiming it was “creepy and dark and smelled funny.”
The counting became nightly. Always at 2:47 AM. Always the same voice. Always one through ten, followed by that cheerful proclamation: “Ready or not, here I come!”
Rachel started researching. She searched property records, looking for any history of tragedy at their address. She found nothing unusual—the house had been built in 1962, passed through several owners, never been the site of any reported deaths or crimes. She searched local news archives for missing children or accidents. Nothing matched.
She joined neighborhood Facebook groups and posted carefully worded questions about the house’s history. Several neighbors responded with vague memories—the Hendersons had lived there for twenty years before selling to the Martins, who’d only stayed eighteen months before moving out suddenly in late 2023.
One neighbor, an elderly woman named Dorothy Chen who lived three doors down, sent Rachel a private message: “You’re hearing it too, aren’t you? The counting?”
Rachel’s blood ran cold. She called Dorothy immediately.
Dorothy’s Story
Dorothy invited Rachel over for tea the next afternoon. Her house was immaculate, filled with photographs of grandchildren and the scent of lavender. They settled in her sunroom, and Dorothy poured Earl Grey into delicate china cups.
“The Martins heard it,” Dorothy began without preamble. “That’s why they left. Jennifer Martin came to me after about three months of living there, looking exhausted and frightened. She said her son had started having nightmares about a little boy who lived in their basement and wanted to play hide-and-seek.”
Rachel’s hands shook as she set down her teacup. “Did she hear the counting?”
“Every night. Same as you, I’d wager. 2:47 AM, a child counting to ten on the basement stairs. They tried everything—blessed the house, had it inspected for carbon monoxide, even stayed in hotels for a week to see if getting away would help. But the counting always started again when they came back.”
“Why didn’t our realtor tell us this?”
Dorothy smiled sadly. “Because the Martins never reported it officially. They were too afraid of being thought crazy. They just wanted out. Listed the house for far below market value and moved in with Jennifer’s parents until they could find something else. The house sat empty for a year and a half before you bought it.”
“Do you know what it is? Who it is?”
Dorothy was quiet for a long moment. “There are stories. Old stories, from before the houses were built. This whole neighborhood used to be farmland belonging to the Riverside family. In 1952, one of the Riverside children—a little boy named Timothy, only five years old—went missing. They searched for weeks. Never found him.”
Rachel felt sick. “Do they think he died on our property?”
“No one knows. The farm was over two hundred acres. Could have been anywhere. But Timothy’s mother used to say he loved playing hide-and-seek. Would count to ten and go looking for his older siblings. His mother would hear him counting sometimes, even after he vanished. She’d hear his voice in the house, counting, always counting.”
“That was seventy years ago,” Rachel said. “Why would he be in our basement? The house wasn’t even built until 1962.”
Dorothy shrugged. “Spirits don’t always make sense, dear. Maybe something about the land, or the location. Maybe he’s still playing his game, still counting, still searching. Some souls don’t know they’re gone.”
Emma’s Encounter
Rachel told Michael everything Dorothy had shared. He remained skeptical but agreed they should document what was happening. They set up a voice-activated recorder at the top of the basement stairs, determined to capture evidence.
The recorder activated at 2:47 AM. The next morning, they played it back, hearing the crystal-clear voice of a child counting: “One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten! Ready or not, here I come!”
Then, faintly, the sound of small footsteps on the basement stairs. Going up, not down. One step at a time, until they reached the top.
And then a new sound: a child’s giggle, delighted and innocent, followed by “Found you!” before the recorder went silent.
Rachel and Michael stared at each other in horror. Whatever was in their house, it was playing a game. Hide-and-seek. Counting to ten, then coming to find whoever was hiding.
But who was it trying to find?
They got their answer three nights later when Emma came into their bedroom at 3:15 AM, her face pale and tear-streaked.
“Mommy, the little boy won’t leave me alone,” she whispered. “He keeps asking me to play hide-and-seek with him. He counts to ten on the stairs, then comes looking for me. But I don’t want to play. I’m scared.”
Rachel’s heart broke and froze simultaneously. “What little boy, sweetheart?”
“The one in my room. He’s little, maybe kindergarten age. He has brown hair and he’s wearing old-fashioned clothes, like from those pictures at Grandma’s house. He says his name is Timothy and he’s been playing hide-and-seek for a really long time and he can’t find his brother and sister and will I help him look?”
Michael and Rachel exchanged glances. Timothy Riverside. The missing boy from 1952.
“He’s not real, Emma,” Michael started, but Rachel cut him off.
“Emma, when does he talk to you?”
“After he counts. He comes up from the basement and stands in my doorway. He looks sad, Mommy. He says he’s tired of playing but he has to keep counting until someone helps him find his brother and sister so they can all go home together.”
The Research
Rachel dove into historical archives with renewed urgency. She visited the county library, the historical society, and even contacted descendants of the Riverside family. She pieced together Timothy’s story from newspaper clippings, interviews, and old farm records.
Timothy Riverside had been five years old when he vanished on August 12, 1952. He’d been playing hide-and-seek with his older siblings, David (age 9) and Sarah (age 7), in and around the family’s farmhouse. Timothy had been “it”—he’d counted to ten while his siblings hid. When he’d opened his eyes and started searching, his brother and sister had hidden so well that Timothy couldn’t find them.
According to the newspaper reports, David and Sarah had hidden in the old root cellar behind the barn, waiting for Timothy to find them. They’d fallen asleep in their hiding spot. When they woke up hours later and emerged, they found their mother hysterical and neighbors searching everywhere.
Timothy was gone. He’d wandered away from the farmhouse while searching for his siblings, and despite massive search efforts involving hundreds of volunteers, he was never found.
David and Sarah Riverside had carried guilt about that day for the rest of their lives. Sarah had died in 2018; David was still alive, living in a nursing home forty miles away.
Rachel arranged to visit him.
David Riverside
David Riverside was ninety-two years old, confined to a wheelchair, but his mind was sharp. When Rachel explained why she’d come, tears filled his rheumy eyes.
“Timothy,” he whispered. “My little brother. I’ve thought about him every day for seventy-three years. Every single day.”
Rachel showed him photos of her house, of the basement stairs. “Did your family have a root cellar? Something with stairs?”
David nodded slowly. “Yes. Ten steps down into darkness. Sarah and I hid there that day. We thought we were being so clever. We thought Timothy would never find us.” His voice broke. “We thought it was just a game.”
“Mr. Riverside, I think Timothy is still playing. I think he’s still counting, still searching for you and your sister. His spirit is in my house, on our basement stairs. He counts to ten every night at 2:47 AM. He’s looking for you.”
David wept openly. “I wanted to find him. We all did. My parents never recovered. My mother heard his voice for years, heard him counting. People thought she was crazy, but I believed her. I heard it too, sometimes. My little brother, still playing our game.”
“Is there anything we can do to help him?” Rachel asked gently. “Some way to let him know the game is over, that he can stop searching?”
David thought for a long moment. “Sarah and I made a pact before she died. We promised that if there was any way to reach Timothy, to tell him we were sorry, we would. I’ve left instructions that when I die, my ashes should be scattered on the old farm property—on what’s now your street. So the three of us could finally be together.”
He reached out with a trembling hand and gripped Rachel’s arm. “But I don’t want to wait until I’m dead. Can you… can you tell him? Can you tell Timothy that David and Sarah are sorry? That we loved him? That the game is over and we all won? That he can come home now?”
The Final Count
Rachel returned home with a plan. She gathered Michael and Emma in the kitchen as evening fell.
“Tonight, we’re going to help Timothy,” she announced. “We’re going to finish the game so he can finally rest.”
At 2:30 AM, they positioned themselves in the kitchen, sitting at the table near the basement door. Emma was frightened but brave, holding her mother’s hand tightly. They waited.
At 2:47 AM, the basement door rattled slightly. Then, clear as day, a child’s voice began:
“One…”
Rachel nodded to her family. They joined in, counting along:
“Two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten!”
“Ready or not, here I come!” Timothy’s voice called out, and they heard the small footsteps ascending the stairs.
The basement door swung open on its own.
A faint shimmer appeared in the doorway—not quite visible, but present. A coldness that wasn’t quite temperature. A presence that was undeniably a small child.
Rachel knelt down, looking at where she sensed Timothy stood. “Timothy Riverside? We have a message from your brother David and your sister Sarah.”
The presence waited. Emma could see him—she’d always been able to see him—and she whispered, “He’s listening, Mommy.”
“David and Sarah want you to know they’re sorry they hid so well. They’re sorry you couldn’t find them that day. But Timothy, they found you. You won the game. They’ve been looking for you for seventy-three years, and they finally found you. You can stop counting now. You can stop searching. The game is over.”
The temperature in the room dropped further. The presence intensified.
“David says to tell you he loves you,” Rachel continued, her voice thick with emotion. “He says he’s thought about you every single day. He’s an old man now, but he remembers you exactly as you were—five years old, with a big smile, the best little brother anyone could ask for. And Sarah—she passed away, Timothy. She’s waiting for you. She’s on the other side, waiting to play with you again. But no more hide-and-seek. Just hugs and laughter and being together again.”
Emma spoke up, her voice small but clear. “Timothy, you’re really good at counting. But you found us. We weren’t hiding very well, and you found us. You win. You can go home now. Your sister Sarah is waiting to take you home.”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Emma gasped. “Mommy, there’s another light! A bright one! And there’s a girl reaching out to Timothy—she looks like Sarah from the old pictures!”
The temperature returned to normal. The presence faded. And then, so faint they almost missed it, they heard a child’s laughter—pure joy and relief.
“Found you!” Timothy’s voice called out one last time, distant and growing more distant. “Found you, Sarah!”
And then silence. Complete, absolute silence.
The basement door slowly closed on its own.
Epilogue
The counting never happened again. At 2:47 AM, the house remained silent and peaceful. Emma slept through the nights without visitors, without a sad little boy asking her to play.
Rachel visited David Riverside one more time to tell him what had happened. He smiled through his tears.
“He found her,” David whispered. “He found Sarah. After all these years, they’re together again. Thank you. Thank you for ending his search.”
David Riverside passed away peacefully in his sleep three weeks later. His obituary mentioned his reunion with his long-lost siblings, Timothy and Sarah, “finally together again after seventy-three years apart.”
Rachel, Michael, and Emma remained in the house. They finished the basement renovation, turning it into a bright, welcoming family room with proper lighting and carpet and photos of Emma growing up. The stairs were no longer dark and ominous, but just stairs.
But they left a small memorial at the bottom step: a framed photo of three children from 1952—David, Sarah, and Timothy Riverside, smiling on a summer day, frozen forever in childhood happiness. Beneath it, a small plaque read: “Timothy Riverside, 1947-1952. The seeker who became the sought. Found at last. May you play forever in the light.”
Sometimes, on quiet evenings, Rachel thought she could hear the faint echo of children laughing, not in their basement, but somewhere far away and bright and full of joy. Three siblings, reunited at last, playing together in a place where hide-and-seek never ended in loss.
And Timothy Riverside never had to count to ten alone again.
