
Hello, my name is Demodex folliculorum and I live in the pores of the skin of your face that’s why it’s important to wash your face and remove makeup!!
The only way you can see me is with a microscope. I measure between 0,3 and 0,4 mm, and like spiders, I have 8 legs.
I like living in hair follicles that have your nose, cheek and eyelashes. These are places where there’s more fat to feed me.
I feed on your secretions and your dead skin. I can put up to 25 eggs in every hair follicle.
My digestive system is not able to eliminate my waste, so i accumulate them in my body until I explode and die. My remains cause hypersensitivity reactions.
According to some studies, in some people, I can cause infections on eyelids and rosacea.
I am a mite that is present in almost every adult on this planet.
Are you going to sleep in makeup tonight?
I Found a Girl Alone on a Dark Road â What I Saw When I Got Closer Will Haunt You
Driving alone on a foggy night, a mother sees a young girl in a torn dress, quiet and strangely familiar. As she drives closer, she notices the girlâs sad eyes, filled with secrets that might be best left unknown.
It was late, and the night seemed darker than ever. The fog hugged the car like a thick blanket, hiding everything beyond the headlights. I squinted ahead, holding the steering wheel tighter than usual.

âJust get home,â I whispered, rubbing my tired eyes. It had been a long day at work, and I couldnât wait to crawl into bed.
I always avoided this road. I usually took the main highway, but tonight, I thought: A quick shortcut will save time.
Then, I noticed something in the distance. A shadow in the middle of the road. I slammed on the brakes, heart pounding. The outline was faint, but it was there in the mist.

âPlease just be a tree or a mailbox,â I whispered, though I knew it wasnât. As I drove closer, I realized it was a girl. She looked thin, and her white dress was in tatters.
A chill ran down my spine. Every instinct told me to turn back, but something held me there.
I cracked open the window, my voice shaky. âAre you okay?â
I stepped out of the car with a flashlight. The beam lit up her face, and I gasped, stumbling back. I knew that face. The pale skin, the wide eyesâit was my daughter.
âEmily?â I whispered, barely believing it. She looked at me, eyes empty and wide.

âMommy?â Her voice was faint, like a distant echo.
Shock and relief overwhelmed me. It was Emily, my daughter whoâd been missing for five years. She had vanished without a trace, and no one knew what had happened to her.
âEmily, oh my God⊠itâs you,â I stammered, stepping closer. âAre you hurt? Where have you been?â
She blinked slowly, her expression blank. âI⊠donât know,â she murmured. Her voice was soft, like she hadnât spoken in years.
I knelt in front of her, heart racing. âItâs okay, honey. Itâs me. Weâre going home now, alright?â I wrapped my coat around her thin shoulders and led her to the car. She sat silently in the passenger seat, staring out into the fog.

The drive home was quiet. I glanced over at her, but her face was blank, as if she were somewhere far away.
âEmily,â I asked gently, âdo you remember anything? Anything at all?â
She didnât look at me. âA room. It was dark. There was a man, but I canât remember his face.â
My throat tightened. âYouâre safe now, sweetheart. Weâre going home.â
When we got home, she sat on the couch, looking around as if everything was unfamiliar. I asked if she remembered the place, but she only shrugged. Her voice was flat and empty.
âMom,â she whispered, âIâm⊠cold.â
I wrapped a blanket around her, feeling her icy skin. The days that followed were tense. Emily was distant, barely speaking. The only time I heard her voice clearly was when she sang an old lullaby I used to sing to her. It felt strange because she shouldnât have remembered it.

One day, I found her looking at old photo albums. Her fingers traced a picture of her father, Mark. He had died when she was a baby.
âMom?â she said, confused. âI know him.â
I felt a chill. âThatâs your dad, honey. Iâve told you about him.â
She shook her head slowly. âNo, I know him from⊠the place.â
A cold wave of fear washed over me. Emily couldnât remember Mark, but she knew someone who looked like him. It had to be his brother, Jake. They looked so alike, almost like twins.
I couldnât ignore the feeling anymore. I needed answers.

The next morning, I drove to our old family cabin deep in the woods. It had been abandoned for years, but something felt off when I arrived. One of the windows was covered with a cloth. Why would someone do that?
I pushed the door open, dust swirling in the air. Everything was untouched except for a small room in the back. Inside, toys lay scattered, worn but well-loved. My heart sank. This was where Emily had been kept.
I called the police immediately. Hours later, Emily sat quietly with me as the officers searched the cabin. She clutched her blanket, looking small and sad.
âMommy⊠I remember now,â she whispered. âIt was Uncle Jake. He looked like Daddy, but different. He would bring food and hum that song.â
The police confirmed it that night. They found enough evidence to arrest Jake. He confessed, saying he had taken Emily to âprotectâ her, wanting her to rely on him. It was twisted and horrifying to realize he had been so close all this time.

When Emily heard the truth, she broke down, crying out the pain she had held inside for so long. I hugged her tightly, rocking her gently. âYouâre safe now,â I whispered. âNo one will take you away again.â
In the days that followed, Emily started to open up more. She would hum the lullaby at night, as if testing if it was safe to sing it again.
One evening, we sat together by the window. She leaned against me, and I softly hummed the lullaby like I used to. She looked up at me with a hint of peace in her eyes.
âI love you, Mommy,â she whispered.
Tears filled my eyes as I held her close. âI love you too, sweetheart. Forever.â
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