I woke up around 3 a.m. to grab a glass of water when I heard my son’s voice from his bedroom. “Mom, can you turn off the light?” he asked.
Without thinking twice, I reached over and switched off the light.
But as I climbed back into bed, a chilling realization hit me—my son wasn’t home. He was away on a camping trip.
Panic surged through me. I ran to his room and stopped cold. The room was pitch dark. The bed, empty. His sleeping bag still folded neatly on the shelf. I turned the light on again. Everything was exactly in place—which somehow made it worse. You ever feel that deep, unsettling chill, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet?
I whispered, “Tomas?”
No answer. Just the soft hum of the ceiling fan.
Maybe I was just stressed. Bills piling up. Hours cut back at the clinic. Stress can mess with your head, right?
Still, I double-checked the locks on both doors. Even peeked under the bed like a scared kid. Ridiculous, I know. But I swear—I heard him.
I didn’t sleep after that. I lay awake, waiting for the sunrise to chase away the thick silence.
When Tomas came home that afternoon from his trip, I tried to act normal. But I asked casually, “Hey, did you call me last night?”
He blinked. “No? We didn’t even have cell signal. Why?”
“Never mind,” I said. “Weird dream.”
That night, I kept walking past his door. I needed to see him. Hear him snoring. Something had changed. I couldn’t explain it—but I felt it.
A few days later, I dug the old baby monitor out of the attic. Tomas was twelve now, far past needing one. I’m not sure why I even plugged it in. Just to ease my mind, I guess. One part in his room, one in mine.
For four nights—nothing. I started to feel silly.
But on the fifth night, everything changed.
Around 2:30 a.m., static crackled through the monitor. Then, clear as day, I heard it:
“Mom. Can you close the closet?”
I jolted upright, heart pounding. I stared at the monitor like it might explain itself. But there was nothing more. I ran to Tomas’s room.
He was sound asleep. The closet door was already closed.
I stood there, frozen. Whispered, “Tomas?” He stirred but didn’t wake.
From that night on, I started writing everything down. Every noise. Every strange voice through the monitor. It happened five more times that month. Always in Tomas’s voice. Always while he slept.
I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my sister, Inez.
Then, one morning, Tomas came to me. He looked… haunted.
“Mom,” he said, “who was in my room last night?”
My heart skipped. “What do you mean?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I thought it was you… but someone was just standing in the dark. Near the door. I called out, but they didn’t answer.”
I hugged him. Told him it was probably just a dream. But I knew better. So did he.
That night, I sat in the hallway with a baseball bat. Every creak, every passing car felt louder than thunder.
At 3:10 a.m., I heard it again.
“Mom. He’s not safe.”
I dropped the bat.
It was Tomas’s voice, yes—but off. Slower. Too careful.
I ran into his room. He was sweating, trapped in a nightmare. I shook him awake. He gasped like he was drowning.
I asked what he dreamt.
His voice trembled: “A woman. Crying. Holding a baby. She kept saying, ‘Tell her. Tell her he’s not safe.’”
I sat beside him, stunned. “Do you know her?”
He shook his head. “She looked like you. But older.”
A cold fear settled over me. This wasn’t just stress. Something—someone—was trying to reach us.
The next day, I finally told Inez everything. Her response shook me.
“Do you remember Talia?”
The name hit me like a punch.
Talia was our older sister. She drowned when I was 17. She was pregnant. Neither she nor the baby survived.
We didn’t talk about her. The family had buried the memory, along with her.
“You think it’s her?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Inez said. “But Talia always looked out for you. Maybe she’s protecting your son now.”
That night, I stayed in Tomas’s room. Around 3:15, the closet door creaked open.
Then I heard it. Not from the monitor—but in the room.
“He’s not who he says he is.”
The voice wasn’t Tomas’s. It was a woman. Soft. Familiar. Sad.
But the room was empty.
The next day, I pulled Tomas out of school early and took him to lunch. Just us. I asked, gently, “Anyone new at school? Anyone asking you strange questions?”
He hesitated. “There’s this guy… not a teacher. Said he was helping with science fair stuff. He’s weird. Keeps asking if I ever stay home alone.”
My stomach twisted.
I went straight to the school. They said he passed background checks. A volunteer from a nearby college. But something didn’t sit right.
The next day, I followed him after school.
He drove a maroon sedan. No bumper stickers. Out-of-state plates.
He pulled up to a worn-down duplex outside town. I snapped a photo of the car and sent it to Inez.
Ten minutes later, she called.
“That car… it used to belong to Reuben.”
I felt sick.
Reuben was Talia’s boyfriend. The one who was with her the night she drowned. He claimed she slipped. There was no proof. He disappeared after the funeral.
But now he was back. Around my son.
I went to the police. At first, they brushed it off. But then an old detective, Gerald, remembered the case. He had always suspected foul play.
Now, with Reuben suddenly resurfacing around my son, he reopened the file.
Turns out Reuben had changed his last name. But the VIN on the car? Still traceable. It all pointed to him.
They searched his home.
They found photos of Tomas.
Printed. Labeled. Some taken at school. Others… from inside our yard.
He’d been watching us.
Reuben told police he believed Tomas was his second chance to “make things right.” His words. Chilling.
He was arrested. Charged with stalking and trespassing. Investigations are ongoing.
But here’s the part I can’t explain.
After Reuben’s arrest, the voices stopped.
No more whispers. No closet creaks. The baby monitor hasn’t made a sound since.
It’s as if—Talia could finally rest.
The next week, I brought Tomas to her grave.
We stood in silence. Then he whispered, “Thank you.”
I asked what for.
“She kept me safe, didn’t she?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I think she did.”
Life has strange ways of showing us truth—sometimes through whispers, sometimes through warnings.
If you take anything from this, let it be this:
Trust your gut. Listen to what’s unexplainable.
Because love doesn’t vanish when someone dies.
Sometimes, it lingers—just long enough to protect the ones left behind.