I woke up at 3:12 a.m., thirsty and restless. As I tiptoed past my son’s room to get some water, I heard his voice. “Mom, can you turn off the light?” It sounded so clear, so familiar. Without hesitation, I walked into his room and flipped the switch, muttering about how he’d always forget to turn it off. But as I crawled back into bed, a memory hit me like a cold wind. My son wasn’t home. He was at his best friend’s house for a sleepover.
My heart thudded in my chest. Gripping my phone for light, I crept back to his room. The light was off, just as I had left it. But the air felt wrong—heavy, almost suffocating.
“Mom…” the voice came again, softer now but unmistakable. It wasn’t coming from the bed. It was coming from the corner of the room.
Frozen in terror, I shone my phone’s light toward the corner. What I saw will haunt me forever—a shadowy figure, roughly the size of my son, but its eyes reflected the light like those of a predator. It didn’t move, didn’t blink, but the smile on its face widened unnaturally.
I stumbled back, dropping my phone. When I grabbed it and looked again, the corner was empty. My son’s room, silent.
The next morning, I called my son. “Did you sleep well?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Yeah,” he replied cheerfully. “But I had a weird dream… I dreamt I was at home, and I saw you standing in my room, staring at the corner.”
