Your Stitchmother | Part: 1

I grew up in a village so small, most people wouldn’t even call it a town. A cluster of houses tucked between two hills, a single grocery store, and a bus that only came three times a day — if it came at all. There wasn’t much to do, but when you’re a kid, even boredom feels like an adventure.

 

My parents split up when I was five. I barely remember the arguments, just the echo of slammed doors and my mom crying in the kitchen. After the divorce, I stayed with her. We lived in a rented house at the edge of the village, just before the woods began.

 

It was a quiet place. Too quiet, sometimes.

I had no siblings, no kids on our street — just trees and silence and the hum of old pipes in the walls. My mom worked shifts at a nearby nursing home, so I was alone a lot. After school, I’d walk home, drop my backpack, make myself toast, and sit in front of the TV until she got back. I never minded. I liked being alone back then.

 

Or maybe I just told myself that.

Because I wasn’t really alone.

 

 

It must’ve been early autumn when my cousin Mia came to live with us. The leaves had just started turning, and the air smelled like rain and damp soil. I remember that smell clearly — like something getting ready to sleep.

 

Her dad, my mom’s brother, had died in a car accident. I didn’t know him well. He lived in a different city, and we only saw each other on birthdays or holidays. I remember the funeral mostly because everyone was whispering, and no one looked directly at Mia.

 

She moved into the guest room at the end of the hall. It used to be full of my mom’s old boxes — paperwork, clothes, and things we never used but never threw away. We cleared it out together, and Mia barely said a word the whole time.

 

At first, I wasn’t sure how to feel about her being there. She was only a year older than me, but she acted like she wasn’t a kid at all. She spoke quietly, moved like a shadow, and never seemed surprised by anything. Like she already knew what was going to happen before it did.

 

But she was nice.

She never teased me or ignored me like other kids sometimes did. She even started waiting for me after school so we could walk home together. I started to like having her around. She made the silence in the house feel less heavy.

 

Still… there was something about her that didn’t sit right.

I couldn’t explain it then — not even to myself.

But sometimes, I’d catch her staring at things that weren’t there.

And once, just once, I heard her talking to someone in her room.

But when I opened the door, she was sitting alone. Smiling.

 

The weeks went by, and Mia stayed strange — but not in a way I could explain to my mom. She was polite, helped with chores, even laughed sometimes when we watched cartoons. But then came the moments where her smile froze too long, or where she’d stop mid-sentence and stare at the hallway like she’d heard something I hadn’t.

 

One evening, I walked past her room and heard her whispering again. This time, it sounded like she was answering someone.

But her voice was low — not scared, not playful. Just… tired.

When I opened the door, she was sitting in the dark, legs crossed on the floor, looking at the window.

 

She didn’t look at me when I asked who she was talking to.

She just said, “You shouldn’t leave your curtains open at night.”

 

After that, she changed.

She stopped waiting for me after school. She didn’t sit with me during dinner. Most nights, she barely spoke at all. She’d just stare at her plate, chewing slowly like she wasn’t even hungry.

 

Then one night, I heard something outside my room.

 

A soft dragging sound. Like someone pulling a blanket across the floor.

I opened the door and found Mia curled up in the hallway, halfway between her room and mine, her head resting against the wall, eyes open but unfocused.

 

“Mia?” I whispered.

 

She flinched hard — like I’d shouted.

 

“I don’t wanna be in there,” she mumbled.

She wouldn’t tell me why. Just kept glancing down the hallway, toward the guest room.

 

I told her she could sleep in my room if she wanted.

She nodded once, quickly, and followed me inside like a shadow. She didn’t even ask to take the bed — just climbed in, turned her face to the wall, and pulled the blanket over her head.

 

I took the old sleeping chair by the window.

Pulled a thin blanket over myself.

The house stayed quiet.

 

Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy.

And sometime between one breath and the next —

I drifted off.

 

But even in sleep,

my mind stayed near the door.

 

 

That night, I couldn’t fall asleep.

 

Mia lay still beside me in the bed, her back turned, the blanket pulled all the way over her head. I sat in the old chair by the window, staring into the dark.

The house was quiet — except for the occasional creak of the beams. But after a while, something changed.

A new sound.

 

Soft, dragging scratches.

Then… footsteps.

Slow. Careful. Coming from the guest room.

 

I sat up straighter. The noise wasn’t loud — it was subtle, like someone trying not to be heard. Or someone who had learned how to move quietly.

 

I looked at Mia. She didn’t move at all.

 

“Mia,” I whispered.

No response.

 

Slowly, I stood and opened the door. The hallway was pitch black, but I knew the way. I took a few steps toward the guest room.

 

The scratching stopped.

 

My hand reached for the doorknob.

 

Just before I could touch it —

a cold hand grabbed my wrist.

 

I gasped and turned sharply. Mia was right behind me, her face pale, eyes wide.

 

“Don’t,” she whispered.

Her voice barely audible. “I think she’s in there.”

 

My heart was pounding. “Who? Who is in there??”

 

She just shook her head, holding my wrist tighter. “I think she is sleeping inside”

 

We stood there for a moment — me frozen, her trembling. Then, without another word, she turned and walked back to my room.

And I followed.

 

Neither of us said anything after that.

She got back into bed without a sound.

I sat back down in the chair.

Eventually, the house was quiet again.

 

But I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

 

The next morning, I decided I had to know.

 

Whatever was in that room —

I needed to see it.

 

The morning light made everything seem smaller, quieter — almost safe.

 

Mia was still asleep when I got up. I slipped out of the room and crept down the hallway toward the guest room. My hand hovered over the doorknob for a second, but this time there was no sound.

No scratching.

No footsteps.

 

I opened the door.

 

Nothing.

 

The bed was still made — the sheets neatly tucked, undisturbed.

The old piano stood in the corner, the one that used to belong to my dad. Its keys were dusty, untouched for years.

A toy chest sat under the window, filled with forgotten action figures and bent comic books from when I was little.

Everything exactly as it should be.

As if nothing had ever happened.

 

I stood there for a while, just listening.

But the room felt… ordinary. Not even cold.

 

Maybe it was a dream, I thought.

The sound, the hand on my wrist, Mia’s words — maybe it had all bled together from a half-sleep state.

After all, she hadn’t said anything about it that morning. Not one word.

 

So I let it go.

Tried to, anyway.

 

The rest of the day felt normal. I packed my schoolbag, ate a piece of toast, and left without waking Mia.

But something was off.

 

She didn’t show up at school.

 

I waited for her outside during recess. I even looked around on the bus ride home.

Nothing.

 

When I got back, she was curled up on the living room couch, a blanket around her shoulders and her eyes on the TV.

 

“Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

 

She didn’t look at me. “I’m sick.”

 

That was all she said.

 

My mom was still at work, so I sat down next to her, trying not to ask too many questions.

We put on a movie — something old and harmless — and watched in silence. Eventually, Mia leaned against my shoulder.

Neither of us said a word.

 

We both fell asleep like that.

Right there on the couch.

Two kids pretending everything was fine.

 

That night, I woke up to the sound of murmuring.

 

At first, I thought it was Mia — maybe dreaming, talking in her sleep.

But the sound didn’t come from next to me.

It came from behind the couch.

 

Low.

Garbled.

As if someone were whispering through a wall of water — and more than one voice at once.

 

I lay completely still, barely breathing.

The murmurs twisted around each other like tangled threads. I couldn’t make out any words, just fragments — syllables stretched wrong, like names spoken backward.

 

For a while, I did nothing. Just stared into the dark, hoping it would stop.

But it didn’t.

 

Slowly, painfully slowly, I forced myself to turn my head.

 

What I saw — or thought I saw — was barely visible.

Just beyond the corner of the wall, at the edge of the hallway’s shadows…

 

A hand.

 

Thin. Pale. Fingers too long.

Resting against the edge of the doorframe like it didn’t belong there.

 

And above it — two eyes.

Not glowing. Not moving.

Just… white.

Like blind glass marbles buried in a face I couldn’t see.

 

My breath caught in my throat.

I blinked.

And in that single second —

 

It was gone.

 

No hand.

No eyes.

No sound.

 

The murmuring had stopped completely, as if it had never been there at all.

 

I sat up too fast, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. I felt like I might throw up.

Mia stirred beside me.

 

I shook her gently. “Mia. Mia, wake up.”

 

She opened her eyes and blinked slowly. “What?”

 

“There was… someone. I think I saw someone.”

I waited for her to say something. To ask what I meant.

She didn’t.

 

She just looked at me for a long time, then lay back down.

“I didn’t see anything,” she said quietly.

And turned her back to me.

 

The next morning, Mia barely said a word.

 

She sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of dry cereal, poking at it like she’d forgotten how eating worked. Her eyes were glassy, her shoulders tense. When I asked if she remembered anything from the night before, she shook her head.

 

“No,” she said, without looking up. “Nothing happened.”

 

She didn’t ask what I saw. Didn’t even seem curious.

 

Later that day, after she disappeared into her room, I found myself wandering back toward the living room. I stood in the exact spot where I’d seen that hand, trying to convince myself I had dreamed it. Maybe I was overtired. Maybe I’d imagined it.

 

Then I noticed something on the corner of the wall.

 

A faint, greasy smear — like a handprint.

Long fingers. Too long.

Just high enough that I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t looking closely.

 

And next to it, caught on the sharp edge of the baseboard, was a scrap of fabric.

 

It was frayed and faded, almost gray, but there was something about the material — soft, like worn cotton, maybe from a shirt. Or pajamas.

 

I picked it up. It felt old. Wrong.

 

I didn’t find anything else. No footprints, no sign that someone had been there. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had not imagined it.

 

The rest of the day passed slowly. I kept checking the hallway, glancing at the wall, listening for sounds that didn’t belong. Mia stayed in her room.

 

I waited for Mom to come home.

I even rehearsed what I was going to say.

About the sounds. The hand. The eyes. The fabric.

 

But she didn’t get back until after nine.

 

She looked tired — more than usual — and smelled like the antiseptic wipes from the nursing home.

When I told her I needed to talk, she smiled and said, “In the morning, sweetheart. I just need to sit down for a second.”

She fell asleep on the couch ten minutes later.

 

I didn’t bring it up again.

 

Later that weekend, she told us she was starting a second job — part-time, just for a little while, just on weekends.

 

That meant we’d be alone a lot more.

Just Mia.

And me.

And whatever else lived in that house.

 

By Sunday afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore.

 

Mia had barely spoken to me all weekend, and the silence in the house felt heavier than usual — like something had settled into the walls.

I told myself I just wanted to clear my head, but I ended up standing in front of the guest room door again.

 

The one Mia used to sleep in.

 

The one I’d heard the scratching from.

 

I opened the door slowly. The air inside was stale and still.

 

Everything looked exactly the same.

The bed was still made.

The piano still untouched.

The toy chest still closed.

 

I started searching anyway.

 

I looked under the bed. In the drawers. Behind the curtains. I even checked the closet, half-expecting something — someone — to be standing there in the dark.

 

But there was nothing.

 

Just dust. Silence.

And me, acting like a scared little kid.

 

I almost turned to leave, when something on the desk caught my eye.

 

A stack of paper. Not new — old, yellowing at the edges. My drawings.

 

They were mine. I recognized the shaky handwriting in the corners.

I used to draw all the time when I was little — mostly monsters, superheroes, things from cartoons. I hadn’t thought about them in years.

 

But someone had laid them out.

Neatly. In a fan shape across the desk, like they’d been… studied.

 

I picked one up.

 

At first, it looked the same. A stick figure with claws and red eyes, fighting a dragon. But the paper was wrinkled — like someone had pressed it down with their palm.

And then I noticed something strange.

 

In the corner of the page, someone had drawn another figure.

Faint. Almost invisible.

A tall shape, outlined in a pale, ghostly color.

Long hair. Hollow eyes.

Standing just behind the boy I’d drawn.

 

It was the same on another page. And the next.

 

Always in the background.

Always watching.

 

I stared at the drawings for a long time, trying to remember if I’d done it.

Had I drawn her there, back then?

Or had someone else added it later?

 

I thought about Mia.

I wanted to believe it was her — some weird prank. But something inside me knew better.

The lines were too careful. Too quiet.

 

Not the kind of thing a kid adds.

More like something that wants to be forgotten.

 

I must have stared at those drawings for almost an hour.

Trying to convince myself it was nothing.

That maybe I did draw her, years ago. That it was just some kid thing — ghosts, shadows, imaginary friends.

But deep down, I knew better.

 

I was still holding one of the pages when Mia stepped into the doorway behind me.

 

“You saw her too, didn’t you?”

 

Her voice was so soft I barely heard it.

But the words felt like ice.

 

I turned to her slowly.

“What?”

 

She didn’t repeat it. Just looked down at the papers in my hands, then turned around and walked back down the hall.

 

I wanted to run after her. To ask what she meant.

But something stopped me.

 

Fear, maybe. Or the way she said too — like this wasn’t a new thing.

 

I spent the rest of the day pacing in my room, not sure what to believe. I kept telling myself it was all some misunderstanding. A mix-up.

Monsters like that don’t exist.

People don’t just show up in drawings.

No one could’ve been standing in the hallway that night.

And besides — I didn’t know any woman like that.

I never had.

 

That night, I fell asleep later than usual.

 

And then I heard the voices again.

 

Not murmuring this time. Not muffled.

Clearer. Closer.

 

Whispers, soft and breathy, curling like smoke around the edge of my pillow.

Not coming from behind the wall.

Not from the hallway.

 

From the living room.

 

I got up, heart hammering, and followed the sound. The lights were off, the house quiet — but the whispers were there, waiting for me.

 

I followed them to the couch.

 

And there, half-tucked beneath the armrest like it had been forgotten long ago, was a small, battered tape recorder.

The kind with a worn play button and a leather wrist strap.

 

It was on.

 

The reel inside spun softly, and the voice — no, voices — kept playing.

All wrong.

Like someone trying to sound gentle. Like lullabies with something rotten underneath.

 

“I need you…”

“Come here, sweetheart…”

“I’ve been waiting…”

 

It sounded familiar. Like someone who belonged in a home. A mother. A sister. A friend.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

And when I picked the recorder up —

The tape stopped.

 

Click.

 

Just silence.

 

I barely slept the rest of the night.

 

The recorder sat under my pillow, cold and silent, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the things it had said.

The voice — the way it pulled at something inside me, like it knew me. Like it belonged here.

 

When I finally drifted off, I had no dreams.

Just darkness.

 

In the morning, I rushed to find Mom.

She was in the kitchen, pouring coffee and tying her hair up for another shift.

 

“Wait,” I said. “I need to show you something.”

 

She turned, half-distracted. “Can it wait, sweetie? I’m already late.”

 

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Just a second.”

 

I ran back to my room, pulled the pillow aside—

And froze.

 

The recorder was gone.

 

I flipped the pillow over. Checked under the bed. Searched the floor, the desk, the drawers.

 

Nothing.

 

Just a few scraps of fabric.

Thin. Torn. Pale.

One of them had a faded little flower pattern on it. Like it had once been part of a dress.

 

I stood there, breathing hard.

 

Then I went straight to Mia’s room.

 

She was sitting on the bed, staring at the floor like she was trying not to exist.

 

“You took it,” I said.

 

She blinked. “What?”

 

“The recorder. You took it back.”

 

Her voice was flat. “What recorder?”

 

“The one from last night. You know what I’m talking about!”

 

She just shook her head slowly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Something in her voice made me stop.

It wasn’t defensive.

It was scared.

But not of me.

 

I stood there for a few seconds longer, then turned and walked out without saying another word.

 

Maybe she was lying.

Or maybe…

Maybe she really didn’t know.

 

That night, I heard the recorder again.

 

I was already in bed, staring at the ceiling, when it started — soft and broken, like it was buried under floorboards.

 

A familiar voice.

Not mine. Not Mia’s.

But something almost human.

 

„I missed you…“

 

„Come upstairs…“

 

At first I thought it was coming from the living room again. But no — the sound was higher.

Fainter.

Above us.

 

The attic.

 

My chest tightened.

 

I hadn’t been up there in years. I used to have nightmares about it when I was little — dreams of something crawling behind the insulation, whispering through the boards. My mom always said it was just mice.

 

But this wasn’t mice.

 

I stood in the hallway, staring at the square hatch in the ceiling.

The sound was clearer now.

 

„Mia,“ I whispered through her door. „Mia, please. Come with me.“

 

She opened her door slowly, eyes wide, like she already knew.

 

“It’s the recorder,” I said. “I think it’s up there.”

 

Mia shook her head immediately. “No.”

 

“Please. I don’t want to go alone.”

 

She stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then, finally, nodded.

 

We climbed the ladder slowly. Every creak sounded like it would give us away.

The attic was freezing, and the air smelled like dust, dry wood, and something… old.

 

In the far corner, lit by the pale orange glow of a streetlight filtering through a crack in the roof, was a small wooden table.

 

On top of it — the recorder.

 

It wasn’t playing anymore.

 

We stepped closer. The floor groaned beneath us.

 

The recorder sat motionless. Silent.

But then —

 

The whispers returned.

 

Not from the table.

From behind us.

 

A different corner.

 

The voices were wrong again. Like someone trying too hard to sound kind.

 

“I know you…”

“You’re mine now…”

 

And just as the last syllable faded,

a shadow moved across the mirror beside the table.

 

Quick.

Too quick.

 

A shape.

A figure.

 

Gone.

 

Both of us gasped and backed away at the same time.

 

“Go,” Mia whispered.

 

We didn’t run. We scrambled — down the ladder, tripping over each other, pulling the attic hatch shut so hard it shook the ceiling.

 

We stood in the hallway for a long time, breathing hard, not saying anything.

 

Whatever we saw —

Whatever we heard —

Neither of us could explain it.

 

And we didn’t try.

 

We didn’t talk much the rest of that night.

 

We sat in the hallway, backs against the wall, both of us shaking but pretending not to.

Eventually, I whispered, “What was that?”

 

Mia didn’t answer.

 

I waited, but she just stared at the floor.

 

“I saw something,” I said. “In the mirror.”

 

Still no reply.

 

Then, finally, her voice came out — quiet, hoarse.

 

“That recorder…” she said. “It was my dad’s.”

 

I turned to her. “What?”

 

She didn’t look at me.

 

“He used it when I was little. He worked late all the time — night shifts. I wouldn’t see him for days sometimes. So he started leaving messages for me on the tape. Things like… ‘Good night, Mia’ or ‘I’m proud of you.’”

 

She swallowed.

 

“I used to wake up and run to it first thing in the morning, just to hear his voice.”

 

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.

 

“He always rewound it before he left. Every night. Like it was a gift. Like he was still there.”

 

Her hands were shaking now.

 

“The night of the accident… he never came home. They found the recorder in the wreck. But it was fine. No cracks, no scratches. Still running.”

 

She looked up at me for the first time.

 

“But I never listened to the last tape.”

 

I blinked. “Why not?”

 

She didn’t answer right away. Her voice came out in a whisper.

 

“Because ever since he died… it’s been saying things he never would.”

 

Mia’s words stayed with me the whole night.

Even after she went quiet.

Even after I hugged her, and we both went to bed without saying anything else.

 

I didn’t sleep much.

My thoughts were too loud.

 

The next morning, we walked to school together in silence.

We didn’t talk about the mirror. Or the voices.

But I knew she was thinking the same thing I was:

 

What was that on the attic?

 

All day, I felt like something was just behind me.

Watching. Waiting.

Nothing happened. No noises. No notes. No whispers.

But that didn’t make it better.

It made it worse.

 

After school, we came home and dropped our backpacks in the hallway.

 

No one was home — Mom had taken another double shift.

The house felt hollow without her.

 

We sat in the living room again, turned on a movie we’d already seen a dozen times, and waited.

Waited for the recorder.

Waited for a sound.

Waited for her.

 

But nothing came.

 

The night passed in perfect silence.

 

And for a moment — just a moment — it felt like maybe whatever had been there was gone.

 

The next morning, that hope shattered.

 

We both got dressed for school, half-asleep and moving slow.

But something was off.

 

My shirt — my favorite one — had a tear across the stomach.

A clean slit, like it had been cut with scissors or a knife.

 

At first, I thought it was just old. Maybe I hadn’t noticed before.

But then Mia gasped.

 

She was holding her sweater.

 

Three small holes had been cut near the collar. Almost in a pattern.

Like someone had taken little pieces.

 

We looked at each other, not saying a word.

Then we checked the rest of our clothes.

 

Almost everything we’d laid out the night before — things we had planned to wear — had been damaged.

Small holes.

Clean slits.

Fabric missing.

 

Mia’s voice trembled: “Why would someone do this?”

 

I didn’t have an answer.

And Mom was gone.

There was no one to tell. No one to help.

 

We changed into whatever we could find and left for school — trying to act like everything was normal.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

Something had been in our rooms.

While we slept.

 

The day after the torn clothes passed like nothing had happened.

We ate together.

Watched another old movie.

Even went outside for a while — something we hadn’t done in days.

 

That evening, after brushing our teeth and turning off the lights, we sat on my bed, whispering stories from before everything changed.

About school. About summer vacations.

About our dads.

 

Mia told me how her father used to make up songs for her when she couldn’t sleep. I told her how mine once built me a treehouse that leaned so badly we weren’t allowed to use it.

 

We laughed. For the first time in a while, it felt like we were just kids again.

 

And then —

The recorder.

 

The sound drifted down like fog from the attic.

 

Click.

Whirrrrr.

Voices.

 

Soft at first, then clearer.

 

A man’s voice.

A woman’s.

A child’s.

 

But they didn’t sound right.

They sounded… warped. Familiar. Kind.

But hollow, stretched like tape pulled too tight.

 

We froze.

 

“We said we’d never go back up there,” Mia whispered.

 

“I know,” I said.

The voices didn’t stop.

 

“I need you…”

“I miss you…”

“You found me once — do it again…”

 

Each word hit differently — like it knew something about us.

Like it remembered things we’d forgotten.

 

We stood together, grabbed the old flashlight and my dad’s cracked baseball bat from under the bed.

 

And we climbed.

 

The attic was darker than before.

Still cold. Still silent — except for the recorder, still playing.

 

It sat on the same wooden table. But now, beside it, something new.

 

A doll.

 

No — not a doll. A figure.

Made of fabric.

Stuffed with old paper, bent wire for arms, black button eyes sewn into a pale, sagging face.

And the worst part —

The material.

Patches of cloth we recognized instantly.

From our shirts.

From our sleeves.

From our clothes.

 

Pinned to the front was a small piece of paper. Childlike handwriting.

 

“You found me.

Love,

Mama.

Stitchmother.”

 

Mia backed up a step.

I dropped the flashlight.

 

We stared at the thing in silence, hearts racing.

 

“That wasn’t here before,” I said.

 

“No one’s been up here but us,” Mia whispered.

Then: “Who made it?”

 

We didn’t want to know the answer.

 

We turned to leave — only to find the attic door closed.

 

Not stuck.

Shut.

 

We yanked.

Pushed.

Pulled with everything we had.

 

Nothing.

 

We were trapped.

 

Breathing hard, we backed into the far corner, flashlight flickering.

 

That’s when we saw it.

Just outside the attic window.

 

A silhouette.

Tall.

Still.

Hair long and matted like strings of wet rope.

 

We couldn’t see her face — just her shape in the faint glow of the streetlight.

And then we heard it.

 

A sound that made every part of me freeze:

 

A laugh.

Or a sob.

Or both.

 

High-pitched. Gurgling. Like someone trying to sound happy with a mouth full of blood.

 

Then —

CRACK.

 

The attic door flung open.

 

We didn’t wait.

 

We scrambled down the ladder, stumbled through the hallway, and slammed the bedroom door behind us.

Jumped under the blankets.

Too old for it, but too scared to care.

 

We didn’t speak.

Not at first.

Then I heard Mia’s voice, shaking.

 

“This has to stop.”

 

“We’re telling Mom tomorrow,” I said.

“I don’t care what she thinks. We’re not crazy.”

 

“Something’s here,” she whispered.

“Someone’s here.”

 

And under the blanket, in the dark, we cried.

 

We were ready to tell her everything.

 

We waited in the kitchen, hearts pounding, holding onto each other like the truth would save us. The attic. The recorder. The doll. The voices.

 

But when Mom walked through the door, she wasn’t listening.

She was furious.

 

“Who did this?” she snapped, holding up her favorite dress.

A deep, clean cut ran down the side, fabric hanging loose like a wound.

 

“This cost me a whole day’s pay,” she said, her voice trembling. “A whole day, gone.”

 

We tried to explain, but she didn’t want to hear it.

 

“I don’t care about your stories. I don’t care what game this is. I’m stressed enough already. I have to leave again in an hour. You think this house pays for itself?”

 

Her voice cracked as she tossed the dress onto the counter.

 

“You’re grounded. Both of you. No TV. No going outside. You stay in this house and figure out what’s wrong with you two.”

 

She slapped a few bills down next to the microwave.

 

“There’s money for dinner. Order something. But no more sneaking around. I mean it.”

 

Then she grabbed her bag and slammed the door behind her.

 

We sat in silence for a long time.

 

Mia was the first to speak. “She didn’t even ask.”

 

I nodded. “She thinks we’re lying.”

 

That night, as the sky darkened and the light slipped from the windows, we made a plan.

 

“There’s a spare key in the kitchen drawer,” I said. “We can lock my door from the inside.”

 

Mia nodded. “No matter what we hear, we don’t open it. Not for anything.”

 

I found the key. We locked the door.

Pushed my dresser in front of it too, just in case.

 

And then we lay down.

Fully clothed.

Shoes on.

Eyes wide.

 

Nothing came in.

 

But something was out there.

 

We heard it after midnight.

Steps. Slow. Gentle.

Stopping just outside my door.

 

Then, a voice.

 

Soft. Crooked.

Too sweet.

 

“Oh, my darlings… are you already in bed?”

 

We held our breath.

 

“I could’ve sung you a lullaby…”

 

Mia buried her head in her arms. I gripped her hand so tight I thought I might break it.

 

Then —

A knock.

 

Light. Rhythmic. Not angry.

Patient.

 

“Sleep well, little ones…”

 

We held our ears.

Squeezed our eyes shut.

 

And then we heard it —

a soft scraping.

Something being slid under the door.

 

Neither of us dared to move.

Not until long after the steps were gone.

Not until silence returned.

 

We stayed like that.

Frozen.

Pressed together under the blanket.

 

Somehow, we fell asleep.

Or maybe we passed out.

 

We didn’t check what she left for us.

 

Not yet.

 

We woke up late.

 

Not just tired — drenched in sweat, hearts still pounding from the voice, the knock, the sound under the door.

 

For a while, we didn’t speak.

 

I sat up first, rubbed my face, and looked toward the door.

 

There was something on the floor.

 

At first, I thought it was a note. Or some twisted gift.

 

But when I looked closer, I saw the truth —

A wire. Thin. Bent.

Attached to a hook.

 

It wasn’t something that had been given to us.

It was something that had been reaching in.

 

The key.

The one we left on the dresser.

 

The hook had scratched the wood — I could see the faint trail it had left, dragging across the surface in an arc.

 

It had tried to fish the key out.

 

Tried to unlock the door from the inside.

 

My blood ran cold.

 

Mia saw it too.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

 

We just stared at it.

And time passed.

 

We were supposed to be getting ready for school.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

 

Eventually, I whispered, “We have to open the door.”

 

Mia shook her head. “What if she’s still there?”

 

“We don’t have a choice.”

 

I walked to the door. My hands trembled as I reached for the key.

Turned it slowly.

Held my breath.

 

The lock clicked.

 

I opened the door.

 

Nothing.

 

No figure.

No sounds.

Just the cold hallway, lit by gray morning light.

 

We got dressed.

Grabbed our bags.

And left the house without eating breakfast.

 

The walk to school felt longer than usual.

 

Every sound behind us made us flinch.

Every shadow seemed to stretch too far.

 

And still — one small thought gave us hope.

 

“Tonight,” Mia whispered. “Mom’s home.”

 

I nodded.

 

We clung to that like a rope in the dark.

 

We wouldn’t be alone.

Not tonight.

 

We had someone.

We had her.

 

At least…

That’s what we thought.

 

When we got home from school, Mom was already there.

 

She sat on the couch, shoulders slouched, face pale with exhaustion.

An empty coffee mug in her lap.

 

„Can you two please keep it down tonight?“ she said, not unkindly. „I just want to watch my show in peace.“

 

We both nodded right away.

“Of course,” I said.

Mia didn’t say anything — just quietly sat down next to her.

 

We watched with her.

Some crime series, slow and dark and quiet.

 

After a while, I looked at her and asked, “Can we sleep out here tonight? Maybe… all of us?”

 

She smiled, almost sadly. “Sure.”

 

We built a nest of blankets on the floor, and she stretched out on the couch.

It felt safer. For a while.

 

Until we heard it.

 

A voice.

Not shouting. Not whispering.

 

Just speaking.

 

Soft. Steady.

Coming from the kitchen.

 

We all heard it.

 

Mom sat up. “Did you leave something on?”

 

“No,” I said.

 

She stood.

We followed her to the kitchen.

 

And there it was.

 

Sitting on the counter.

The same old recorder.

Mia’s recorder.

 

But the voice wasn’t hers.

It wasn’t ours.

 

It sounded… wrong.

Like someone trying to remember how to speak.

 

Mom stepped forward and picked it up slowly.

Her hands shook.

 

“This was your uncle’s,” she said softly. “How…?”

 

She looked at Mia. “How do I turn it off?”

 

“It turns off by itself,” I said.

 

“No,” she said. “It’s not on. I mean — it was. But now it won’t play.”

 

She pressed the buttons. Nothing.

No voice.

No tape.

 

Just silence.

 

Then she gave it back to Mia.

Her voice small.

 

“Just… keep it safe, okay? That recorder’s been in our family a long time.”

 

Mia nodded and took it, hands trembling.

 

We didn’t say anything else.

 

We just stood there.

 

And for the rest of the night —

the house stayed quiet.

 

But something about that silence felt worse than any voice we’d heard before.

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