Around 3 a.m., I got up to grab a glass of water and clearly heard my son call out from his room, “Mom, can you turn off the light?”
Without thinking, I turned it off.
But as I climbed back into bed, I froze. My son wasn’t even home—he’d gone on a camping trip. Panic rose as I rushed to his room.
The light was off. His bed untouched. His sleeping bag still perfectly folded on the shelf. I switched the light back on. Everything looked exactly as it should—but that only made the feeling worse. You know that kind of chill that starts in your gut and creeps across your skin, like your body senses something’s wrong before your mind catches up?
I quietly called out, “Tomas?”
No response. Just the soft whir of the ceiling fan.
Maybe it was a dream. I’d been overwhelmed lately—money’s tight, and the clinic cut my hours. Stress does strange things to your mind, I reasoned.
Still, I double-checked every lock—front and back doors secure. Even peeked under the bed like a spooked child. It sounds silly, but I know what I heard.
I couldn’t sleep after that. Just lay there, eyes wide open, waiting for morning to take the edge off the silence.
When Tomas returned later that day, I acted normal but asked—nonchalantly—if he’d tried calling or anything during the night.
He looked confused. “No? We didn’t even have cell service. Why?”
I waved it off. “Nothing. Just a weird dream.”
That night, I caught myself pacing past his door again and again, needing to reassure myself he was really there. He was—sound asleep, snoring like his dad used to.
But something inside me had shifted. Something I couldn’t quite explain.
A few days later, I found our old baby monitor in the attic. We hadn’t used it since he was a toddler—he’s twelve now. I don’t know why I pulled it out, but I did. Set it up, one part in his room, one in mine. Just for peace of mind, I told myself.
Nothing happened for four nights. I began to feel ridiculous. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe I just missed his dad more than I wanted to admit.
Then came the fifth night.
It was 2:30 a.m. when I woke to the sound of static—like old-school radio fuzz. And then, clear as anything, a voice came through the monitor.
“Mom. Can you close the closet?”
I shot upright, heart pounding. I stared at the monitor, waiting for more.
But it stayed silent. Just that one sentence.
I ran to Tomas’s room.
He was fast asleep. The closet door already shut.
I stood still, unsure what to feel. Then I whispered, “Tomas?”
He shifted a little in bed but didn’t wake up.