It was a cold autumn night when I had the experience that still haunts me to this day. I remember it vividly, every detail etched into my memory like a scar. It was the kind of night that made the house feel quieter than usual, the walls seeming to press in with an unnatural stillness. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, rattling the branches against the windows.
I had gone to bed early, exhausted from a long day of work. My husband, Mark, was already sound asleep beside me, his soft snores a rhythmic reminder of his presence. Our son, Liam, was away on a weekend camping trip with his school, something he had been looking forward to for weeks. It was his first time spending the night away from home, and though I missed him, I was glad he was getting to enjoy himself.
At some point in the night, I woke up suddenly, my throat parched and dry. I turned to check the clock on my nightstand: 3:00 a.m. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards, an old house’s way of settling into the night. I got up, wrapping my robe around me as I padded down the hall to the kitchen for a glass of water.
As I passed by Liam’s room, I heard it—a sleepy, muffled voice calling out to me from inside.
“Mom, can you turn off the light?”
My heart skipped a beat, but in my half-asleep state, I reacted instinctively rather than rationally. Without questioning it, I reached in and flicked off the bedside lamp that was illuminating his empty room. Then, with a yawn, I continued to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, and drank it down in slow gulps.
It wasn’t until I was climbing back into bed that the reality of what had just happened dawned on me.
Liam wasn’t home.
The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity. My mind raced to process what I had just experienced. I knew that voice. It had been Liam’s voice—his tone, his pitch, the way he always spoke when he was half-asleep. But how could that be? He was miles away, camping in the woods with his classmates. I sat frozen, gripping the edge of my blanket, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
I forced myself to get up and check his room. My hands trembled as I pushed the door open wider. The room was exactly as we had left it—a neatly made bed, his favorite stuffed bear resting on the pillow, the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling casting a faint shimmer. There was no sign that anyone had been there. And yet, I had heard him. I was sure of it.
A shiver ran down my spine as I slowly backed out of the room and shut the door behind me. I returned to bed, curling up under the blankets, my mind unable to settle. Should I wake Mark? I hesitated. He was a skeptic when it came to anything remotely paranormal. He would likely dismiss my experience as a dream or a trick of the mind. But I knew what I had heard.
Eventually, sleep overtook me, though it was restless and filled with strange, fragmented dreams. The next morning, as I sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee, I finally decided to tell Mark what had happened. As expected, he laughed it off.
“You probably dreamt it,” he said, shaking his head. “Or maybe you just thought you heard something. You were half-asleep, right?”
I nodded, but deep down, I wasn’t convinced. It had been too clear, too real.
Later that evening, Liam called to check in. Hearing his voice over the phone sent an eerie chill through me—it was the exact voice I had heard the night before. As we spoke, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I didn’t tell him about what happened; I didn’t want to scare him.
Days passed, and I tried to put the incident behind me. But then, strange things started happening around the house. Objects were moved from their usual places, lights flickered without explanation, and at times, I swore I heard faint whispers echoing through the halls.
One night, as I was folding laundry in the living room, I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned sharply, my heart hammering in my chest, but there was nothing there. Just the dimly lit hallway leading to Liam’s room. I took a hesitant step forward when, once again, I heard it.
“Mom…”
The whisper was soft, almost pleading. I bolted up the stairs, threw open Liam’s door, and flipped on the light. The room was empty, just as it had been the last time. My pulse pounded in my ears as I scanned the space, looking for any sign that someone had been there. Nothing.
That was the last straw. I refused to sleep alone in the house without Mark awake by my side. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew one thing: something had imitated my son’s voice, and it had spoken to me in the dead of night.
I still don’t have an explanation for what I experienced that night. Maybe it was a dream, maybe my mind was playing tricks on me, or maybe—just maybe—something beyond my understanding was trying to reach me. Either way, that moment still lingers in the back of my mind, and to this day, I can’t hear my son call for me at night without a chill running down my spine.
