“My Son Sees Dead Grandma: He Whispers ‘Lucy is Watching'”

MY SON KEPT SAYING “LUCY IS WATCHING” AND THERE’S NO LUCY HERE

I was tucking him in when he pointed to the corner of the room, his eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see. The air in his bedroom suddenly felt heavy, thick with a chill that went straight through me.

“She doesn’t like the new rug,” he whispered, pulling his blanket higher. His little hand, usually so warm, felt like ice against my cheek. I tried to make a joke, but his gaze was unblinking.

A faint, sweet floral scent, like old potpourri, wafted from that empty space, growing stronger. I hadn’t smelled that since Grandma Ruth’s house. Ruth… her middle name was Lucy.

I stood there, heart pounding, trying to reason with myself, to find a logical explanation for the growing cold. Then, the bedroom door, which I knew I’d closed tightly, slowly creaked inward.

Through the crack, a silhouette appeared, too tall for him, too thin for me.Panic clawed at my throat, stealing my voice. I wanted to scream, to run, but my legs felt rooted to the spot. The silhouette in the doorway didn’t move, just stood there, a dark void against the dim hallway light. I could barely breathe, the floral scent now suffocating, a cloying sweetness that filled my lungs.

My son, eyes still glued to the corner, whimpered. “She’s mad,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the frantic thudding of my heart. “She doesn’t like you.”

Suddenly, a high-pitched giggle echoed from the corner of the room. It was a sound that scraped against my nerves, a sound that didn’t belong to a child. It was light, airy, and utterly devoid of joy. Then, the giggle was followed by a single, distinct word, a whisper that brushed against my ear: “Leave.”

I finally found my voice, a shaky plea that barely registered in the room. “Lucy? Lucy, is that you?”

The silhouette in the doorway stirred, its form shifting slightly. I couldn’t see any features, just the stark outline of a person. It felt like an eternity, but finally, the figure retreated, the crack in the door widening further as it seemed to melt away from view. The door swung shut with a soft click, and the cold in the room began to recede.

I stumbled towards my son, pulling him close, and I grabbed him in my arms. I looked at the corner, but it was empty.

“It’s okay,” I croaked, trying to sound reassuring, though my own terror was still running high. “It was just a bad dream. Lucy’s gone now.”

I stayed with him the rest of the night, eventually feeling more comfortable. In the morning, after calling my own mother and hearing about how Grandma Ruth passed away. We spent a long and warm day at the beach, trying to shake the lingering dread. He didn’t mention Lucy again, not all day.

That night, I tucked him in. As I reached for the door, he stopped me. He pointed at the corner of the room, a shadow still clinging there in the dim light.

“She’s back,” he said, his voice calm. “She likes you now.”

But this time, I didn’t feel the cold. This time, the floral scent didn’t make my stomach churn. This time, I simply knelt down and hugged him tight, a different kind of fear bubbling up.

Then, he smiled, and said “she has a present for you.”

I looked up, and saw the silhouette, a small figure, standing by the door.

Then, as I embraced my son tightly, the room filled with the faintest of whispers, a chorus of voices, all saying, “Welcome Home, Mom.”