Some nights, I pretend to be asleep just to hear who my mother is really talking to.
.
The lullaby she sings isn't for me. It's to keep something else asleep.
.—.
I stopped sleeping with the lights off when I was eight. That's when I first heard her talking to the hallway closet. Not angrily, not loudly. Just whispering, except the words weren't in any language I knew.
At first, I thought she was on the phone. But then I noticed it only happened at night, when the house was still and she thought I was asleep. Always facing the same closet ...the hallway closet outside my bedroom door.
It started with murmurs, like prayers. Then I heard names. Names I'd never heard her say during the day. I wrote them down once; Eda, Silma.., Krauun, and asked her in the morning if they were old family members. She smiled, but her eyes didn't. "Don't repeat those names," she said. "They don't belong to you."
I tried to ignore it. I stopped listening. I turned on white noises at night.
One evening, I woke up around 2 a.m. to a sound like fingers brushing my door, no knock, no handle turn. Just skin. Then came her voice, trembling like she was afraid;
"You have to stay quiet this time... Just move...."
I held my breath, my bedroom door never opened, but the whispering didn't stop for another hour. She wasn't alone. I heard something answer her from inside the closet. I couldn't hear the words. Just a quiet voice that sounded a lot like mine. Maybe I was just imagining it.
The next morning, I asked her what she was doing. She said, "I think you're dreaming too much. You should stop eating sugar at night."
.
One day when she was out, I decided to check the closet myself. It looked normal, with boxes, and old coats but the air was stale, heavier somehow, and it smelled like wet dirt. Like something had just been buried.
My cat, Miso, padded in while I was still standing there. I picked her up, needing the comfort. But when I turned her toward the closet, she went stiff.
Her body bristled, her ears flattened, and she let out a guttural growl I'd never heard from her before. She clawed at my arms until I dropped her. She ran, scratching the floor in her panic, and didn't come back into the hallway the rest of the day.
That evening, we sat across from each other, eating in silence. The only sounds were the soft clinks of forks on ceramic and the occasional creak of the old house settling.
Then she started mumbling.
At first, I thought she was just talking to herself. But her voice was low...too low.. like she was trying not to wake someone.
I glanced up.
She wasn't looking at me.
Her eyes were focused on the empty chair at the far end of the table. She tilted her head slightly, smiling faintly, and nodded as if someone had said something.
"Mom?" I said.
She didn't blink. Her lips kept moving, but no sound came out now.
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. "What's going on?"
That's when her expression changed. Her mouth opened just a little too wide. Her pupils looked darker than usual.
She went still, the fork halfway to her mouth. Then her eyes filled with tears.
"It's not ready," she whispered, but not to me, and shaking her head. "Not yet. Please, not yet."
I stood slowly, walked around to her side of the table, and placed my hand on hers. She was trembling. Small, fragile sobs broke from her throat. I waited, hoping she'd say something. But she didn't.
And then, like a scene cut in a film, she suddenly looked up.
Her face changed. Instantly.
The trembling stopped, the crying stopped. And she smiled ...broadly, at me.
"So," she said brightly, "what do you feel like for dessert tonight?"
I stared at her, still holding her hand.
She smiled wider.
Like nothing had happened at all.
———
I woke up to fingers running gently through my hair.
At first, I thought I was dreaming, until the lullaby began.
Low. Melodic. But wrong.
It was that same language I'd heard through the walls, the one that makes your stomach twist and your teeth clench.
She sat on the edge of my bed, I can't see her face; it's swallowed by the dark.
But her hand keeps moving, slow and rhythmic, stroking my hair like she's lulling something else to sleep. Her eyes are half-closed, swaying as she hums that twisted tune.
And then I realize—
I forgot to turn off my bedroom light before falling asleep.
I kept my breathing slow and shallow, pretending to sleep. limbs screaming to move, to run, but something in me knows:
Don't let her know you're awake.
Don't move.
The singing stops.
She sniffles.
A choked, trembling sob leaks through her lips.
She starts crying quietly, like she's trying not to be heard. Like she's afraid.
"No..." she whispers, her voice cracking like a child's. "He still dreams like a child… still soft…"
I almost convinced myself she's sleep-talking—
Until her hand suddenly tangles in my hair and pulls.
I flinched and let out a sharp gasp. "Mama—!"
She goes still.
Her grip loosened… then shifts. Her fingers wrapped tightly around my trembling arms.
Her face inches closer. I can smell her breath,..warm, wrong, too close. Her eyes are wide with terror. Her voice shakes as she hisses:
"Don't say anything."
"Don't say a word anymore."
I was too scared to speak. I couldn't even nod.
She held me like that for a long, shuddering moment. Her breath was hot and ragged against my cheek. Her hands were too tight, like if she lets go, I'll vanish. Her eyes darting around the room.
Then, like a switch flipping, she goes completely still.
"Mom?" I whispered, so softly it barely made a sound.
She was at eye level with me.
But she wasn't looking at me.
She looked past me.
Behind me....
Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open.
Then she screamed.
A shriek in that same language, raw and furious, like it didn't belong in a human mouth.
I tore free from her grasp, stumbled backward, and bolted out of my room. My bare feet slapped against the wooden floor as I ran to her bedroom. I threw the door shut behind me with a loud click.
Silence.
I curled up on the floor, trying to breathe. My ears rang, and my skin still burned where she'd grabbed me.
I keep thinking about the way she looked through me. The way she smiled after crying. The way her voice changed when she wasn't speaking to me.
And I couldn't shake the feeling... that whatever's living in this house…whatever was sitting at my bedside—
I don't think it was my mother anymore.
I started hearing footsteps.
Soft. Bare. And getting closer.
A shadow moved under the crack of the door, followed by a quiet knock.
Then I heard her voice, and it was calm.
"Sweetheart," she said gently, "why are you still awake?"
---
I realize now…
Those were the first words she said that night.
It's happening again.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
—I think I'm what it's waiting for.