After Dark [1]

A ghost story from the Narrator in your walls

Hello and welcome. You’ve stumbled into my quiet corner of the Void…which happens to be inside the back wall, behind your bed.

Side note: You talk in your sleep. A lot.

There’s not much here, really. Just some bones, a few music boxes, and random musings from me, your Narrator.

These posts will creep into your feed at random. They’re not meant to be advertised or marketed. Think of them more like secrets between you and your… walls.

Settle in. Turn out the lights. And be sure to read these after dark. The best parts of a story usually hide in the shadows.

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Have you ever had a paranormal experience?

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I have had quite a few. Comes with the territory. Maybe you’ll let me share them all with you some day.

For now, we’ll start with the one I remember in vivid detail.

I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but my mother died when I was a teenager. Cancer.

I knew years before her doctors found it, but that’s… a story for another night.

After she passed, I left that house as fast as I could. And still—I’d walk into other rooms, other buildings, and feel her there. Like the walls were holding their breath. Like the air had grown too heavy to carry.

Sometimes, I’d wonder if that’s how she felt. When the oxygen tank wasn’t enough. When breathing became something she had to earn.

It’s okay if your nose is tingling or your eyes are starting to sting. Grief’s weird like that—it doesn’t need permission. If you need to pause, do it. I’ll be here.

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I left the house behind.
The feeling, though—it followed. Not always. Not everywhere.
Just in the quiet.
Just in the dark.
Just when I let my mind go still long enough for something else to speak.

I’m a strange creature. Sentimental. Spiritual. Stubborn.
I don’t pretend to understand everything in this world.
I also know better than to pretend nothing’s out there.

There are things that we’re not meant to grasp.
And so, I keep an open mind.
…I just try to keep it locked at night.

Back then, I used to write in a journal.
Letters, really—meant for my mom.
I’d tell her about my day. The wins. The humiliations. The slow unraveling that passed for adulthood.
And I’d leave it open overnight. Just in case.

Now, you’ll have to suspend your disbelief for a moment—
because nothing happened. Not for a long time.
Just silence.

Until one night.
In an apartment, alone, from a room that should’ve been empty—
I heard my mother’s voice.

She was calling my name.

Photo by Evan Lee on Unsplash

Now… my mother had a rule. A serious one.
If you hear someone call for you, go to them.
Do not call back.
She said replying to a voice gives it permission to speak again.

You must always make sure you're responding to a person.

Now, as I mentioned… the apartment was empty.
No one else had a key. No visitors. No neighbors within earshot.

But it was her voice.
My mother’s voice.
Not a memory. Not a dream.
Warm. Familiar. Close.
The kind of close that makes your skin tighten—because it shouldn’t be.

And still, something in me recoiled.

She had always been clear about that rule.
Don’t answer a voice unless you know who it belongs to.
You don’t call back. You don’t engage.
You go directly to the person—if they’re real.

But this was her.
Wasn’t it?

The thing is, if my mother hated anything more than being ignored, it was malicious compliance—when you followed the rules just enough to cause harm, especially when you knew damn well what someone meant.

So if it was her...
Why break her own rule like that?
Why call to me from the dark?

It didn’t make sense.
None of it made sense.

And still—
I wanted to answer.

That night, I fell asleep.

And I knew it was a dream.
I’d trained myself to tell.
There are always signs—quiet little ruptures in logic, barely noticeable unless you’re looking.
One of the easiest? Check the time.
In a dream, clocks twitch. Numbers slide. Nothing stays still.
That night, when I checked, my watch had no hands.
Just a blank, pulsing face—melting down my wrist.

I turned back to the room.

My mom was sitting at the edge of the bed.
The fan was still on, exactly where I’d left it—spinning steadily, low and familiar.
I didn’t say a word.

“I’ve been reading your letters.”
Her voice was soft, like it always was when she didn’t want to wake me.
But the moment she spoke—
the hum of the fan cut out.
Silence fell hard. Pressed into the room like a weight.

“Every one of them.”

I stared. My stomach knotted. My throat clenched.
She looked just like I remembered.
She felt like her.
But I knew I was dreaming.
And she knew I knew.

“I wish I could write back,” She said.

She noticed my shiver.
Without a word, she stood and pulled the blankets from the foot of the bed.
It was a gesture that felt strange—too domestic, too gentle, too real for a dream.
She laid them over me carefully. Tucked them in around my shoulders like she had when I was small.
At least…I think she did.
I don’t actually remember her ever doing that.

Then, before sitting beside me again, she turned the fan—away from the bed.

I felt the shift in air.
Felt the weight of her body as she sat down next to mine.
Warm. Steady. Solid.

And just beneath the scent of detergent and dust, I caught it:
Marlboro Reds.
Faint. Faded. But unmistakably her.

Her expression shifted.

All that softness drained from her face—like someone flipped a switch behind her eyes.
“I need you to listen to me.”
Her voice was still quiet. Still hers. But there was something beneath it now. A tremor. A warning.
“That voice you heard—it wasn’t me.”

The air turned electric. My throat tightened. I couldn’t speak.

“Don’t answer. Don’t respond. Don’t even acknowledge it. Do you understand?”
She didn’t blink.
She didn’t move.
She just stared into me, like she was looking for cracks.

I couldn’t nod. Couldn’t breathe. But she knew.
She always knew.

Then, softly—too softly—she nudged my shoulder.
“When you wake up, take the mirror off the wall in the hallway.”
No explanation. Just instructions.
Like it was a matter of survival.

She didn’t vanish.
She didn’t fade.
I just… woke up.

My fan was turned away from the bed.
The blankets I’d neatly folded hours before were still tucked around me.
And my journal—the one filled with every letter I’d ever written to her—was gone.

I never did find it.

Some nights, I still hear her voice calling my name. Soft. Familiar.

And sometimes…
I wonder what would happen if I answered.

What do you think?

Photo by Satyam Pathak on Unsplash

Maybe another night.

Thank you for joining me this evening, it’s been a pleasure. Please be mindful not to let the door slam on your way out—and, if you hear humming, it’s time to wake up.

Until the next late night,

—Your Narrator

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If you liked this, consider my psychological thriller series, Confessions of a Voyeur, linked below.

To find your way, return to the crossroads by clicking the link below.