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[Music] [Music] My son George has always had the strangest friends. I'm not sure why, but in his earlier years, he always attracted what would be considered the weird kids. I've got a ton of stories about this, but there's one that kind of sticks out like a thorn. He was in the fourth grade, and we had just moved due to my husband's reassignment, so George was new to his school. He had always been an outgoing and friendly kid, so my husband and I weren't particularly worried about his ability to make new friends. We were transitioning well as a family, and everything was going well with him at school. I was beyond pleased the first time I met all of George's classmates' parents, as they all seemed like upstanding, honest people.
A few months after the move, I got a call from George's school in the middle of the day requesting one of his parents come in to discuss an incident involving him and another student. My husband was at work, so I assumed the responsibility and agreed to meet with the principal after picking up my son. I remember feeling a mixture of anger and confusion; anger, obviously—I mean, my son had probably been in a fight, which I'd need to punish him for should I find out he was the antagonizer—but confusion as well. Physical altercations were very uncharacteristic of George, which made this more concerning to me. As I was walking him to the principal's office, he refused to answer any of my questions about the situation, which was also very unlike him. Usually, he was extremely talkative and what you'd call an oversharer, so his silence was somewhat unsettling. I figured he was either embarrassed or scared, so I didn't think much of it. The principal asked that George sit in the waiting room outside his office, so that's where I left him.
After closing the door, the principal directed me to a chair in front of his desk, which is where I sat down. He began asking me questions about George, the kinds of questions you'd expect: How is his behavior at home? Does he listen? Does he talk back? Is he respectful? You know, things like that. I had nothing but positive things to say. George was an extremely well-behaved and respectful boy, and that's not the mother in me; I was just telling the objective truth. Eventually, the principal told me why I had been called in. Apparently, George had gotten into a brief altercation with a classmate after recess, a boy named Sebastian. I asked about the circumstances of the fight, and this is what I was told: They had been the last two students outside, and they were walking up the stairs together. Seemingly out of nowhere, George pulled an eraser out of his pocket and struck Sebastian over the head with it, causing him to fall to the ground and start screaming.
I was baffled. It was totally unlike George to do something like that without being provoked. Plus, plus, I had heard about the Sebastian boy before; George spoke fondly of him, like they were close friends. I asked the principal more questions, but he didn't seem to have the answers and ultimately admitted that no one had seen the incident, but both boys had independently confirmed details of the story. He then said that George wasn't in trouble, as a little fight wasn't too uncommon. He told me that he just wanted to inform me and that no further action would be taken, which definitely calmed me down. After that, he excused me, so I left. George was still silent about the whole thing as I drove him home and only opened up to me right before bedtime. Admittedly, I had grown frustrated with him for not talking to me, which was probably why he quit the silent act. He told me that Sebastian had tricked him. I asked him to elaborate, and he told me that they had been playing make-believe Street Fighter, as per Sebastian's instruction. George had pulled out an eraser for a KO move of some sort. Out of nowhere, Sebastian fell to the ground and pretended to be really hurt. He then whispered in George's ear that he'd seriously hurt him if George didn't pretend like he'd attacked him, so that's what George did, and all the teachers assumed it had been a real fight, rightfully so.
I was pretty pissed. My little boy had been taken advantage of and falsely accused. Instead of going to the school, I decided to handle things myself. That night, I went through the school's directory and found Sebastian's mother's phone number. She introduced herself as Maggie. I was kind of taken back by how sweet and genuine she sounded on the phone. She told me she had heard about the incident, gotten the real story from Sebastian, and already reprimanded him. I thought it was kind of odd that Sebastian would have told the truth to his mother so soon, but I was happy I didn't have to do any convincing. She then went on to say that Sebastian had always had some minor behavioral problems growing up, and he'd sometimes think and act like another person entirely. I actually started to feel bad the more she told me; it seemed as if he wasn't fully in control of some of his actions. Maggie suggested that the boys schedule a sleepover to make up for the whole thing and become better friends, which I thought was a great idea. She offered to host, and I was appreciative of that.
That weekend, I drove over to her house with George, who had returned to his bubbly, talkative self. Maggie invited me in, and the two of us got to know each other over some wine while the boys played in the basement. Like I said before, Maggie seems like a completely upstanding person, and I really enjoyed her company. I ended up staying for a few hours, and the time flew by. Eventually, I just had to ask about Sebastian's behavior, as it had been bugging me for a while. Her entire demeanor changed, and she lowered her voice a bit. She told me that he often had trouble making friends and that he'd seen a few doctors, all of whom think it's something he'll outgrow soon. She went on to say that he's gotten much better at controlling himself, and the fact that he was being more social at school was a good sign. I didn't inquire much more than that; I just wanted to make sure my son would be safe for the night. Maggie promised me George would be in good hands and that Sebastian didn't have a history of getting physical or violent, more so just acting strange. That was enough reassurance for me. This woman was clearly genuine, and it actually felt kind of nice knowing that George would be helping Sebastian learn how to make friends.
Eventually, it came time to leave, so I went downstairs to say goodbye to George. The two boys were laughing and playing Battleship; it looked like they were really getting along. I kissed my son goodbye and drove home. The next morning, I went to go pick him up. When I got to the house, he was waiting near the door with all his stuff and a smile on his face. I assumed the night went well. I said good morning to Maggie and packed George's stuff in the car. As we were driving away, though, he started balling out of nowhere. I asked him what was wrong in a concerned voice, and what he told me was quite literally jaw-dropping. George said that everything was going well until it came time to go to sleep. The boys had set up their sleeping arrangements in the basement, two air mattresses side by side. Everything seemed normal when they went to bed, but at some point in the night, George woke up. He wasn't sure why at first, then he heard something whispering. It was coming from the bathroom; the door was slightly open, and there was a strange flickering light inside, not like a regular bathroom light, as George described it; it seemed more like a candle light. He listened closer and realized it was Sebastian talking, but he wasn't just talking; he was having a full conversation. George thought maybe he was on the phone or something, but the more he listened, the weirder it got. So, Sebastian wasn't calling himself Sebastian; he was calling himself Mr. Jim. George felt frozen; it was like Sebastian thought he was someone else, and he wasn't talking to anyone, just the mirror. Then the candle went out; everything was dark again. George squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. A long time passed, and then he heard the bathroom door creek open. His stomach dropped when he heard whispering again, this time right above him. It went on for a while. George didn't understand the words; it didn't even sound like English. He just lay there, too scared to move. Eventually, Sebastian went back to bed like nothing happened. In the morning, he was totally normal again. George didn't dare ask him about it.
When George told me what happened, I was horrified. My gut told me this wasn't just a case of childhood imagination; something was wrong. I didn't know what to do, but I knew I had to tell someone. I called Maggie first. At first, she laughed it off, saying Sebastian has always been a creative kid, but as I pressed her, her voice faltered. Eventually, she admitted that his so-called behavioral problems were more serious than she let on. One psychiatrist had even suggested he was showing signs of multiple personality disorder. They had already moved twice before, she told me in a hush tone, because Sebastian had been kicked out of school. I was stunned, furious even. Why the hell hadn't she told me this before? Why would she put my son in danger like that? Then she did something unexpected; she begged me not to notify the school. I didn't know what to say. Part of me wanted to respect her wishes, but another part of me knew that something was very wrong. I blurted out, "Okay," and hung up the phone before she could respond. I told myself I'd make my decision by the end of the week, but I never got the chance. That Monday, Sebastian Fallon attacked another student at recess. It was serious enough that the school sent out a statement to all the parents, though they kept the details vague. By the end of the day, I found out that he had been expelled. I tried calling Maggie, but her phone had seemingly been disconnected.
The situation was incredibly unsettling. Just days ago, we had spoken, and now suddenly she was unreachable. I didn't even know what I wanted to say to her, just that I wanted to say something. There were no other numbers or emails in the school directory, just that one number that was now disconnected. A few days later, the curiosity got too overwhelming, so I bit the bullet and drove to her house. When I arrived, it was completely vacated; no moving trucks, no sign of a rush departure, just gone. It didn't make sense. How could they have left so quickly? I tried looking them up, searching for any trace of them online. I found nothing; no forwarding address, no mention of them anywhere. It was like they had never existed at all. That was a long time ago, and George wasn't too badly affected by it; in all honesty, I think he's mostly forgotten about it. I haven't, though. I often think about what could have happened to my son that night in that basement, or what kind of things that kid Sebastian has been doing since. [Music]
My upbringing was a little unorthodox. I grew up in a Southern Baptist household, the kind where we didn't believe in ghosts but were absolutely certain about demons. Let me explain. If something strange happened, it wasn't a spirit or wandering soul; it was something darker, something biblical. I never fully bought into it, but the message was drilled into me from a young age. Rejecting demons meant rejecting scripture itself. My mother, though, was different. Faith was optional for her. She wasn't atheist or agnostic, just indifferent. She'd say things like, "God and I have an understanding." Whenever I pressed her about church, while I leaned into religion as a source of structure and stability, she drifted further from it. It was one of the many things that widened the gap between us. I won't sugarcoat it; my mother struggled with addiction, mental health issues, things she never wanted help for. Some days she was functional; others she was downright insane. I tried not to take it personally, but it was hard. Looking back, she definitely had schizophrenia or some kind of adjacent condition. But before you say anything about my family being neglectful of her mental health, it was a different time back then.
One afternoon, I had a nightmare so vivid that I still remember every detail to this day. In the dream, I was lying in bed when my mother stormed into my room, screaming in a fit of rage. She grabbed me by the wrist and started shaking me violently. I woke up in a pool of sweat, my body still rigid with fear. But before I could shake off the dream, it happened again, except this time I wasn't asleep. The door barged open, and there she was, just as she had been in my nightmare; same expression, same unhinged anger, same words. It was like the dream had been some kind of prophecy. I barely managed to push her off and yell for her to stop, and then it was over. She left as suddenly as she had entered, and when I confronted her the next morning, she had no memory of it. She seemed confused, even a little hurt that I was so shaken. I told myself it was a coincidence, some bizarre overlap between my subconscious and her moods, but part of me wondered if it was something worse.
A few weeks later, I heard her screaming from the backyard. It was a strange sound; not a panicked scream or even a distressed one. The scream sounded more excited. I don't even know if that makes sense, but that's the best way I can describe it. I rushed outside and froze at what I saw. My mother was standing in the yard, grinning, holding a massive, seven-foot-long snake in her bare hands. That was terrifying enough on its own, but there's something you don't know which made it even worse: My mother had a lifelong phobia of snakes. She couldn't even look at them on TV without recoiling, but there she was, gripping one like it was a toy. She said, "Come here," in motion for me to grab the snake. I took a step back, shaking my head. I literally said, "Mom, what the hell?" But the look in her eye told me she couldn't even understand the words I was saying. She just smiled wider and tilted her head like she was trying to scare me. I couldn't deal with it. I turned and ran back inside, slamming the door behind me. My heart was pounding. I peaked out the window and saw her still standing there, holding the snake like an offering. Eventually, she let it slither onto the ground and walked back inside as if nothing had happened. Later, when I asked her about it, she shrugged like I was making it up. She told me I must have had a strange dream and refused to entertain me when I continued to ask about it.
That was nothing compared to what I'm about to tell you, though. That winter, my church held an overnight lock-in. I was relieved to go; church was my escape, a place where I could be around predictable, normal people. My mother dropped me off completely sober and even kissed my forehead before driving away. At around 4:30 a.m., just as we were settling into sleep, a loud knocking echoed through the chapel. We all sat up, glancing at each other. The knocking moved, traveling around the building in an impossible way; at times it sounded like it was coming from multiple directions at once. It wasn't wind; it wasn't an animal; it was rhythmic, circling the chapel like someone or something was trying to break in. The pastor, the only one with a key, was asleep in his office and hadn't heard a thing. I ran to wake him, and as soon as he stepped into the chapel, the knocking stopped. He opened the front doors and literally stumbled back in fear. Standing there, barefoot and sweating in the freezing air, was my mother. Her clothes were disheveled, and her hair was dripping with sweat. Her lips were moving, but I couldn't hear what she was saying. She didn't acknowledge the pastor; her eyes locked on me immediately. A slow, unsettling smile stretched across her face as she walked toward me. I wanted to run; the pastor tried to hold me back, whispering, "Stay here," but I felt completely powerless, like I had no choice but to go with her. I climbed into the car, afraid that she was going to do something, but she didn't. The drive home was silent; she didn't speak, didn't explain, didn't answer when I asked why she was there. When we got home, she stopped in the doorway and just stared at me. She stood there silently watching me as I walked to my room. I closed the door, locked it, and lay awake for hours, listening. In the morning, she was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. She was cheerful and clearly oblivious to what had happened the night before. She jumped back when she saw me, saying she was just about to pick me up from the church. I felt the blood drain from my face. She had no memory of knocking on the church doors, no memory of driving me home. It was freaky. I expected someone—the pastor, a church elder, even one of the chaperones—to say something about what had happened, but no one did. It was like they didn't know what to make of it, or worse, they didn't want to. That's kind of the way people treated my mom back then.
That was decades ago. She's gone now, but her memory is something that will never leave me, for better or for worse. I don't know if I believe in demons or the supernatural anymore, but I can't explain what happened. The logical explanation is that she was suffering from mental illness, maybe addiction withdrawal, or maybe something else entirely. But the memory lapses, the eerie timing, the way she acted like a different person some nights—it still haunts me. I tell myself there's a rational answer for all of it, but even now, I'm not sure I believe that. [Music]
My eldest son started sleepwalking when he was about 8 or 9. I had heard of kids going through phases like that, so I wasn't too concerned at first. It was just one of those things; a little unsettling, sure, but nothing I thought much about. I'm a pretty light sleeper, so none of my kids have ever been able to sneak around the house at night without me knowing. That's actually how I first figured out about my son's habit. Most nights, I'd wake up and find him standing in the hallway outside my bedroom, walking slightly on his heels, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His eyes would be open, but they weren't seeing anything. That was the one part that always got me. For any of you who have lived with a sleepwalker, you know exactly what I'm talking about. His gaze would pass right through me, empty and distant, like he was looking past me into something I couldn't see. It was always extremely strange, and I never fully acclimated to finding him like that. Sometimes he'd mumble something under his breath, words too soft and slurred to understand; other times he wouldn't make a sound, just standing there, breathing in that slow, steady way that somehow made it even worse. I gently guide him to bed, whispering his name, telling him everything was fine. He never seemed to remember any of it in the morning.
Things escalated a few months after I made the realization that he was a sleepwalker. One night, I woke up to a rhythmic tapping sound. It sounded like water droplets repeatedly dripping onto a windowpane, only it wasn't raining outside. It was soft, barely loud enough to wake me at first. I thought it was part of a dream, some far-off noise that my half-asleep brain had misinterpreted. But as I lay there, the sound continued, steady and deliberate. It wasn't sporadic, like rainfall would be; it occurred at regular intervals and always at the same volume. I kept listening, trying to figure out what it could be. It wasn't the house settling, and it wasn't the wind outside; it was too precise. Once I realized the tapping wasn't going to stop, I begrudgingly accepted that I'd have to deal with it. I sat up and looked towards the door, which is where the sound was coming from. My husband was fast asleep, and I didn't want to disturb him. I should mention that I wasn't scared, just curious; otherwise, I probably would have woken him up anyway. I got out of bed to investigate. When I stepped into the hallway, I saw him, my son, facing the wall, his forehead lightly knocking against it in slow, measured taps. His fingertips gently grazed the wall in rhythm with his forehead taps, as if he was trying to walk through it. I remember calling his name, my voice barely above a whisper. He didn't react, just kept pressing his head forward, knocking it in that eerie rhythmic way, like he was testing something, like he was trying to push through. I stepped closer, but right before I was about to intervene, I hesitated. Something about the way he was moving genuinely sent a chill right through me. I gently reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder, shaking him just enough to pull him out of whatever trance he was in. He blinked, took a step back, and then, as if nothing had happened, let me lead him back to bed. He never mentioned it in the morning.
It happened a few more times, but it was pretty infrequent, if I'm being honest. I figured it was just another strange habit of sleepwalkers, maybe some kind of subconscious response to the wall being there, some internal sense of space that his dreaming mind hadn't accounted for. And eventually, he outgrew it. The sleepwalking stopped, and the strange vacant staring in the hallway became a weird little memory that I mostly forgot about—that is, until my younger son started doing the same thing years later, the sleepwalking, I mean. At first, I brushed it off; kids go through phases, some behaviors repeat themselves. It was just so uncanny that both of them started sleepwalking around the same age again, though nothing too unusual; genetics are a fascinating thing. But eventually, I started noticing the little details, the things that gave me a growing sense of concern. It wasn't just that he sleepwalked; it was how he sleepwalked. He stood in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes open but unfocused. He moved the same way as my older son had, with that slow, eerie rhythm, like his movements weren't completely random. It was unsettling; it felt like I was living the memory of watching my older son do the same thing years earlier. But it got worse than that. When one night, I woke up to that tapping noise again, I already knew what I'd see before I stepped into the hallway, and I was right. There he was, forehead pressed to the exact same spot, knocking against the wall like he was trying to step into something that wasn't there. It was the exact same behavior my older son had exhibited all those years ago, from the forehead taps all the way down to the way his fingers brushed against the wall. I called his name; nothing. I touched his shoulder; nothing. He just kept knocking, his small body swaying slightly, lost in some deep, unreachable place. And that's when it hit me: He had never seen his older brother sleepwalk, at least not that I know of. His brother hadn't done this in years; there was no reason for him to exhibit the same exact behavior, not just the wandering but the standing, the tapping, the eerie misplaced urgency of it. I don't know why, but that thought made me feel sick. After some badgering, I eventually snapped him out of his trance. I guided him back to bed and tucked him in like I had done so many times before, trying to tell myself that it was just one of those things. And then, just like his brother, he outgrew it, just like that; no more sleepwalking, no more tapping. He had no recollection of it either.
For years, I didn't think about it; in all honesty, I had forgotten about the whole thing. But there's a reason I'm writing this now. My sons are away at college now, and the house is a lot quieter than what I'm used to. Because of that, my husband and I have to find new things to occupy some of that downtime. A few weeks ago, we decided to renovate the house. The house is pretty old, and we've lived in it long enough that we've decided to change things up; new floors, new paint, some fresh updates to make the place feel new again. It was all minor work, nothing too intensive. We were stripping the old wallpaper when we noticed something underneath. At first, I thought it was just some old backing or maybe a weird stain, but as we peeled more away, my breath caught. It was an old antique-style mirror, a mirror that had been covered for some reason. My first thought was, "Why the hell would someone cover a mirror instead of removing it?" I felt ridiculous standing there, staring at a piece
Of glass, like it was going to do something. But I couldn't help but feel like we weren't supposed to find it, like it had been sealed away for a reason. And that's when I realized the mirror was positioned in the exact spot on the wall that my sons had been bumping into all those years ago. The memories came flooding back, and I stood there in shock. There was no logical reason they should have known it was there; they couldn't have, and yet somehow they had. Both of them had independently been trying to walk into something that was impossible to see through the wallpaper. Forget about the fact that they were unconscious; I immediately got rid of that mirror. But I'm still pretty freaked out by the whole thing. There's got to be some kind of rational explanation for this, but I can't think of one. I still don't know what to make of this; I really don't.