I was ten years old when it happened. My mom had been in the hospital for a few days. Something about “tests” and “just to be safe,” but nobody would give me real answers. Dad was in charge of us kids, which meant the house felt strange—quiet in the wrong ways and noisy in the wrong ways.
That afternoon, Dad told us to go outside and play. “Don’t come back until I call you,” he said, his voice a little sharper than usual. My little sister, Abby, wanted to know why, but he just waved his hand toward the backyard and shut the door.
We played tag in the crisp autumn air until the sun started to dip low. The sky turned orange, and the trees looked like they were on fire. That’s when Dad came out, smiling in this too-wide way. “Get in the car,” he said. “We’re going to Burger King.”
We didn’t ask questions—Burger King was a treat. We ate fries and chicken nuggets, and Dad even let us get milkshakes. But he didn’t eat much himself. He just kept glancing at the clock on the wall, his leg bouncing under the table.
When we got home, it was already dark. Dad ushered us straight to bed, no TV, no reading. Abby complained, but he was firm. “Sleep. Now.”
Hours later, I woke up thirsty. The house was silent, except for the hum of the fridge. I crept out of bed, careful not to wake Abby. The hallway seemed darker than usual, shadows clinging to the walls like they didn’t want to let go.
I padded toward the kitchen, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. That’s when I heard it—voices. Low, muffled, coming from downstairs.
Dad was supposed to be alone.
I froze at the top of the staircase, peering down. The living room light was on, but it wasn’t the warm yellow glow from our old lamp—it was bluish, almost like moonlight, but sharper. The air smelled faintly metallic, like pennies.
I leaned forward, my fingers gripping the banister.
Dad was standing in the middle of the room, talking to… something.
At first, I thought it was a person, but the shape wasn’t right. It was too tall, too thin, and it seemed to shimmer, as if it were there and not there at the same time. The voice it made was… wrong. It wasn’t words exactly, but I could still understand it, like the meaning was pressed directly into my mind.
Dad nodded, his face pale but focused. “It’s done,” he said. “They didn’t see anything.”
The thing tilted its head in a slow, unnatural motion. My stomach twisted—its eyes were just two pits of darkness, but they seemed to pull at the edges of my thoughts.
“Payment will be collected,” it said—or maybe it didn’t say, maybe it just was in my head.
Dad swallowed hard. “I understand.”
I took a step back, my heart pounding. The stair creaked under my foot.
Both of them turned toward me at the same time.
Dad’s eyes went wide. “Go back to bed,” he said quickly, too quickly. But his voice trembled.
The tall figure’s head tilted further, almost curiously. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from those hollow eyes. My skin prickled like it knew I wasn’t supposed to see this.
Dad stepped toward me, blocking my view. “Now,” he said, louder.
I bolted back to my room, dove under the covers, and squeezed my eyes shut. I tried to tell myself I was dreaming.
The next morning, Dad acted like nothing happened. Mom came home from the hospital later that day, looking tired but healthy.
No one ever mentioned that night again.
But sometimes—late at night, when the house is quiet—I swear I hear that same faint metallic hum, like something’s still here… waiting.