The Visitor at the Door

Early in February, I was jolted awake by my eldest son’s voice calling ‘Mom!’ in a tone that shot ice down my spine. His room is at the end of the hall, so I only hear him if he’s right at my door. I threw off the covers and padded down the hallway, but his door was closed, and when I opened it, he was fast asleep, tangled in his blankets. I checked on my younger son too, who was also sleeping peacefully. I mentioned it to my husband, but he laughed it off, saying I must have been dreaming.

A few months later, it happened again, but this time it was my toddler’s cry, a sharp, terrified scream that had me leaping out of bed. I flipped on every light, my heart pounding, but both boys were asleep. I even checked for intruders. My husband just grunted and rolled over, telling me to go back to sleep.

Last month, I woke to my son’s voice, clear as day, saying ‘What’s that?’ I rushed to his room, but he was still and silent. I went back to bed, but twenty minutes later, I was wrenched from sleep by a violent shout, like a man’s voice, deep and raw. I ran to the boys’ room, but they were both out cold. I stood in the hallway, listening to the house creak, feeling like something was watching me.

I told my husband about the incidents over breakfast, but he just shook his head. ‘You’re exhausted, babe. You’re hearing things.’

Last week, I came home from work early. As I walked in, I saw my husband on the couch, his face pale under his tan. He didn’t startle when I walked in; he just sat there, staring at the wall. I asked him what was wrong. He told me he had been napping and had a vivid dream—or maybe it wasn’t a dream. He said he heard our son’s voice, but it wasn’t our son. It was a mimic, and it was calling his name from the hallway. He followed it to the front door, and on the other side, he saw a dark shape with glowing eyes, pressing against the window. At that moment, the phone rang. I answered it, and no one was there. But the static on the line was whispering, ‘Let me in.’

Then I heard it—our front door creaking open, as if pushed by a force. I grabbed my husband’s arm, and we both rushed to the door, but it was closed. We locked it, and I called the police. They found nothing. But that night, I heard the floorboards creak in the hallway, and a small voice, so like my son’s, said, ‘Mom, open the door.’ I didn’t. I held my boys tight and prayed the sun would come up. It did. But I know it’s out there, and it’s learning our voices.