This is a true story.
It was Mother’s Day, and I went with my 5-year-old son to visit my mother’s grave. We brought flowers, prayed for her rest, and sought protection from any evil. Everything was calm, and we had a normal day. However, something strange happened afterward.
My son told me something that disturbed me deeply. He said, “There’s a boy watching us, and he’s following us.” I asked him where the boy was because I couldn’t see anyone behind us. My son pointed with his tiny hand, but I still couldn’t see anything.
In the following days, life went on as usual. I went to work during the day, while my son attended school. After picking him up, we returned home together. But after two weeks, I started hearing my son playing and talking with someone. It struck me as odd because it was just the two of us living together.
When I checked on him, I found him playing with his toy soldiers. When I asked him who he was talking to, he replied, “It’s the boy from the cemetery. He says he wants to be my friend.” Goosebumps ran down my spine, and I was left speechless for a moment, watching him play and converse with someone I couldn’t see.
Days went by, and my son’s behavior changed drastically. We hardly did anything together, as he spent hours locked up in his room, playing with his invisible friend. His appetite decreased, and his school performance suffered. His teacher even called me in for a meeting due to his lack of attention and falling grades.
I decided to take him to a psychologist, but little could be done. The psychologist attributed it to an imaginary friend and diagnosed him with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, suggesting regular visits to improve his condition. However, after two months, there was no improvement.
Then, one Sunday, my son suddenly returned to his old self. He called me “mommy” all the time, wanted to play with me, and even said he was hungry and asked me to prepare something. I felt joy and relief in those moments and dared not ask about his friend, afraid he might return to his cold behavior.
But that happiness didn’t last long. That same afternoon, around six o’clock, he froze while opening the front door, staring at nothing. When I approached to ask what was wrong, his answer was chilling and continues to haunt me in my nightmares.
My friend went to find his other friends from the cemetery. They’re waiting outside, wanting to take me to play in the graveyard,” he said.
My mind conjured up images of the garden filled with children who had passed away long ago, coming to take my son away for some inexplicable reason. I closed the door, locked it, and carried my son in my arms, retreating to my bedroom where we stayed, not daring to venture outside.
There were moments when I peeked out the window facing the garden, praying fervently, begging that they wouldn’t take my son. Meanwhile, the sound of knocking on the door intensified, as if someone was trying to force their way in.
I turned on the TV, raising the volume to drown out the noise. My son innocently approached the window and said, “There’s a lady with a stick hitting the children. Look!” My heart sank as he described the exact appearance of my deceased mother on the day of her burial.