I’m in need of some advice, but I don’t even know what kind of help I should be after. It started about 3 weeks ago.

I got a call from my mom on a cold Monday. We talk often enough, and a phone call from her isn’t a strange occurrence at all. The only really strange part about it was that it was while I was on the clock at my job. I’m a nurse, so she usually would only call if something was important.

I picked up the phone, fully expecting to hear that someone had died—only to be greeted by her familiar, gentle voice. She was casual. Sweet. Just asking about my day. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, and I like talking to her. But I was at work, and it was a very busy day. I tried to politely excuse myself and get back to what I was doing. Before I could hang up, she said something that caught me off guard,

“I’m glad you’re sleeping better. You looked so peaceful.”

I was caught a bit off guard by this. You see, I’m in my 20’s and I’ve lived alone for almost 7 years now. What’s more, my mom lives about 200 miles away from me. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but as the day went on, for some reason, it bothered me more and more.

After my shift, I called her again. And again she began a casual, cheery conversation with me. What she had said earlier was burning into my brain at this point so I asked her what she meant by that. Without missing a beat and in the same happy tone, she told me,

“Well you’ve been tossing and turning. I was just happy to see you sleeping peacefully last night.”

I didn’t know what to say. I asked her if she was making a joke. Her response sounded just as confused as I was. She told me she had tucked me in last night. I didn’t want to start an argument. My mother is not young, and there is a history of degenerative brain disease in some of our family. I was worried that maybe she was sick. I changed the topic again to her day and finished what turned into a relatively pleasant conversation, given the earlier confusion. I texted my brother immediately- he lives in the same town as my mom- and told him to check on her.

Ever since then, I feel like I’ve been losing my mind. At first, I began to notice the smallest things- tiny instances that aren’t as they should be. That day when I got home, for example, the chair at the head of my dining room table was pulled out too far. I could’ve sworn I tucked it in, but reason tells me I must have forgotten. My bed was made when I knew for a fact I didn’t make it. It was folded and tucked under the mattress- the same way my mom did it when I was little.

I called my brother. I had no idea what was going on. Maybe my mom had come to visit and was pranking me? It was unlike her, but what else could this be? He told me that he had just had tea with her.

It’s been getting worse and worse. At night, I can hear footsteps. But when I get up to look for their source, they vanish- leaving me questioning if I really heard anything at all.

A few nights ago, I woke up around three in the morning to the sound of humming. It was faint-barely audible-but I recognized the melody instantly. It was the lullaby my mom used to sing to me when I was little, the one she hummed when I had nightmares. I froze. It was coming from my bedroom doorway. I couldn’t bring myself to look. I just shut my eyes and lay there, stiff under the covers, trying not to breathe too loudly. Eventually, the sound faded. When I finally worked up the nerve to turn on the light, the room was empty. But the closet door, which I always leave open, was shut.

I’ve been calling her during the day, but it’s no use. She either denies any of it, or simply speaks as if nothing was wrong. More often than not, she goes off on tangents that frustrate me to no end.

I even recorded our last conversation, thinking maybe I could catch something- some slip, some change in her voice that would make sense of this. But when I played it back, the audio was crystal clear. Too clear. There was no background noise at all. No ambient hum, no shuffling, no clink of her spoon in her teacup like there always is. Just her voice, bright and cheerful, telling me she was proud of me. That I looked “so calm now.”

I hadn’t told her I was recording. And yet, right before the call ended, she said,

“You should stop doing that. It’s not polite.”

I’ve grown paranoid. I don’t sleep in my bed anymore, I’ve taken to sleeping on the couch instead. But without fail I wake up in my bed, neatly tucked under the covers.

Last night, I stayed awake as long as I could. I thought if I could catch it in the act, I could prove to myself that this wasn’t just in my head. I don’t remember falling asleep. But I remember waking up.

And I remember the hand that pulled the blanket over me.

It wasn’t hers. It was colder. Thinner. The fingers were too long, and they didn’t tremble the way hers used to. When it touched my forehead, there was no warmth-just a kind of pressure, like it was memorizing me. I kept my eyes shut. I don’t know why. I think I thought if I looked at it, it would look back. But it knew I wasn’t asleep. I can’t explain it, but I could feel that it knew.

It leaned closer. I could feel it—the weight of it pressing into the mattress beside me, slow and deliberate. The sound it made was low and wet, like thick saliva pulling apart in strands. Something dragged across my cheek. Not fingers this time. Something softer. Frayed at the edges.

Hair, maybe.

But it smelled like meat left too long in the sun.

Then it spoke.

“You don’t cry anymore. Not like before.”

Its voice was trying to be hers, but it wasn’t right. The words came out broken-halting and slow, like someone reading phonetics off a cue card. And underneath it, something else breathed. Something heavier. Labored. Excited.

I opened my eyes.

There was nothing there.

But the blankets were rising and falling beside me-like someone invisible was still lying there, mimicking my breath. The indentation in the mattress was fresh. Deep.

And smeared along the pillow next to mine was a thick, dark streak- brown-red and rotting at the edges, like old blood mixed with dirt. When I looked back at the mirror, there was something sitting on the edge of the mattress.

At first, I thought it was her.

The hair was the same length. Same part down the middle. But it was patchy- thin and coarse in some places, clumped like wet straw in others. Tufts were missing altogether, exposing skin that looked stitched, like burlap pulled too tight over something that wasn’t a skull.

It tilted its head again. The motion was jerky, like a puppet on tangled strings. Then, slowly, it began to turn. I didn’t want to see. Every instinct screamed at me to look away. But I couldn’t.

The face that met mine in the mirror was trying to be my mother. It had her eyes-at least, it had eyes where hers used to be. But they were cloudy, too wide, like glass marbles pressed into soft clay. The nose was flat, crushed like something broken and reset wrong.

The mouth was the worst part. It stretched too far, like it had been cut at the corners. The lips were split and scabbed, peeled back in a permanent smile that showed rows of tiny, baby-like teeth. Dozens of them. Too white. Too clean.

It was brushing its hand across the pillow, slow and tender.

And then it looked up.

Not at the bed.

At the mirror.

At me.

And it smiled.

I backed away from the mirror, heart pounding so loud I could barely hear myself think. I didn’t want to see it anymore. I didn’t want it to see me.

But I couldn’t look away.

The thing on the bed tilted its head. Slowly. Like it was curious.

Then it raised one long, shaking arm- and waved.

I turned. Nothing was there.

When I looked back at the mirror, it was gone. The bed was empty again. Just rumpled blankets