As a 62-year-old living alone, I thought I was accustomed to the silence. But strange occurrences started happening, leaving me perplexed. Furniture moved, pictures changed places, and small items vanished. At first, I dismissed it as old age, but the frequency and magnitude intensified.
I tried to rationalize it, thinking perhaps I had simply forgotten where I placed things. However, the events continued, and I began to suspect something more sinister. One day, I found a dining room chair leaning against the living room wall, and a family portrait rested on the kitchen counter.
Desperate for answers, I started taking photos of each room before bed to verify the changes. The evidence stunned me – furniture had indeed moved, and objects were in different rooms. My paranoia grew, and sleepless nights became the norm.
Determined to uncover the truth, I installed security cameras throughout the house. For days, the footage showed nothing unusual, just my cat wandering around. But on the sixth day, I saw something that chilled me to the bone – a figure cloaked in black, carefully covering their face and body.
The intruder moved furniture, changed objects, and stood motionless, surveying the surroundings. They seemed aware of the cameras, avoiding detection. I watched in horror as they crept around my home, typically during early morning hours when I was out.
I contacted the police, and the officer was visibly shaken by the footage. He advised me to exercise caution and offered to increase patrols around my home.
Determined to catch the intruder, I devised a plan with the officer. I would view the live footage from a nearby café while pretending to run errands. The moment the intruder entered my home, I would alert the police.
The waiting game was agonizing, but eventually, the front door creaked open. My heart racing, I dialed the officer’s number, whispering, “He’s here.” The intruder rummaged through my belongings, taking photo albums and private files.
As the police arrived, the intruder attempted to flee but was tackled to the ground. When they removed the mask, I felt a mix of relief and dread – it was my son, Trevor, whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in 20 years.
Trevor’s words cut deep: “You abandoned me… I needed money, and you were sitting on all of it.” He had planned to drive me crazy, get me declared mentally ill, and gain access to my accounts.
I was devastated. The police took him away, and I was left reeling. I eventually dropped the charges but obtained a restraining order.
In the aftermath, I realized that losing my husband was difficult, but this pain was unbearable. I told Trevor, “You’re not my son anymore.” Hanging up the phone, I felt emptier than ever before.
The experience left me shaken, but I vowed to rebuild my life, free from the trauma inflicted by my own flesh and blood.
