EVERY MORNING AT SIX, THE ELDEST SON WOULD SLIP INTO HIS YOUNGER BROTHER’S ROOM — LEAVING HIS PARENTS SPEECHLESS WHEN THEY FINALLY DISCOVERED WHY

They lived in a bright, peaceful neighborhood, a home filled with laughter and family photos. Nothing about it ever felt unsafe. But something in her son’s tone — that unwavering certainty — made her skin crawl.

She forced a soft smile and pulled him close. “You’re very brave to protect your brother,” she murmured, kissing his head. “But you don’t have to do it alone. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

That morning, after both boys left for school, she sat at the kitchen table, staring into her untouched coffee. Her thoughts spun.

Nightmares, she told herself. It had to be nightmares. Children saw things in the dark — shapes, shadows, tricks of the light. Still, she couldn’t ignore how real it had sounded to him.

That night, she told her husband, David.

He listened quietly, trying not to smile. “Honey, he just has a wild imagination,” he said gently. “He’s been reading those adventure stories. Remember when he thought the attic was haunted because of the wind?”

She nodded but didn’t reply. Something about this felt different.

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