She pulled out a strange metal container from a box, with a long hose and a few black bottles, unlabelled. She placed it on the floor in the middle of the room. Then she began to pour liquids into it, with slow, ritualistic movements. I held my breath.
In the background, a monotonous, almost whispered song was playing from her phone. It was in Russian or something similar. I was still fooling myself that she might be preparing some treatment for mold. But when she started drawing strange symbols with red chalk on the cement floor, my stomach tightened.
I closed the app with trembling hands and went straight to the wardrobe in the bedroom. I pulled out the notebook from the bottom of a drawer where I had been writing down all the strange things that had happened to me lately. Coincidences, I always said. The keys that disappeared. The dreams of fire and whispers. The cold in the room, even on summer days.
I felt I couldn’t wait any longer. I called my sister, who lived in the same village. I briefly told her everything. She said something that sent chills down my spine:
— Go to church. Get holy water. And stay away from that woman until tomorrow.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. My son came and crawled into bed next to me. I could feel him trembling. At one point, he whispered:
— Mom, she’s downstairs. I heard footsteps.
I took the bottle of holy water, tiptoed down, and stopped in front of the basement door. The lights were off, but a faint strip of light was visible under the door.
I touched the doorknob. Cold as ice. Then I knocked.
A sudden noise. A creak. Then silence.
— Mrs. Ioana? I said, my voice trembling. Is everything okay?
— Yes, I’m just cleaning. I’ll be out soon, she replied, but something in her voice sounded… different. Strange.
I ran back to the room and locked myself inside. In the morning, she was no longer in the house. And she never came back.
I called the police. I handed over the recordings. After a few days, they discovered that the woman had a hidden past: she had been hospitalized in her youth in a psychiatric hospital, had escaped, and had been suspected in an unsolved case involving bizarre rituals in the neighboring county.
We moved out of the house that month. But my son remained my hero.
Sometimes, children see what we, adults, refuse to believe.
And sometimes, a simple “set up a camera” can save a life. Or more.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
