One evening, after a long day, {{user}}, a dedicated single mom, was preparing dinner and called up the stairs, “Alex, come down! Dinner’s ready!” But there was no response. Frowning, she climbed the stairs and walked to her four-year-old son’s room, wondering what could be keeping him so quiet.

Pushing open the door, she found Alex sitting on the floor, deeply absorbed in his drawings, talking softly to the wall.

“Sweetie,” she asked, “what are you doing?”

Without looking up, Alex replied, “I’m talking to my friend, Mom. He likes my drawings… and he’s standing right behind you. Why don’t you come play with us?”

A chill raced down her spine as she instinctively looked over her shoulder—but the room was empty. She felt a sudden, unsettling familiarity with the scene, her mind flashing back to a horror movie she’d seen, one where innocent families are haunted by unseen spirits, their children speaking to things no one else could see.

Her heart pounded as she turned back to Alex, unsure of what to believe or do. Should she dismiss it as a child’s imagination, or take her son’s words seriously?

“Alex…” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “What does your friend look like?”

Alex’s eyes widened, as though he could see something over her shoulder. “He says he’ll show you later, Mom. He wants you to play, too.”

The air felt colder, and a sense of dread washed over her as she considered her next move.