My husband, David, had always wanted to adopt a child. His longing to complete our family with a child was strong, but I had my doubts. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be a mother—I did. But something about adoption made me uneasy. I couldn’t shake the feeling that some stories didn’t always have happy endings.
David, however, was persistent. After months of gentle persuasion and heartfelt conversations, I agreed to meet with the agency. The woman at the adoption center seemed kind, her smile warm as she introduced us to the little boy. His name was Michael, and he was only six years old. He looked like any other child, with his big eyes and innocent smile. But there was something…off. Something I couldn’t quite put into words.
“He’s been through a lot,” the social worker said, her voice soft. “He lost his parents in a car accident two years ago. He’s had trouble adjusting in foster care, but he’s a sweet boy.”
David fell in love with Michael instantly. He said he saw something in the boy that spoke to him, a connection he couldn’t ignore. Against my better judgment, we brought Michael home.
The first few days were quiet. Michael didn’t speak much, and when he did, his voice was barely a whisper. I tried to bond with him, but there was a coldness in his gaze that unsettled me. At night, I would hear whispers from his room—soft, unintelligible murmurs as if he were talking to someone.
One evening, I found him sitting at the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the corner of the room. When I asked him what he was looking at, he pointed to the empty space and said, “Mommy and Daddy are there. They don’t like you.”
Chills ran down my spine. I tried to convince myself that it was just his way of dealing with trauma, but the incidents grew worse. Objects in the house started to move on their own. Lights flickered, doors slammed, and at night, I’d wake up to the sound of footsteps running down the hall—footsteps that didn’t belong to any of us.
I told David, but he dismissed it as paranoia. “He’s a child,” he said. “He’s been through so much. Give him time.”
But time wasn’t what Michael needed. One night, I woke up to find him standing at the foot of our bed, his eyes wide, his mouth twisted into a malicious grin.
“They told me to hurt you,” he whispered, his voice cold and unfamiliar. “They said you don’t belong.”
I screamed, waking David, who rushed to my side. Michael stood there, motionless, his smile fading as quickly as it had appeared. David tried to calm me down, insisting that it was just a nightmare, but I knew what I had seen.
The next morning, Michael was gone. We searched the house, the yard, the entire neighborhood, but he had disappeared without a trace. The police were called, and a search was conducted, but they found nothing. It was as if Michael had vanished into thin air.
Weeks passed, and life slowly returned to normal. But every night, I’d lie in bed, waiting—listening for the sound of those footsteps in the hallway. And sometimes, just before sleep would take me, I’d hear a whisper in the dark: “We’ll be back.”