The fog rolled in thick that night, swirling around the house like a living thing, pressing against the windows as if trying to find a way in. Sarah stood in the kitchen, staring blankly at the photo album in front of her. The pages were filled with pictures of her little boy, Jack, smiling, laughing, running in the garden. But something was wrong.
She couldn’t remember him.
Her fingers trembled as she touched a photograph of Jack’s first birthday, his chubby hands smashing cake into his mouth, chocolate smeared on his cheeks. She knew the image, recognized the moment, but no matter how hard she tried, the memory felt distant, like something she had read in a book rather than lived. A hollow ache formed in her chest.
“Why can’t I remember him?” she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.
Her husband, Mark, had left for work hours ago. The house was silent now, save for the occasional creak of the old wood floors. The fog outside seemed to darken as the night wore on, and with it, a creeping sense of dread began to crawl over Sarah’s skin.
She reached for her phone, scrolling through pictures of Jack, trying desperately to piece together any fragments of memories. There were photos of birthdays, vacations, and quiet afternoons in the park—but each one felt foreign, as if she was looking at someone else’s life.
Suddenly, a loud thud echoed through the house.
Sarah jumped, her heart racing. She looked toward the hallway, where the sound had come from. “Mark?” she called out, knowing full well he wasn’t home yet.
Silence.
Her pulse quickened, and she grabbed the kitchen knife lying on the counter before slowly walking toward the hall. The shadows seemed to dance in the dim light as she made her way to Jack’s old room—the room they hadn’t entered since he…disappeared.
The door was ajar, creaking slightly as it swayed in the invisible breeze. Sarah’s breath caught in her throat as she pushed it open. The room was exactly as they had left it: Jack’s toys scattered on the floor, his favorite blanket draped over the small bed.
But something was wrong.
The air was thick, oppressive, as if the room was holding its breath. The temperature had dropped sharply, and Sarah could see her breath in front of her face. She stepped inside, gripping the knife tightly, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of movement.
Then she saw it.
In the corner, huddled in the shadows, was a figure. Small, childlike. It was Jack.
“Jack?” she gasped, her voice trembling. She dropped the knife, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
The figure shifted slightly, and as it did, Sarah felt a wave of nausea wash over her. His eyes—Jack’s eyes—were hollow, dark voids where the vibrant blue had once been. His mouth twisted into a grotesque smile as he stood slowly, the sound of bones cracking filling the room.
“Mommy…” the voice was soft, but wrong, distorted, like a recording played backward.
Sarah stumbled backward, her heart pounding in her ears. “Jack, no, this isn’t real, this can’t be real!”
But the figure took another step toward her, his form growing larger, his limbs elongating unnaturally, twisting in ways that made Sarah’s stomach turn.
“You forgot me,” the voice hissed, no longer soft but angry, accusing. “You left me!”
Tears streamed down Sarah’s face as she backed out of the room, slamming the door shut. She pressed her back against it, breathing hard, her mind racing. How could she forget her own child? How could a mother forget?
The thudding began again, this time louder, faster, as if Jack—or whatever he had become—was pounding on the other side of the door.
“I’m sorry!” she screamed, sinking to the floor, her hands covering her ears as the pounding grew more intense, shaking the walls. “I didn’t mean to forget you!”
Suddenly, everything went quiet. The pounding stopped, and the air in the house seemed to still.
Cautiously, Sarah opened her eyes, her body trembling. The hallway was empty, the door to Jack’s room eerily silent. She hesitated for a moment before slowly standing up, her hand hovering over the door handle.
As she turned the knob, the door creaked open, revealing the room beyond.
It was empty. No Jack. No twisted figure. Just silence.
Sarah let out a shaky breath, her hand clutching her chest. Had it all been a hallucination? A nightmare brought on by the grief and guilt of losing her son?
But as she turned to leave the room, she froze.
Written on the walls, in dark, smeared handwriting, were the words: “You will never forget me again.”
And in the corner of the room, where Jack’s favorite stuffed bear used to sit, was something new—a small, framed photo of Jack, smiling.
Only this time, his eyes were completely black.