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Nightmare at Home:

When Mom's Voice isn't Mom's

By Venus IwualaPublished 6 months ago 3 min read

It is a Thursday night, and once again, my father is working late, not expected back until the following day. Sleep elude me despite my attempts, as I anticipate her inevitable visit. She always came at night. I waited patiently, the sound of rain cascading heavily on the roof of our mansion, a grand inheritance from my grandparents, claimed only after my grandmother's passing two years ago.

Initially, the house struck me as eerie; a black exterior didn't help dispel that notion. However, the inside, painted in a dull brown hue, held memories. Pictures adorned the walls, chronicling my grandparents' wedding day, and my grandmother's favorite pastime was recounting their love story. I could recite it word for word by now. "I wish for you to have the kind of love that I and your grandpa had," she'd always say, a sentiment repeated countless times.

Photographs of my dad during his childhood adorned the living room walls and the room where I now lay, once his own. The wind howl through my room's windows, and with it came the familiar noises and voices. Fear envelope me as I sense her presence. Glancing at the clock, it read 1 am. "Ana, It's mommy," she whispered. Panic set in; I feel immobilized, as if paralyzed. Closing my eyes tightly, I questioned if she was doing this to me.

She draw near, and the chilling feeling intensifies. I check the time once again: exactly 1 am. "Ana, it's mommy, let me in," she pleads. Desperate to move, I find myself paralyzed. I wish to clutch my rosary, recite prayers as my grams had taught me, but it is beyond my reach. Though I couldn't see her, I could still feel her proximity. "Let me in, let me in, it's mommy," she persisted. My attempts to scream prove futile; all I could manage is silent pleas in my mind, "You are not my mommy."

The voices intensifies, a cacophony of sorrowful and tormented sounds, colliding in a disconcerting symphony. "Let mommy in," she insisted, choking me right into my bed. The voices escalates into screeching screams, hurting my ears until sudden silence ensue. I regain control of my body, lying on my bed, drench in sweat, fully aware she would return.

Friday arrived swiftly, and the events of the previous night felt surreal, more like a haunting dream etch into my memory. The scars on my neck serve as a painful reminder that it is, in fact, a chilling reality. With the morning light, I start preparing for school, trying to shake off the lingering unease from the night before.

As I readied myself, the sound of Dad's car echo in the parking lot behind the house, where Grandma's garden used to flourish. "Ana," he calls, and I responded, "coming." Approaching him, I meet the scowl that has become a constant fixture on his face since Mom's absence. "Why are you not yet in school?" he asked. "I'm about to leave," I reply, ending our conversation abruptly, just like the countless brief exchanges we've had in the past six months.

"Will you be home today?" I inquire, silently hoping for a positive answer. I dread the thought of being alone in the imposing mansion when nightfall arrives. "I have to work, Ana. I can't be at home every day," he explains. My internal response echo with bitter thoughts, "More like you're not home at all."

The school day pass quickly, much to my disappointment. Returning home, I find myself back in the ominous black mansion that seem to hold a spectral grip on my life. Dad had indeed gone to work, leaving me to face the impending night alone.

Night descends swiftly, and the darkness brought with it the anticipation of her inevitable visit. As midnight approach, I sought refuge in my room, this time hiding under the bed. The familiar unease settles in as the wind whispers through the windows, carrying a haunting melody that resonates with the unseen forces within the mansion. The air itself feels charge with anticipation, and I brace myself for the inevitable encounter with the haunting presence that refuse to release its grip on my nights.

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About the Creator

Venus Iwuala

A writer.

Diving into the different diversities of life.

Lending my voice to those who can't find the courage to speak up for themselves.

Updating the world on the rapid growth of technology.

Exploring the world of imagination.

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    Venus IwualaWritten by Venus Iwuala

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