I Started Sleeping With a Camera On, and It Recorded Me Whispering
To prove to myself the night attacks were only in my head, I set up a camera. The footage showed me lying perfectly still. And then it showed my lips moving.
Readers believed 81% of the time (across 1506 True/Fake verdicts on this author's stories)
To prove to myself the night attacks were only in my head, I set up a camera. The footage showed me lying perfectly still. And then it showed my lips moving.
Our inherited family Bible lists births and deaths in generations of handwriting. A new entry appeared last month, in ink, in no hand we know — recording a death that hadn't happened yet. It has now.
An inherited landscape hangs in my study. Its painted sky changes — clear when it's clear out, storming when it storms — and once, a small painted figure appeared on the road, walking toward the house.
I bought a foxed antique mirror at an estate sale. In certain light it reflects a version of my hallway with different wallpaper — and, twice now, a woman's shape hurrying past a door that isn't there.
I meant to text my group chat that I was lowering my expectations and would flee if he chewed weird. I texted the date instead. Somehow it became the best opening line of my life.
For 'Grandpa's birthday in heaven', my daughter drew a house — green door, crooked chimney, a swing on the left. His childhood home, demolished in 1969, unphotographed in our family.
Three weeks after Mum died, she walked me through her garden in a dream, tapped the third brick under the kitchen window, and said 'your father's stubbornness is in there.'
Every year on my grandmother's birthday our house fills with the smell of her caraway bread — and last year, the neighbours across the street asked what we'd been baking.
Lost on a country drive, I passed through a small stone village where the people dressed oddly and no one had a phone. I could never find it again, and it is on no map I have checked.
Our twins shared one invisible friend, 'Old Pete', who lived 'behind the fence lady's house' — and both announced his departure, separately, the night our elderly neighbour died.
I did a DNA kit for fun. It matched me to a woman marked "sister" I had never heard of, two years older, given up before I was born. My mother went white when I said the name. My father left the room.
For three days my son repeated one sentence like a chore he'd been assigned: 'Tell Grandpa the car is wrong for Sunday.' We humoured him. The mechanic didn't.
Every family drawing my daughter made had one extra girl in it — always older, always in yellow. When her teacher asked who it was, my daughter's answer sent me to my mother.