When I inherited my mother’s house, I expected memories, not mysteries. On the second night, strange noises led me to the attic, where I found a child’s teddy bear. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.
Returning to the small town felt like stepping into a memory, but it was eerily quiet after years in the city. In my mother’s living room, I noticed something was missing from her porcelain figurine collection—a small rooster. I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling.
Later that night, I heard footsteps above me, followed by a faint shuffle. The next day, I found the fridge inexplicably emptied. My curiosity led me to the attic, where I discovered wrappers and the forgotten teddy bear.
The following night, I waited, determined to find out who—or what—was in the house. A boy, Alex, sat in the kitchen, eating the food I left out. He refused to answer questions but revealed his name after devouring the sandwich I made. When I found the missing rooster in his backpack, I realized something bigger was going on.
The next morning, my neighbor John showed up, looking for Alex. He claimed the boy had been missing for days and was his guardian. As he tried to take Alex, the boy screamed, “Please don’t send me back,” and reached for the rooster. I didn’t know what to do, but Alex was clearly scared.
Later, I discovered a letter from my mother, revealing that she had taken care of Alex whenever he ran away from John, suspecting neglect. My mother had trusted me to protect him, so I decided to act.
I visited neighbors, gathered information, and eventually called CPS. After their investigation, Alex was placed in my care, and months later, I received permanent guardianship.
On Alex’s seventh birthday, I gave him a new teddy bear, and we became a family. I knew my mother would be proud.