I woke up at three in the morning with a strong thirst, so I slipped out of bed and quietly walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. The house was very still; even the cats were asleep. As I passed my son’s bedroom, I heard a voice that made me stop in my tracks—it was my son, saying, “Mom, can you turn off the light?”

Without thinking, I opened the door a crack and reached for the switch. I flicked it down, and the room went dark. That’s when a shocking realization hit me like a bucket of ice water: my son wasn’t home tonight. He had left earlier that day to go camping with his friends, and he was supposed to be gone for the entire weekend. There was no way he could be in his bedroom asking me to turn off the light.

My mind started racing. A chill crept up my spine. Did I imagine the voice? Could I have been dreaming? Or was there someone—or something—else in my son’s room? My heart pounded, and every hair on my arms stood up.

Trying to stay calm, I took a few shaky breaths, then carefully switched the light back on. The sudden brightness stung my tired eyes. I half expected to see my son sitting on the bed, but of course, it was empty. The bed was neatly made, and his camping gear was gone, just as he had taken it. Everything looked perfectly normal, except for one detail: the window was slightly open, letting in a breeze that ruffled the curtains.

I walked slowly into the room, feeling the soft carpet under my feet. The clock on the nightstand read 3:03 a.m. The air smelled faintly of my son’s favorite shampoo—like a memory, lingering even though he was away. I peered into the closet, wondering if something might be hiding there. Empty. Then I checked under the bed. Nothing but a couple of old socks.

I stood up, trying to steady my nerves. The silence was so loud, it felt like it was pressing against my ears. I turned around to leave, but a soft creaking sound made me freeze. It came from right behind me, near the window. I spun around, heart pounding, but saw no one there. The window’s curtain swayed gently.

“It must have been the wind,” I told myself. Still, a part of me couldn’t shake the feeling that I had actually heard my son’s voice. Was I sleepwalking? Had my brain played a trick on me?

Suddenly remembering that I was thirsty, I forced myself to step out of the room and head to the kitchen. The hallway felt strangely long, each step echoing in my head. Finally, I reached the kitchen, turned on a small lamp, and filled a glass with water from the tap. The cool water soothed my throat but did nothing to ease the tightness in my chest.

I leaned against the counter, thinking about how my son often left his bedroom light on by mistake. Usually, he forgot to turn it off before going to bed. But he wasn’t here this night. I thought back to the moment I flicked the switch. That voice—“Mom, can you turn off the light?”—had sounded so real, so much like my son’s usual tone.

Finishing my water, I returned to bed, telling myself it must have been a trick of my half-asleep mind. Maybe I was simply dreaming about him, worried about him on his camping trip.

However, I couldn’t sleep. My mind buzzed with questions. After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, I got up again and went back to my son’s bedroom. I wanted to make sure everything was truly okay.

I turned on the ceiling light and carefully inspected every corner. The posters on the walls were the same—action heroes and sports cars. His desk held an open notebook with doodles. A pair of sneakers lay by the closet. Everything was exactly as he’d left it before going camping. The open window looked innocent, though it allowed a gentle breeze into the room.

I almost felt silly. Nothing was out of place. No signs of an intruder or anything paranormal. Yet, my heart still raced. I decided to close the window this time, sliding it shut so I wouldn’t hear more random creaks or whispers from the wind. The lock clicked softly.

As I stood near the bed, a cool shiver ran through me. Was it possible that I had simply missed my son so much, I hallucinated his voice? Or maybe I was just exhausted, my mind playing tricks on me. The emptiness of the house felt too big, with just me (and my husband, asleep in our bedroom) filling it.

Finally, I turned off the light in my son’s room on purpose this time, and gently closed the door. I returned to my bed, laying awake in the dark, listening to the faint sounds of the night—the distant hum of traffic, the soft rustling of branches against the windows. I repeated to myself, “It was only a dream,” trying to calm my racing thoughts.

Morning came, and the sun filtered through the curtains. The events of the night still lingered in my mind, like a shadow that followed me throughout the day. When my son returned from his camping trip the next evening, I hugged him tightly and kept checking his face, half expecting to see some clue that might explain my strange experience. He was the same cheerful teenager as always, with stories about roasting marshmallows and spotting deer tracks. I didn’t tell him about the voice I heard. I didn’t want to worry him or make him think his mother was losing her mind.

But sometimes, late at night, I remember that voice calling out to me—my son’s voice, so clear, asking me to turn off the light. And I still don’t know if it was all in my head or something else. The memory sends a little tremor through me, a reminder that our minds or maybe even our homes can hold mysteries we can’t fully understand.

Now, here is my question for you: if you heard someone you love calling out in the middle of the night—even though they weren’t actually there—would you dismiss it as a dream, or would you suspect something more mysterious is happening?