I TOLD MOM GRANDPA TUCKED ME IN—HER FACE WENT WHITE BEFORE SHE CALLED GRANDMA

 I TOLD MOM GRANDPA TUCKED ME IN—HER FACE WENT WHITE BEFORE SHE CALLED GRANDMA

I was six the night it happened—warm sheets, soft nightlight glow, and the creak of someone sitting on my bed. I looked up and there he was: Grandpa Emil. Same corduroy vest, same smell of pipe tobacco and spearmint. He read The Velveteen Rabbit in that gravelly voice I loved. I fell asleep smiling.

At breakfast, I told Mom. “Grandpa read me a story last night,” I said, pouring syrup over my waffles. She froze mid-step, spatula hovering.

“You said Grandpa?” she asked, too quiet.

“Yeah,” I said. “He sat right on the edge like he used to.”

She dropped the spatula. It clattered across the floor. I thought she’d yell. Instead, she just… stared at me.

Then she grabbed the phone with shaking hands. “Mom,” she said when Grandma answered, “It’s happening again.”

She left the room, but I could still hear snatches. “Exactly like before.” “No, I swear.” “Yes. On the bed.”

Grandma came over that afternoon, looking older than usual. She brought a shoebox full of photos. Sat me down. Asked me to point to who I saw.

I picked the one of Grandpa, or so I thought.

But when I did, Grandma whispered, “Oh god.”

I asked what was wrong. That's when my mom said ..