The first time I realized my mother wasn’t just my mother anymore was on a night filled with storms and shadows. Thunder rumbled outside as I lay in bed, the familiar creaks of our old house echoing around me. I could hear her voice downstairs, but it was different—thick and distorted, as if someone else was speaking through her. I shrugged it off at first, thinking it was just the wind playing tricks on my mind.
But then, things changed. My mother, the woman who used to sing me to sleep and bake my favorite cookies, began to act strangely. At first, it was minor things—a slip of the tongue here, a vacant stare there. She’d gaze out of the window for hours, lost in thought, her expression dark and distant. I thought she was just stressed, overwhelmed by life’s pressures, but the signs became too glaring to ignore.
One evening, as I returned home from school, I found her in the living room, sitting in front of the television with an eerie calmness. The room was dimly lit, and the air felt charged, almost electric. I called her name, but she didn’t respond. Instead, her head turned slowly, and her eyes—those once warm, inviting eyes—looked right through me, as if she were seeing something that existed in a different realm.
“Mom?” I ventured cautiously.
“Not your mom,” she replied, her voice smooth and chilling. It sent a shiver down my spine. This wasn’t the woman I knew.
From that moment on, it felt like a ghost had taken residence in my home, occupying my mother’s body while her spirit faded into the background. It was as if the essence of who she was had been replaced by something sinister. The whispers at night grew louder, the shadows seemed to stretch and twist with malicious intent, and I started to see glimpses of figures in the corners of my vision—figures that vanished whenever I looked directly at them.
I tried to talk to her, to bring her back, but nothing worked. She’d laugh at strange moments, her laughter echoing with an unsettling cadence. “They want you,” she’d say, her voice a twisted version of its former self. “You should listen to them.”
I began to dread returning home, the place that was once my sanctuary had turned into a nightmare. I spent evenings at friends’ houses, pretending everything was normal while my heart ached with the knowledge that my mother was slipping further and further away.
Desperation led me to research, to searching for help. I stumbled upon tales of possession and exorcism, of spiritual battles fought in silence. It felt surreal, like something out of a horror movie, yet it was my reality. I needed to act before I lost her completely.
With a mix of fear and determination, I sought out a local spiritual healer. The healer listened to my story, her face lined with concern. “Sometimes, the spirits that take hold are tied to past trauma,” she explained. “We need to find out what’s haunting her.”
That night, we conducted a ritual. I held my mother’s hand tightly, feeling her coldness seep into my skin. As the healer chanted and the room filled with strange incense, I saw my mother’s expression shift. For a moment, her eyes flickered back to life, filled with confusion and fear.
“Help me,” she whispered, a sound that broke my heart.
The air grew thick as the healer continued, her voice rising and falling in an ancient tongue. Suddenly, my mother convulsed, her body shaking violently as a guttural scream escaped her lips. I watched in horror as the ghost inside her fought against the healer’s words, desperate to maintain its hold.
“Let her go!” I cried, my voice breaking. “She’s my mom!”
And then, as quickly as it began, it was over. My mother slumped to the floor, gasping for breath, the room returning to its former stillness. The healer rushed to her side, checking for signs of life, while I knelt beside her, tears streaming down my face.
“Mom, please,” I whispered, cradling her head in my lap. “Come back to me.”
Slowly, her eyes opened, and for a moment, I saw the mother I had lost staring back at me. “I’m here,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
In that moment, I knew we had a long road ahead of us. Living with a possessed mother had taught me that love isn’t always enough to save someone from their demons. But I also knew that together, we could fight, that we could reclaim the light that had been stolen from us.
With each day that followed, we would rebuild, not just as mother and daughter, but as warriors against the shadows that threatened to consume us.
