The woman woke in the dead of night, jolted from sleep by an eerie sense of unease.


    “There are noises coming from Cem’s room again,” she whispered.


    “Just ignore it,” her husband mumbled, barely stirring.


    “He’s doing it on purpose to get attention. He wants to sleep with us.”


    Her husband drifted back into slumber, but the woman lay still in the dark, listening.


    From the next room came faint giggles, followed by low whispers.


    The next morning, as they sat at breakfast, she questioned her son carefully.


    “Are you getting used to your room, Cem?” she asked.


    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.“If you want, you can sleep with us again.”


    But Cem shook his head, smiling.


    “I like my room,” he said. “And so does my friend.”


    A chill ran through her. She didn’t ask anything more.


    For a few nights, she relied on sleeping pills, hoping to silence her growing unease.


    But even the pills couldn’t drown out the sound of those muffled whispers, the quiet bursts of laughter seeping through the walls.


    Finally, one night, she couldn’t bear it any longer.


    She crept into Cem’s room, her heart pounding as she pushed the door open. The darkness seemed heavier here, thicker.


    Carefully, she reached out to touch his bed. Her fingers brushed against something cold—something that felt like a hand.


    “Cem?” she whispered.


    Her son’s voice came from behind her, soft and calm.


    “My friend doesn’t like you.”