My Grandson Gave Me a Walkie-Talkie So We Could Chat at Night — But One Night, I Heard Something I Was Never Supposed to Hear…
It started as the sweetest gift I’d ever received.
On my seventy-second birthday, my grandson Eli, just seven years old, handed me a small box wrapped in silver paper. Inside were two bright orange walkie-talkies.
He grinned. “So we can talk before bed, Grandma. In case you get lonely.”
I laughed, trying not to cry. “Oh, honey, that’s perfect.”
Eli lived next door with my daughter, Sarah, and her husband. They’d moved into the old farmhouse I’d once owned, while I now lived in a smaller cottage just across the fence.
Every night, after he brushed his teeth, he’d press the button and say, “Grandma, you there?”
And I’d answer, “Always, my dear.”
We talked about school, his favorite cartoons, and the stars he could see from his window. Those little conversations became my favorite part of every day.
Then, one night in early summer, something changed.
It was just past 9 p.m. I had my cup of chamomile tea beside the bed when I heard static crackle from the walkie-talkie.
“Grandma, you there?” Eli’s voice came through faintly.
I smiled. “Always, sweetheart. Couldn’t sleep?”
There was silence — and then, instead of his usual giggle, a whisper.
“Grandma… someone’s in the house.”
My heart dropped.
“What do you mean, Eli?” I whispered back. “Did you tell your mom?”
Another pause. “She’s sleeping. I heard the back door. I think someone’s downstairs.”
I stood up immediately, grabbing my robe and slippers. “Stay in your room, lock the door. Don’t make a sound. I’ll call your mom.”
But before I could reach for the phone, I heard something else — faint footsteps through the walkie-talkie. Slow. Heavy.
Eli was whispering again. “He’s coming up the stairs.”
My hands shook as I called Sarah’s number. No answer.
The farmhouse was only a hundred feet away, but it suddenly felt miles apart.
And then… a crash. Eli screamed. The line went dead.
I ran out into the night, heart pounding, shouting for help as I crossed the yard. The porch light from their house flickered, then went dark.
When I reached the front door, it was slightly open. The hinges creaked as I pushed it.
“Sarah!” I yelled. “Eli!”
No answer. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking clock on the wall.
I grabbed the nearest thing I could — a heavy flashlight — and stepped toward the stairs.
That’s when I heard it again. The crackle of the walkie-talkie in my hand.
A man’s voice, low and rough. “You shouldn’t have seen that, kid.”
I froze.
For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe. My grandson wasn’t talking — someone else was holding his walkie-talkie.
I whispered, “Who is this?”
The voice laughed softly. “Wrong channel, old lady.”
Then static. Silence.
I forced myself up the stairs, trembling so hard I could barely keep my footing. Eli’s door was open, his blanket on the floor, his window wide open. The night air rushed in.
“Eli!” I cried.
Then — a sound. From the closet.
I swung open the door, ready to fight, but inside was Eli, clutching his teddy bear, tears streaming down his cheeks.
He threw his arms around me. “Grandma, I heard someone downstairs. I hid.”
I held him tight. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe now.”
Within minutes, I had him and Sarah out of the house. She was confused and groggy — apparently she’d taken sleep medicine earlier and hadn’t heard a thing.
The police came. They searched the whole property, but found no one. Just muddy footprints by the back door leading toward the woods.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat by the window with the walkie-talkie in my hand, staring at the dark tree line.
At 2:13 a.m., it crackled again.
“Nice try, Grandma,” the same voice said, cold and slow. “Next time, keep the lights off.”
After that night, the police began watching the woods closely. They found evidence someone had been living there — old cans, a blanket, cigarette butts.
Sarah moved back into my house with Eli for safety. But I couldn’t shake the sound of that voice, how it seemed to know exactly who I was.
Weeks passed, and for a while, life felt normal again.
Then one night, around midnight, the walkie-talkie lit up once more.
Static.
Then Eli’s soft whisper: “Grandma, are you awake?”
I smiled in relief. “Yes, sweetheart. You scared me — I thought you were asleep.”
Silence.
Then the voice said, deeper this time — “Not Eli.”
I dropped the walkie-talkie.
When I picked it up again, my hands shaking, I pressed the button. “Who are you?”
He chuckled. “You should’ve locked your basement door.”
I ran downstairs, heart pounding, and found the back cellar door wide open. The curtain beside it swayed from the night breeze.
I called 911 again, and within minutes, police cars surrounded the property. Officers with flashlights searched every inch.
Finally, one of them shouted, “Found him!”
They pulled a man out from behind my tool shed — dirty, thin, his clothes torn. He’d been living there for weeks, watching the house. He wasn’t a stranger, though. He was Harold Benton, a former farmhand I’d fired years ago for stealing tools. He’d just gotten out of jail.
Apparently, he’d been sneaking into the woods every night, listening through Eli’s open window. The night Eli heard him, Harold had tried to enter the house, but the boy’s scream scared him off.
The walkie-talkies had picked up his radio scanner somehow — that’s how his voice came through again later, mocking us.
When they arrested him, he muttered, “You shouldn’t have told the cops. We were fine, all of us. You ruined it.”
He smiled at me, and I felt ice in my veins.
Afterward, the police assured us he’d be locked away for good. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the walkie-talkies. They sat on my bedside table, a reminder of how close we’d come to something unthinkable — and how a child’s small act of love had ended up saving both our lives.
Now, every night before bed, Eli still calls me.
“Grandma, you there?”
And I answer, “Always, sweetheart.”
But sometimes, when the wind is quiet and the world is asleep, I think I hear something faint beneath the static — a voice whispering from far away:
“Not Eli…”
And I remind myself — some sounds are better left unheard.
If you were the grandmother, would you ever use the walkie-talkie again?
Or would you throw it away forever? Tell me what you would do in the comments.
