“Mummy, Mummy, come! Daddy is smelling your red shorts in that room!”

“What room are you talking about, baby?”

Our apartment was a two-bedroom duplex: one room for us, and one for the kids.
Just to be sure, I asked again—and she pointed straight at the children’s room.

“Why would he be doing anything in the kids’ room at this hour?” I wondered.

When I walked in, my husband wasn’t doing anything strange like she said.
He was just digging through the kids’ dresser.
We greeted each other, and he stepped out. But as he left, I noticed a tiny piece of red fabric sticking out of his pocket.

Later that night, when I went back to check if the kids were asleep, I saw Cynthia sitting beside the night-lamp… talking softly to someone.

My heart stopped.

There was no one there.

But the way she tilted her head, nodded, responded—it was obvious she was having a full conversation with an invisible person.

I swallowed hard.
“Sweetie, who are you talking to?”

Cynthia turned around and smiled brightly.
“Uncle. He’s showing me a new game.”

“What uncle?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“The uncle Daddy brings to play with me every night.”

My stomach dropped.

I knew my husband was involved in something.
Something not normal.
Something dangerous.

I told her not to talk to “uncle” anymore and stayed beside her until she fell asleep. I was terrified that if I walked away, she would call that… thing… back.

When I returned to my room, my husband wasn’t there.
A bad feeling hit me like ice water.

I checked the balcony.

There he was—muttering strange sounds under his breath, like some kind of chant.

When he finally went to bed, I lay beside him, wide awake, heart pounding.

The next morning, I acted normal. I got his things ready for work.
But the moment he walked out the door, I grabbed our clothes, picked up the kids, and ran straight to my best friend’s house.

“We’re safe now,” I told myself.

But that evening, while I was cooking, Cynthia walked up to me and said something that nearly made my knees give out:

“Mommy, uncle says we have to go home.”

“Which uncle?” I whispered.

“The uncle who talks to me every night… he said we have to go back to Daddy.”

My hands started shaking.

“No… impossible… we already left that house…”

Cynthia’s words sent a cold shiver down my spine.

“Which uncle?” I asked again, my voice trembling.

She looked at me with wide, innocent eyes—eyes that somehow felt older than a child’s.
“The uncle Daddy brings to my room every midnight… he said his home is there, so we have to go back.”

I stepped back, my heart pounding.

“His home?”
This wasn’t a person.
This was something else.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I held my children close and locked the bedroom door in my friend’s apartment. But around 2 AM, I heard whispering.
A child’s voice.

It was Cynthia.

I turned on the lights.

She was sitting straight up in bed, staring at the dark corner of the room—speaking softly, like she was replying to someone.

I grabbed her shoulders.
“Who are you talking to?!”

Her voice was calm, almost empty:
“Uncle said if we don’t go home, he’ll punish me.”

That was when I knew things had gone far beyond anything I could control.

The next morning, I called my mother-in-law—someone who understood old spiritual matters in my husband’s family.

She came immediately.

When she heard the whole story, her face turned pale.
She looked at me and sighed, “You should’ve told me earlier… especially about the red pants.”

My stomach tightened.
The red pants.
The small red fabric I saw in my husband’s pocket.

I nodded silently.

She sat down and explained:
“There’s an old ritual in this family. Men who want fast wealth can ‘invite a helper’—a spirit. They use a red child’s clothing to call it. But it’s dangerous. Once called, the spirit will attach itself to the first child who sees it.”

My whole body went cold.

“Cynthia was the first one to see it…” I whispered.

My mother-in-law nodded.
“And once it attaches, running away won’t help.”

I felt panic flooding in.
“So how do we remove it? How do we save her?”

She took out a small bell and a red string.
“There’s only one way. The person who summoned it must end the ritual himself.”

I knew what that meant.
My husband.

That Night – Facing the Truth

I called him, demanding he come to my friend’s place.
He arrived looking exhausted, eyes dark and sunken as if he hadn’t slept in days.

I didn’t waste time.
“Tell me the truth. What did you call into our home?”

He was silent for a long time.
Then tears rolled down his face.

“I only wanted us to have money… I was drowning in debts… they said I just needed a red child’s cloth and the words of summoning. I didn’t know it would latch onto Cynthia…”

My mother-in-law stepped forward.
“Now you must end it. It’s the only way.”

She handed him the bell.

He walked toward Cynthia—who was standing motionless, staring at the door as if waiting for someone.

He rang the bell three times and spoke the closing words she taught him.

Suddenly, a strong wind blew through the sealed room.
Lights flickered violently.

Cynthia screamed once—a short, piercing cry—
then collapsed.

The air slowly grew warmer.
The atmosphere lighter.

And then… everything stopped.

She was asleep.
Breathing like a normal child.

I burst into tears.

The next day, we returned home.
I threw away all the children’s red clothing.
My husband destroyed every material related to the ritual.
He swore never to touch anything spiritual again.

Cynthia never spoke to the “uncle” again.
Never stared into corners.
Never woke up at midnight.

But sometimes, after turning off her bedroom light…

When I walk out into the hallway…

I still feel like someone is standing there.

Watching.

Maybe it’s just in my mind.
I hope it is.