“Before my mother died of lung cancer, she suffered in our living room. My dad got a hospital bed from somewhere, and that’s where she stayed, getting her morphine.
At night, my mother often felt incredible pain and cried. Because of that, my father ordered us to keep our doors open and wake him up when she cried so that he could take care of her. However, when my mom got weaker, her crying was not loud enough to reach upstairs to our rooms. So, my father got a little stick, which was made out of some kind of light wood. And when my mother hit the stick against her bed frame, it was loud and clear and we could hear her.
That time was the worst of my life. Imagine the psychological torture of hearing your mother crying and suffering all the time. It was especially bad when she had had her dose of morphine, but still suffered. Then, my dad told us to ignore her because we couldn’t do anything and she would soon go to sleep.
Some days before she passed, my mother cried and suffered even louder, and sleeping was more difficult. By then, we had to ignore her crying most of the time. My sister slept on the sofa in my bedroom because my older brother and his wife moved in temporarily, some weeks before my mother passed, to support my father. They stayed until a few weeks after my mother’s death.
One day I had had enough of this depressing version of Full House, and I stayed at my cousin’s home over the weekend. After hours of playing video games, my cousin and I went to sleep. That night was the night my mother finally lost her fight against the cancer.
One or two days after her death, I came back home. That’s when the creepy stuff started. Since my mother was dead, I was glad to close the door of my room again because I am one of those people who doesn’t like to sleep with an open door. But my sister wanted the door to stay open. I was annoyed but left the door open. Shortly after that, I fell asleep.
I don’t know what time it was, but I remember waking up to the sound of my mother slamming her wooden stick against the bed frame. It was loud and clear. I thought I had just lost my mind during that stressful time. I blamed it on my mind so I had a reason not to be creeped out as fuck. But then, through the dark, I heard my sister asking if I heard the banging. That’s when I got really scared. I ignored her, hoping that she would stop asking. She kept asking. Then I shouted at my sister, insisting that there was nothing, that it was her imagination and that she needed to shut up because I was trying to sleep. Later, I heard my mother crying, just like she had when she was alive and suffering.
I think that lasted a few days. This is where my memory gets strangely blurry. I can still recall the sound of the stick slamming on the bed frame, but when I try to remember how long it lasted, and if she was crying more or slamming more, my memory gets so foggy. I think that my sister got up one night and asked my dad to check the living room. But I don’t know if this happened for real, or if my mind just made that up. I only remember the first time the banging sounds started, and the time that they stopped. I remember lying in bed at night, my eyes closed, both waiting for the banging and dreading it. However, a few days after my mother’s death, the sounds stopped. But not for long…
Today, I hear strange sounds coming from the living room at night, low and frequent banging. Since my dad sleeps on the couch in the living room, I often tell myself that it is him making the noise. But then again, the banging happens even when my dad isn’t home. I thought I was the only person who heard the banging, but my girlfriend noticed it one night. I told her it was something outside. If I told her this story, she would never come over again.
I’ve never told anyone this story. I was 16 when my mother died. I am 25 now. When I hear the noises, I often imagine going downstairs and telling my mom that I love her and apologizing for letting her cry alone because I was too scared to help. I would thank her for everything. I still miss her so much. But the idea of seeing my dead mother is too frightening.”
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