This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/313deezy on 2024-11-25 08:26:54+00:00.

The phone call came at 2:17 a.m. It jolted me awake in the dark, the vibrating buzz shattering the silence like a gunshot. I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the screen—Mom. My heart sank. Mom never called this late unless something was wrong.

“Hello?” I croaked, my voice heavy with sleep.

There was no response at first, just the faint sound of heavy breathing. Then a whisper. “Help me.”

The line went dead.

I sat frozen for a moment, the fog of sleep evaporating as panic set in. Something was very wrong. I threw on a hoodie and shoes, grabbed my keys, and raced to her apartment, speeding through the empty streets.

Mom had struggled with addiction for years, a battle she kept losing despite promises and fleeting periods of sobriety. Pills. Painkillers. Then something harder. I had always feared this night would come, but I wasn’t ready.

When I reached her building, the air felt colder than it should, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. The hallway leading to her door seemed endless, each step weighed down by dread. I reached her door and found it slightly ajar.

“Mom?” I called softly, stepping inside.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the glow of the TV playing static. The air was thick, carrying a nauseating mix of sweat, stale cigarettes, and something chemical.

“Mom!” I shouted, my voice cracking.

I found her slumped on the couch, her head lolling to one side, a bottle of pills spilled across the coffee table. Her face was pale, almost translucent, and her lips had a faint bluish tinge. She wasn’t breathing.

“No, no, no,” I muttered, dropping to my knees beside her. My hands shook as I checked for a pulse. It was faint, erratic. A surge of adrenaline shot through me, and I fumbled for my phone to call 911.

As I waited for the dispatcher, I noticed something odd. The shadows in the room didn’t seem to behave normally. They stretched and shifted, writhing like they were alive, creeping toward us. The air grew heavier, and a low whispering sound filled the room, though I couldn’t make out any words.

“Stay with me, Mom,” I begged, shaking her gently.

The dispatcher’s voice crackled in my ear, but it felt distant, like I was underwater. “An ambulance is on the way. Stay on the line and perform CPR if needed.”

I started chest compressions, counting aloud to steady myself. “One, two, three…”

The whispering grew louder, more distinct. I glanced over my shoulder and froze. The shadows had coalesced into a shape—a figure, tall and angular, its eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.

It spoke, its voice like nails on glass. “She is mine.”

“No!” I shouted, my voice trembling. “She’s not yours!”

“She invited me,” it hissed. “Every pill, every dose, a call for me. You cannot take her back.”

I didn’t know what I was dealing with, but I wasn’t about to let it win. “You can’t have her!” I screamed, continuing CPR with renewed vigor. “She’s my mom!”

The figure laughed, a chilling sound that seemed to shake the walls. “She’s already slipping. Her heart beats like a dying drum. You can save yourself the pain.”

Tears streamed down my face as I refused to stop. “Come on, Mom. Come on. Fight!”

Suddenly, her body jerked, and she coughed violently, gasping for air. Relief flooded through me, but the figure didn’t disappear. If anything, it grew darker, angrier.

“You have interfered,” it snarled, moving closer. “But her debt remains.”

I didn’t know what to do, but instinct took over. I grabbed the nearest object—a framed picture of Mom and me from when I was a kid—and held it up like a shield. “You don’t belong here!” I shouted. “She’s not yours to take!”

The figure recoiled as if burned. Its form began to waver, the whispers turning into a deafening roar. I closed my eyes, holding the picture tightly, and screamed, “Get out!”

When I opened my eyes, the room was still. The figure was gone, the shadows back to normal. Mom lay on the couch, breathing shallowly but steadily.

The sound of sirens broke the silence. Paramedics rushed in moments later, taking over as I collapsed in a heap, my hands still shaking.

They stabilized her and took her to the hospital. I stayed by her side all night, holding her hand as the doctors worked to flush the drugs from her system. She woke up hours later, groggy but alive.

“I saw something,” she whispered, her eyes filled with fear. “Something dark. It… it wanted me.”

I squeezed her hand. “It can’t have you. Not while I’m here.”

She nodded weakly, tears spilling down her cheeks. We didn’t talk about it again, but that night changed everything. She started rehab a week later, and for the first time, it felt like she really wanted to fight.

I’ll never forget that night—the night I fought for my mom against something I couldn’t fully understand. And I’ll never stop fighting for her, no matter what.