The Renovation Lie
My mom had always been warm, chatty, and a little overbearing. So when she told me not to visit for three months because of “renovations,” I didn’t question it too hard at first. She said it so casually, with that familiar laugh:
“Just a little chaos, sweetheart! Trust me, it’s better you stay away until it’s all done.”
But after a few weeks, her calls changed.
They got shorter.
Colder.
Sometimes she wouldn’t even pick up.
And when she did, her voice sounded… hollow.
Something wasn’t right.
One Saturday, I decided to stop by unannounced. Just to check. I drove two hours back to my childhood home, heart pounding the closer I got.
From the outside, the house looked almost the same—except the garden. My mother loved that garden. Trimmed hedges, perfect flower beds. But now? It was wild. Overgrown. Untouched.
I got out of the car and walked up the path. No construction vehicles. No sound. Just eerie silence.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside… it was clean. Too clean. Not a speck of dust, not a single tool or paint can. No signs of renovation whatsoever.
I walked from room to room, each one empty of life. Even the kitchen—her sacred space—felt abandoned.
“Mom?” I called. No answer.
Then I ran upstairs.
Her bedroom door was half-closed. I pushed it open and froze.
My mom was sitting perfectly still on the edge of the bed. Wearing a nightgown. Hair brushed. Hands on her lap. Staring at the wall.
“Mom!” I rushed over. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were vacant, like she was somewhere else entirely.
I gently touched her shoulder. She flinched, then blinked at me. “You weren’t supposed to come yet,” she whispered.
“Come for what?” I asked.
That’s when I noticed—under her nightgown sleeve, the edge of a hospital bracelet.
Her hands were trembling. She finally whispered, “He’s back.”
“Who?”
Her lip quivered. “Your father.”
My blood turned cold.
My father had died over a decade ago.
That’s when I noticed something else—footsteps. From downstairs.
Slow, deliberate.
We weren’t alone.
I reached for my phone to call for help, and that’s when the bedroom door creaked closed behind me.
Click.
Locked.
Mom turned to me, tears streaming down her cheeks now. “I tried to keep you away. I really did.”
From the hallway, a voice echoed. Deep. Familiar. Impossible.
“Is that my little girl?”
My knees went weak.
Because that voice?
That voice was my father’s.
And he died in 2011.
Or so I thought.