I noticed my 5-year-old grandson, Leo, growing nervous every time he visited my mother, Evelyn.

She used to be the warm, loving woman who baked cookies and sang lullabies.
But Leo’s behavior changed.
He clung to me. He whispered, “Grandma talks to people who aren’t there.”
I brushed it off—maybe he misunderstood. Maybe it was just imagination.

Until one night… Leo locked himself in his room and screamed:

“Grandma watches me sleep. But she’s not asleep. She just stands there… smiling.”

That night, I decided to install a camera in Evelyn’s house without telling anyone.

What I saw chilled me to the bone.
At exactly 3:12 AM, my mother stood in front of Leo’s bed. Motionless. Whispering.
To someone else in the room.

I zoomed in.
She was speaking a name:

“Martin… he’s ready now. Take him.”

But Martin was my father.
He died in 1982.

The next morning, Evelyn didn’t remember a thing.
She smiled, made pancakes, asked if I slept well.
I didn’t say a word.

But when I went to check the camera footage again…

It was gone. Every file. Erased.
And in its place, a single image.

Me. Asleep. Taken from inside my house.