Mother's Revenge: A Haunting Memory

When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for awhile in a charming old farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in the backyard. But our favorite thing was the ghost. We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing. Some mornings Betsy and I would wake up, and on each of our nightstands, we’d find a cup that hadn’t been there the night before. Mother had left them there, worried that we’d get thirsty during the night. She just wanted to take care of us.

But as we grew older, our understanding of Mother changed. The cups of water turned into cups of a thick, dark liquid that smelled of death and decay. And the chair that Mother would move closer to us began to feel like a trap, as if she were trying to lure us closer to her grasp.

One night, after a particularly terrifying dream, I couldn't take it anymore. I had to know the truth about Mother. I snuck into the attic, where I found an old trunk filled with yellowed newspapers and old photographs. As I flipped through the pages, a chill ran down my spine. The articles told the story of a woman, driven mad by the death of her children, who had poisoned them and then taken her own life in that very farmhouse.

I couldn't believe it. The ghost that we had loved and trusted was the very woman who had killed her own children. I immediately woke up my sister and told her what I had discovered. She didn't want to believe me, but the evidence was undeniable.

We knew that we had to leave the farmhouse, but Mother wasn't going to let us go that easily. Every time we tried to pack our bags, strange things would happen. Objects would fly off the shelves and doors would slam shut on their own. It was as if Mother was trying to keep us trapped in her haunted home.

Finally, we were able to escape, but the memories of that farmhouse and Mother stayed with us. We couldn't shake the feeling that she was still with us, still watching and waiting for her chance to claim us as her own. We knew that we could never truly be free of her ghostly presence, and that thought haunted us for the rest of our days.

As we grew older, the ghostly presence of Mother became more and more sinister. The once kind and nurturing spirit had turned into a malevolent force, intent on hurting us. Every night, we would hear her whispering our names, her voice filled with malice and anger. We tried to ignore it, but it was impossible to escape the feeling of being watched and followed.

One night, my sister and I were alone in the house, our parents were out of town for the weekend. We were watching a movie in the living room when we heard a loud bang coming from upstairs. We froze, unsure of what to do. But the noise continued, getting louder and more frantic. Suddenly, the door to our room burst open and we saw her, the ghost of the woman who had killed her children, standing in the doorway with a rope in her hand. She was staring at us with cold, dead eyes and we knew she was coming for us.

We ran out of the house, not stopping until we reached the safety of our neighbors. We told them everything that had happened, but they didn't believe us. They thought we were just imagining things. But we knew what we saw and we knew that we could never go back to that farmhouse again.

From that day on, we were haunted by the memory of Mother and the atrocities she had committed. We couldn't shake the feeling that she was still with us, still watching and waiting for her chance to claim us as her own. We knew that we could never truly be free of her ghostly presence, and that thought haunted us for the rest of our days.

Years later, we found out that the farmhouse had been demolished, but we knew that it was too late for us. The ghost of Mother would always be with us, a constant reminder of the horrors that we had witnessed. And we knew that we would never be able to escape her grasp, not even in death.