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Liam and I had been married a little over a year. Our life in our quiet Boston home was peaceful — except for one deeply unnerving detail: his mother, Margaret.
Every single night at exactly 3 a.m., she knocked on our bedroom door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Enough to jolt me awake every time.
At first, I thought she needed help or was disoriented. But each time I opened the door, the hallway stood empty — dim, silent, still.
Liam brushed it off. “Mom never sleeps well,” he told me. “She wanders sometimes.”
But the more it happened, the more my nerves frayed.
After nearly a month, I needed answers. I bought a tiny camera and set it above the bedroom door. I didn’t tell Liam — he would’ve insisted I was being dramatic.
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