Picture this: after my dad’s passing, my mom started visiting more often. Sweet, right? Wrong. Her visits turned our house into a drama scene from a soap opera. Tears, tension, and most confusingly, my daughter Cindy’s uncontrollable crying fits whenever Grandma was around. Of course, Mom blamed it on my “overprotective” parenting. Yet, when Grandma wasn’t in the picture, Cindy was the image of perfect joy. Something didn’t add up.

So, one emotionally charged evening after another one of Mom’s visits, I had had enough. I grabbed Cindy’s tiny hand for a serious mother-daughter chat. “Sweetheart,” I began, “why do you always cry when Grandma comes over?”

Cindy’s eyes opened wide, filled with fear. “Because of her friend,” she whispered.

Whoa. What friend? Every time Mom visits, she arrives solo. “Sweetie,” I said, puzzled, “she doesn’t bring anyone with her.”

Cindy shook her head emphatically. “Then why does she keep asking me to play with him?”

My heart started pounding. A mysterious “friend”? Who exactly was Cindy talking about? “Him? Who are you talking about?” The words barely made it out of my mouth.

Tears welled up in Cindy’s eyes. “The man who comes with Grandma. He stands in the corner and watches me.”

Chills. Literal chills crept up my spine. There was no man, or at least, none that I could see. Trying not to sound as freaked out as I felt, I asked calmly, “Can you describe this man, Cindy?”

She nodded. “He’s tall, has dark hair, wears old clothes, and has a scary face. He says mean things to me when Grandma isn’t looking.”

Full-on panic mode. I hugged Cindy tightly, my mind racing a mile a minute. Who was this phantom stalker scaring my child? And why was my mother bringing him into our home? How had I missed this?

The very next visit, I had my eyes on Mom like a hawk. The moment she walked in, Cindy latched onto my leg and started to cry. That was it. Time for a confrontation.

“Mom, Cindy keeps saying there’s a man who comes with you. Who is she talking about?” I asked, cutting straight to the chase.

Mom’s face turned white as a sheet. She stammered, “What? No, that’s absurd. There’s no one with me.”

But I saw that flicker of fear in her eyes. She was hiding something. “Mom, Cindy is terrified. Who is this man?”

And just like that, she broke down, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you’d think I was losing my mind. Since your father died, I’ve felt his spirit around. I think… I think he’s attached to me. I didn’t know he was scaring Cindy.”

Stunned doesn’t even begin to cover it. My father? Could this really be happening? I wasn’t one to believe in ghosts, but Cindy’s fright and Mom’s raw distress gave me a serious pause.

Determined to solve this supernatural puzzle, I reached out to a local spiritual advisor. They recommended a cleansing ritual to help my father’s restless spirit find peace. My mom, skeptical but desperate, agreed to participate—for Cindy’s sake.

We dove headfirst into the ritual, filling the house with prayers, incense, and vibes of positivity. Cindy watched with wide eyes, clinging to me like a lifeline. As the ritual wrapped up, an unexpected calm washed over the whole house. Mom seemed more relaxed, and Cindy, although still a bit wary, didn’t cry the next time Grandma visited.

Weeks flew by. Gradually, Cindy’s fear evaporated. The mysterious man became a thing of the past, and my mom seemed to carry a lighter burden, her steps less weighted by invisible chains.