When My Son Started Playing With the Dead Boy

Children have imaginations—wild, strange, and often beautiful. So when my six-year-old son Adam began talking about a “new friend” named Sam, I didn’t panic.

“Sam is funny,” he’d say. “He wears old clothes. He doesn't like shoes.”

I chuckled.

Kids create all kinds of companions.

But Sam wasn’t imaginary.

Not really.

It started two weeks after we moved into the countryside—a small house near the edge of an old, forgotten cemetery. I didn't think much of it. It was quiet, peaceful, and the rent was affordable.

Adam adjusted quickly.

He’d play outside every evening, always talking, laughing, running like someone chased him.

One day, I asked him, “Are you having fun, sweetheart?”

He smiled. “Yes! Sam says I’m the only one who can see him now.”

That should’ve been the first red flag.

I asked him to describe Sam.

“He’s my age,” Adam said, “but his skin is cold. And he doesn’t blink.”

My stomach tightened.

I tried brushing it off—kids say creepy things all the time.

Until I saw footprints.

Small, bare feet. Muddy. Leading from the backyard into Adam’s room.

But Adam had been wearing shoes all day.

I checked the window.

Closed.

I asked Adam again, “Where did Sam go?”

He looked at me, puzzled.

“He sleeps under the dirt. But he comes out when the moon is high.”

I froze.

That night, I stayed up.

At 2:13 a.m., I heard whispers from Adam’s room.

I walked in—slowly.

He sat cross-legged on the floor. Alone.

Talking.

And laughing.

“Where’s Sam?” I asked.

Adam pointed to the corner.

“He’s hiding. He doesn’t like grown-ups.”

I felt a chill.

I turned on every light.

Nothing there.

I searched the backyard the next day. Nothing unusual—until I noticed a dent in the earth beneath the large oak tree. Fresh soil, slightly sunken.

Like something had been buried—or unburied.

I grabbed a small spade and began digging.

Not too deep—just a foot or two.

Then I hit it.

Fabric.

Torn, old, and muddy.

Then… a bone.

A small, fragile human bone.

I screamed.

Called the police.

They investigated. The grave was shallow, like it had been made by someone with little strength. The remains were of a young boy—around six. No ID, no history, no missing person reports in the area.

They told me the grave was likely decades old.

I didn’t tell them about Sam.

But I told a local cleric.

He listened quietly. Then asked:

“Has your son been waking up at 2 a.m.?”

“Yes.”

“Has he drawn strange symbols? Talked to his mirror?”

“…Yes.”

He nodded. “Then the boy didn’t find your son. Your son found the boy.”

He explained that spirits of the disturbed sometimes latch onto the purest souls—children. They aren’t always evil, but they are lost. And once attached, they don’t go willingly.

He gave me verses to recite, water to sprinkle, and told me never to let Adam play alone again.

I followed every instruction.

And for a few days, Sam disappeared.

Adam cried.

“Why did you make him leave? He was my best friend.”

I tried to explain.

“He’s gone to rest now. That’s where he belongs.”

Adam was quiet.

But that night, I found a new drawing under his bed.

It showed two boys—holding hands.

One smiled.

The other didn’t have eyes.

And beneath them, written in messy crayon:

“You can’t bury a promise.”

The next evening, I locked all doors. I stayed in Adam’s room.

He slept peacefully.

At 2:13 a.m., the window creaked open—by itself.

A gust of wind blew out the lamp.

I rushed to relight it—and saw two sets of footprints on the floor.

One leading to Adam’s bed.

The other… leading away.

In the morning, Adam was safe.

But the ground beneath the oak tree was freshly turned—again.

And beside it, written in chalk:

“Thank you for letting me play one more time.”