It was a drizzling Monday afternoon when my father told me we would be visiting my grandmother in the province. I was eight years old then, and the excitement bubbled within me as I rushed to pack my things. I even slept early that night, knowing we’d be leaving at dawn for the three hour journey. My mother, however, wouldn’t be joining us right away; she had work commitments and planned to drive the car the following day while we traveled by bus.
The journey was a blur. I remember boarding the bus at the city station, but exhaustion claimed me, and I slept through the ride, only waking when we reached the town terminal. From there, we transferred to a small, non-air-conditioned local van. Despite the simplicity of the ride, I was captivated by the lush scenery—endless rice fields framed by majestic mountains. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at my grandmother’s house.
Her home sat along a hilly road, offering a breathtaking view of the entire town below. It was an old yet charming structure, its worn wood exuding warmth and history. My favorite part of the house was the veranda on the second floor, where one could gaze at the green fields stretching into the horizon. That first evening, my grandmother prepared a delicious meal and a dessert that tasted like magic. Afterward, she read me a story about enchanting fairies that were said to guard her beloved town. I was enthralled by every word.
The next morning, I woke early to catch the sunrise, the golden rays spilling over the fields like liquid light. Outside, I saw my grandmother tending to her chickens and goats, so I quickly joined her. Together, we fed the animals and tended to her small farm. I couldn’t recall feeling happier.
By lunchtime, my mother arrived in a flurry, driving the car into the driveway with urgency. She rushed inside, visibly shaken. My father immediately hugged her, and my grandmother handed her a glass of water, trying to calm her. They spoke in hushed voices on the veranda, away from my ears, but curiosity got the better of me. I peeped through the doorway, straining to catch any words, but they were careful not to let me hear.
The blaring sound of my alarm jolted me awake. It was 7 a.m., and I had to rush to the office. This week had been particularly hectic, with deadlines piling up faster than I could clear them. I glanced at the calendar—August 18. Tomorrow was my 27th birthday. I had promised my parents I’d visit them in the province to celebrate, so finishing my work today was non-negotiable.
Since my grandmother passed away a decade ago, she had left her home and land to my father, her only child. My parents had since moved to the province to manage the livelihood she had left behind, and I was here in the city living alone in my parents house .
That night, exhausted from work, I lay down for a quick nap after packing for the trip. I woke to an odd sound. Looking out the back window, I saw a woman standing at my back door, carrying a bag and glancing toward her car parked at the adjacent road beside our house . I quickly packed my things, grabbed my car keys, and locked the back door quietly so she won’t be able to see me . She remained in her car, her eyes fixed on my house.
I decided to leave through the front door, locking it securely before driving away. Parking on a nearby street, I kept watch, ensuring she didn’t follow. Minutes later, I saw her approach my house again, checking both doors and peering through the windows. She returned to her car shortly after and drove away. My curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to follow her.
Carefully trailing her for what felt like hours, I watched as she finally stopped at a terminal—the same terminal near my grandmother’s town. She spoke to a police officer, which made me nervous. To avoid being seen, I turned into an alley, one I knew was a short cut that led to my grandmother’s house.
When I arrived, my parents greeted me with open arms. We ate lunch together, and I recounted the strange encounter with the woman who seemed to be stalking our house. My father’s expression turned grave, and my mother’s face paled as tears filled her eyes.
Shaking, my mother began to explain the reason she had arrived so frightened at my grandmother’s house when I was eight.
“That day,” she said, “I was packing to follow you and your dad to the province. While preparing, I heard a noise coming from your room. When I checked, the room was empty, so I locked the front door from the inside and stepped out through the back. Moments later, I heard the same noises again. I peered through the windows and checked both doors, but everything seemed normal.
“I dismissed it as nerves, but as I drove to the terminal, I realized I was being followed. The car mirrored every turn I made, stopping when I stopped. Terrified, I drove straight to the terminal and approached a police officer. The car vanished the moment I did.”
As her story ended, chills ran down my spine. I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that history had repeated itself in some strange and unsettling way.
Am I back in time or my mom visited the future 🚀
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