My oldest son called me at midnight. He works for the FBI, and his first order wasn’t about criminals in the street—it was about my own attic.

I should have paid attention to that last part.

You’re not getting any younger.

But I was lonely, and she was my daughter. And the thought of having family around again felt like a lifeline.

Cameron smiled his practiced smile and added, “We’d take care of everything, Walter. Yard work, maintenance, whatever you need. You’ve worked hard your whole life. Time to take it easy.”

So I said yes.

They moved in the following week. At first, it felt good having people in the house again. Lindsay would make dinner. Cameron would handle the bills that had been piling up. They were attentive—almost too attentive. Every time I turned around, one of them was there asking if I needed anything, if I was feeling all right, if I’d taken my vitamins.

The vitamins.

That’s where it started, though I didn’t realize it then.

Lindsay brought them to me the first night, a small white pill in her palm. “The doctor prescribed these for you, Dad. They’ll help with your memory—keep you sharp.”

I didn’t remember going to any doctor. I didn’t remember any prescription. But Lindsay seemed so certain, so caring, that I swallowed it down with a glass of water.

Every night after that, she’d bring me another pill. Sometimes Cameron would bring it instead, always with that same reassuring smile.

“Doctor’s orders,” he’d say. “These will help.”

But I didn’t feel helped. I felt foggy. My thoughts moved like honey—slow and thick. I’d walk into my studio and forget why I’d gone there. I’d start a sentence and lose the words halfway through. Paintings I’d been working on for years suddenly looked unfamiliar, like someone else had put brush to canvas.

The confusion scared me more than I wanted to admit.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I was getting old, losing my edge. Maybe I needed help.

Then came the hallucinations.

One night, I woke to use the bathroom. The house was dark and quiet. I shuffled down the hallway, still half asleep, when I saw her.

Helen—standing in the corner of our bedroom, wearing the blue dress she’d been buried in.

She was looking at me with those sad eyes, not speaking, just watching.

My heart nearly stopped. I blinked hard, squeezed my eyes shut, and opened them again.

She was still there.

I could see the fabric of her dress moving slightly, as if in a breeze I couldn’t feel.

“Helen,” my voice came out as a whisper.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stood there watching me with that terrible sadness.

I must have made some sound because suddenly Lindsay was there, her hand on my arm.

“Dad, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

When I looked back at the corner, Helen was gone.

“I saw… I…” I couldn’t finish. How do you tell your daughter you’re seeing her dead mother?

Lindsay guided me back to bed, her face arranged in concern. “It’s okay, Dad. You were dreaming. The mind plays tricks sometimes, especially at night. That’s why you need your rest and your vitamins.”

She tucked me in like I was a child. Like I was helpless.