My in-laws have this tradition of gathering all the grandkids at their place for a two-week vacation at their gorgeous estate. They’ve got a huge garden, a pool, and they even hire entertainers.
When our son turned six, he was finally “old enough” to get invited. He’d been looking forward to it for ages — his cousins had told him over and over how much fun it was at Grandma and Grandpa’s, even better than Disneyland!
So when my mother-in-law, Betsy, called to invite our son, I had no objections. My husband said it would be great for Timmy to bond with family. We dropped him off, ready for two weeks of peace, though I planned to check in daily.
On day two, Timmy called me first — unusual for him.
“Mom, come pick me up from Grandma’s.”
“What happened, honey?”
“GRANDMA JUST… DOESN’T LIKE ME. I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE. THE THINGS SHE’S DOING…” The call cut off.
I called Timmy back — no answer.
So I called my MIL and asked what was going on. She calmly said everything was fine, that Timmy must have gotten something mixed up. But when I asked to speak to him, she told me he was busy playing with the other kids — then hung up.
That really rattled me. I got in the car and drove straight to her house. It took two hours, but when I finally got there and stepped into the yard, I saw the strangest scene.
Every single child — all nine of them — was standing in a perfect line. They weren’t playing, laughing, or even moving much.
Betsy was at the front, holding what looked like an old silver bell and whispering something I couldn’t hear. One by one, she would ring it in front of each child, and they would nod silently before stepping aside.
Timmy was at the very end of the line, his little fists clenched, his face pale. When he saw me, his eyes widened in relief.
But before I could go to him, Betsy stepped forward, blocking my path with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” she said softly. “We were… in the middle of something.”
“What’s going on?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.
Her gaze flicked to the children, then back to me. “It’s just a family tradition. You wouldn’t understand.”
I stepped around her, grabbed Timmy’s hand, and started walking toward the gate — but then Timmy tugged on my arm and whispered, trembling:
“Mom… don’t turn your back on her. Not until we’re far away.”
I tightened my grip on Timmy’s hand, my pulse hammering in my ears.
We kept walking, my eyes fixed on Betsy. She didn’t move — she just stood there, still smiling, still holding that old silver bell.
Halfway to the gate, I realized the other kids had turned to face us. Their expressions were blank, eyes almost glassy, like they were waiting for… something.
Timmy’s voice was barely audible. “She makes us… stand still. She rings the bell and says things in our heads. I don’t like the things she says, Mom.”
I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine.
Betsy suddenly called out, her voice carrying across the yard: “Timmy, come back. You haven’t finished your turn.”
He squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. “Don’t let go,” he begged.
The moment we stepped out of the gate, I felt the weight lift from the air — like a pressure I hadn’t realized was there had just evaporated.
I shoved Timmy into the car, slammed the door, and started the engine. Betsy hadn’t followed us, but when I glanced in the rearview mirror, she was still standing in the same spot, holding the bell, her lips moving soundlessly.
It wasn’t until we were halfway home that Timmy finally spoke again.
“She told me that if I stayed for all the days… I’d never want to leave. Ever. And she said… she could make it happen.”
