My great-grandmother died ten years ago. Yesterday, she called my wife to say she was coming over to meet the baby.

I’ve been estranged from my family for years.

My wife knew this, though she assumed it was a clean break from everyone. I never talked much about my childhood, my relatives, or the house I grew up in. I told her it was better left in the past, and she respected that.

So imagine her surprise when, earlier this week, she got a voicemail from my great-grandmother, saying she’d be stopping by to meet our newborn son.

She played the message for me like it was something sweet. Precious. Harmless.

“I’m so excited to meet him,” the voice said, soft and warm. “I just know he’s beautiful. I’ll stop by soon, dear. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She said the voice sounded kind, fragile—like an elderly woman holding back tears.

But my blood ran cold.

“My great-grandmother died ten years ago,” I said.

She thought I was joking at first. I didn’t laugh.

I never told her about the death. There was no need. She passed while I was in college, right around the time I started cutting ties with that side of the family. They were always strange—obsessed with dreams, omens, ghosts. I wanted nothing to do with it.

I checked the caller ID. The number wasn’t saved, but the area code matched the tiny rural town where she had lived… and died. I tried calling it back.

Disconnected.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept getting up to check on our son, who slept peacefully in his crib.

At 3:08 AM, the baby monitor crackled to life.

A lullaby played through the speaker. Not one we use. It was old—so old I hadn’t heard it since I was a child. My great-grandmother used to hum it. She passed it to my grandfather, to my mother, then to me. A strange little tune I hadn’t thought of in decades.

I ran to the nursery.

The air was icy. The rocking chair in the corner creaked, moving slowly, like someone had just risen from it.

But the room was empty.

Our son was fast asleep.

The next morning, a note was on the kitchen table. Folded neatly. Written in cursive.

“He’s perfect. I’ll visit again soon.
–Great-Great-Gran”

It was her handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere.

I tried burning the note. The flame touched it—but it wouldn’t burn. It darkened at the edges but refused to catch.

Two nights later, I found my wife nursing in the baby’s room. She was rocking slowly in the dim light. I stepped in to check on them, and as I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of the mirror on the dresser.

She sat alone. But in the mirror, standing behind her, was a woman in a lace gown.

It was her.

Her face was pale, mouth stretched too wide in a smile full of small teeth. Her eyes looked like dried fruit. She stared at the baby like he was hers.

I blinked—and she was gone.

My wife didn’t notice anything.

She just looked up and asked if I was okay.

I said I was fine.

But I lied.

Since then, the baby monitor turns on by itself, always at 3:08. The lullaby gets louder each night. Last night, it wasn’t humming—it was singing. And it wasn’t her voice.

This morning, there was a handprint on our son’s ankle. Too small to be either of ours. Too bony. Too old.

She said she was coming to visit.

But I think she never left.