In the small, mist-shrouded village of Ravenbrook, there was an old, decaying house that no one dared approach after dark. The air around it felt unnaturally cold, even in the heat of summer, and whispers of a tragic past clung to its walls like a parasite. The locals called it "The Widow's House," though none had seen anyone alive there in over a decade.

Many years ago, it had been home to a young mother named Evelyn, her husband Thomas, and their two children. Evelyn was known for her beauty and kindness, always looking after her children with a warm, loving heart. But her husband, Thomas, was a cruel man. He was plagued by dark thoughts and envy, and as his jealousy festered, he began to suspect that Evelyn was unfaithful, though she was not.

One stormy night, Thomas, consumed by his madness, crept into their bedroom while Evelyn slept peacefully beside him. With a cold, merciless stare, he raised a heavy iron poker from the fireplace and brought it down on her head, silencing her forever. Blood soaked the bed, but the rain outside drowned out her final, choking gasp. Thomas buried her body in the woods behind their house, convinced that no one would ever know.

But Evelyn did not rest. The bond between a mother and her children is a sacred thing, and her soul could not leave them behind.

The first sign came three days after her death. Thomas awoke in the dead of night to the sound of soft footsteps padding through the hallway. At first, he thought it was one of the children, but as the sound grew closer, a sharp chill gripped the room, and the temperature plummeted. The door creaked open, but no one was there—just the silhouette of something darker than the shadows, standing at the threshold.

A whisper followed him, cold as ice.

"Why did you do it, Thomas?"

His heart pounded as he sat up, drenched in sweat, but there was nothing to see. The air felt thick, oppressive, but he convinced himself it was his imagination. Yet night after night, the same thing happened—footsteps, whispers, and a growing sense of dread. The children, too, began to notice strange things. Their toys moved on their own, and they would find messages written on the walls in a language they couldn't understand, yet it filled them with a nameless fear.

One night, as Thomas was sitting alone in the parlor, he felt an icy hand grip his shoulder. He turned, but no one was there—only the faint smell of decay, and something else. Lavender. Evelyn's favorite scent. His heart raced, and his mind churned with fear.

Then he heard it. A low, soft lullaby. Evelyn's lullaby.

The children woke to the sound, and they began to scream, calling for their mother. When Thomas rushed to their room, he found them huddled in the corner, staring at the rocking chair where Evelyn had once sat. The chair rocked gently, though no one was in it.

"She's here!" the youngest cried. "She's protecting us!"

But it wasn't protection that the ghost mother sought—not from Thomas. That night, she showed herself fully. As the clock struck midnight, the windows shattered, and a freezing gust swept through the house. From the shadows emerged a figure, pale and ghastly, her face twisted with sorrow and fury. Her long, blood-matted hair clung to her face, and her eyes glowed with a cold, unforgiving light.

"Evelyn..." Thomas gasped, backing away in terror.

"You took me from them," her voice was a rasp, a hollow echo of the gentle woman she had been. "You thought you could silence me forever. But I have returned. And now... you will suffer."

Before he could scream, her hand—ice-cold and bony—gripped his throat. He felt her nails sink into his skin, and in his mind, he saw everything. He relived the night of her murder, over and over, each time feeling her terror, her pain, as if it were his own.

The villagers found Thomas the next morning, lying dead in the parlor, his face frozen in an expression of absolute terror. His eyes were wide open, and around his neck were bruises shaped like a woman's hand.

No one ever moved into the house after that. The children were sent away to live with relatives, but they would often speak of their mother, claiming she would visit them in their dreams. She was no longer the gentle mother they remembered, but a twisted version of herself, always protecting them from unseen dangers, but never allowing them to forget what had happened.

The villagers say that on stormy nights, you can still hear the ghostly lullaby echoing through the trees around the Widow's House. And if you're unlucky enough to wander too close, you might just catch a glimpse of her—pale, angry, and forever bound to the children she could not leave behind.

Beware the Ghost Mother, for her wrath is endless, and she will never forgive.

Time passed, but the horror of what happened at the Widow's House never faded. The villagers learned to avoid the area, especially on stormy nights. Even the bravest hunters refused to venture into the woods behind the house, where Thomas had buried Evelyn's body. They knew she was there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting, watching.

The few who dared to go near would return pale and shaken, muttering about seeing a woman's figure at the edge of the forest, her dress tattered and stained with blood, her eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Some said they heard her crying softly, while others swore they felt a cold hand brush against their skin as they ran from the house, the air thick with the scent of lavender and rot.

One evening, a new family moved to the outskirts of the village, unaware of the house's dark history. The Andersons—young parents with a daughter of six and an infant son—found a quaint home not far from the Widow's House. Despite warnings from the villagers, they brushed off the stories as local superstition. They were city folk, practical and modern. Ghost stories didn't scare them.

At first, things were quiet, peaceful even. But strange occurrences began not long after they settled in. The Andersons' daughter, Lily, started talking about a "nice lady" who visited her at night. The lady, she said, wore a long white dress and had "sad eyes." She would sit at the end of Lily's bed and tell her stories in a soft voice.

At first, her parents dismissed it as a child's imagination. But one night, Mrs. Anderson was passing by Lily's room when she heard her daughter speaking to someone. Pausing at the door, she listened, hearing Lily's soft voice asking, "Why are you sad?"

Then, another voice responded, faint but unmistakable.

"Because I lost everything."

Mrs. Anderson burst into the room, but there was no one there—just Lily, sitting upright in bed, her wide eyes staring at the empty space by her feet.

"Where did she go?" Lily asked innocently, glancing at her mother. "She was just here."

Mrs. Anderson's heart pounded, but she tried to calm herself. Maybe it was a dream, she thought. Children often talked to imaginary friends. But that night, when she returned to bed, she could not shake the feeling that something was watching her, lurking just beyond her line of sight.

Over the next few nights, the situation worsened. Objects in the house began to move on their own. The kitchen chairs would be rearranged in strange patterns, and the lights flickered at odd hours. The baby's crib would rock gently by itself, as if someone—something—was soothing him. The temperature in the house dropped drastically, no matter how much they tried to heat it.

One night, Mr. Anderson woke to the sound of Lily giggling from her room. Curious, he got out of bed and made his way down the hall. The moment he stepped inside, the laughter stopped. Lily was sitting upright, wide awake.

"She's here," Lily whispered, pointing to the corner of the room.

Mr. Anderson turned, his breath catching in his throat as a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a woman, her long hair hanging in tangled strands over her face, her dress torn and stained with what looked like dried blood. Her eyes were hollow, glowing faintly in the dark, and her mouth twisted into a mournful smile.

"You can't protect them," she hissed, her voice dripping with malice.

Mr. Anderson stumbled back, slamming the door behind him, his mind racing. They needed to leave—now.

As he and his wife gathered the children in a panic, the house seemed to come alive with the ghost's fury. Windows shattered, and the walls trembled as if an unseen force was shaking them. The baby screamed, and Lily cried out as her toys flew across the room, crashing against the walls.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, everything went silent. The temperature dropped to an unbearable chill, and a soft voice echoed through the house. It was a lullaby—the same one Evelyn had sung to her children before her death.

Mrs. Anderson froze, clutching her infant son to her chest. She turned to her husband, her eyes wide with terror.

"She's here," she whispered, her voice trembling. "She's come for the children."

A figure appeared at the foot of the stairs. It was Evelyn, her face twisted with sorrow and rage, her eyes locked onto the children.

"You took them from me," she whispered, though her voice carried through the house like the roar of a storm. "You won't take them again."

With a wave of her hand, an invisible force slammed into Mr. Anderson, sending him crashing into the wall. He groaned in pain, struggling to move. Mrs. Anderson screamed, clutching the baby tighter, but she could feel something pulling him away from her, as though icy fingers were prying him from her grasp.

Suddenly, Lily stepped forward, her face calm despite the chaos around her. "It's okay, Mommy," she said softly. "She's not going to hurt us. She just wants to make sure we're safe."

Evelyn's ghost paused, her haunting eyes locking onto Lily. For a moment, the rage seemed to fade from her expression, replaced by something almost... gentle.

"Safe..." the ghost mother whispered, her voice cracking.

With that, the lights flickered once more, and Evelyn vanished into the air, leaving behind only the lingering scent of lavender.

The Andersons fled that night, never to return. The villagers knew what had happened, and no one was surprised when the house stood empty once more. But the legend of the Ghost Mother only grew stronger.

They say that Evelyn's spirit will never leave the Widow's House, forever bound to the place where she lost everything. And though she is driven by vengeance, her deepest desire is still to protect the children—any children.

So, if you ever find yourself near Ravenbrook, and you hear the sound of a soft lullaby carried on the wind, be warned. The Ghost Mother is watching, waiting.

And if she finds you unworthy, you might just become part of her story forever.