He couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone, especially after the accident. She was getting older, more fragile, and the large, quiet house suddenly felt unsafe for her. Besides, he had grown up there. Every creaking floorboard and narrow stair was familiar to him. Taking care of her felt natural — almost like returning a favor for all the years she had cared for him.

During the day, everything seemed perfectly normal. They cooked together, cleaned the house, drank tea, and talked about old memories. The atmosphere was warm and comforting. But at night, once his grandmother went to bed, something unsettling began.

Every single night at exactly 3:00 a.m.

Not a minute earlier. Not a minute later.

From the kitchen came the faint sound of water dripping. Then the slow creak of a cabinet door opening and closing. After that, the soft clink of cutlery being moved, as if someone were carefully arranging spoons and forks. One night, he even saw a brief metallic flash in the dark hallway — like a knife blade catching the light.

Yet every morning, his grandmother appeared well-rested and cheerful. She made breakfast, smiled, and insisted she had slept soundly through the night. He didn’t want to worry her. He tried convincing himself it was just his imagination.

But the noises returned the next night. And the one after that.

Always at 3:00 a.m.

After a week of broken sleep, he felt exhausted and on edge. Determined to uncover the truth, he installed a small hidden night-vision camera in the kitchen, carefully concealing it on a high shelf. He needed to know what was happening.

The next morning, while his grandmother was out running errands, he sat down at his laptop and opened the recording.

12:00 a.m. — nothing.
1:00 a.m. — silence.
2:00 a.m. — still quiet.

2:59 a.m.

At exactly 3:00, the motion sensor activated. The lower cabinet door slowly swung open.

Then a figure stepped into view.

It was his grandmother.

She was wearing her familiar floral robe. Her movements were slow but deliberate. She opened the drawer, selected a spoon, and placed it carefully on the table. Then she took out a knife and laid it beside the spoon. She turned on the faucet — three distinct drops of water fell into the sink — and then turned it off.

Every action seemed rehearsed, almost ritualistic.

Then she stopped. Her lips moved as though she were whispering to someone. She nodded slightly — toward a space just outside the camera’s frame.

He reviewed footage from the previous nights. The pattern was identical. Same time. Same sequence. Same three drops of water.

On the fourth recording, something made his blood run cold.

After finishing her strange routine, his grandmother slowly lifted her head and looked directly into the camera.

Her eyes were not vacant.

They were aware.

And she smiled.

That night, he decided to stay awake. At 2:58 a.m., he stood quietly in the dark hallway.

At 3:00, her bedroom door opened. He followed her toward the kitchen.

The spoon and knife were already on the table.

But this time, he saw something the camera hadn’t captured.

In the darkest corner of the kitchen, behind his grandmother, the shadows seemed thicker — denser than the rest of the room. It wasn’t a clear shape, more like a distortion in the darkness, subtly shifting.

“Grandma?” he whispered.

She turned slowly. Her eyes were open, but her gaze seemed to pass right through him.

“He’s hungry,” she said softly. “He comes every night. If I don’t set the table, he won’t let us sleep.”

A chill spread through him. He quickly flipped on the lights.

The kitchen was empty.

No unusual shadow. No second figure. Just his grandmother squinting in confusion.

“Why are you awake?” she asked gently. “Is it morning already?”

The clock read 3:04 a.m.

The next day, he took her to see a doctor. The diagnosis was early-stage dementia combined with episodes of sleepwalking. The doctor explained that patients can perform surprisingly complex tasks while asleep, often repeating old habits or routines without awareness.

He didn’t mention the shadow.

He removed all sharp objects from the kitchen and installed brighter lights in the hallway. For a while, the nights grew quieter.

But a month later, he decided to review the old footage one more time.

In the reflection of the oven’s glass door, just behind his grandmother, he noticed a faint silhouette.

It was taller than her.

And standing far too close.

He shut the laptop abruptly.

The house was silent.

The clock on the wall read 2:58 a.m.

This time, he wasn’t going to wait.