I’ve never been the type to believe in the supernatural. Logic, reason, and the rules of life have always governed my understanding of the world. But a few years ago, something happened that shook my convictions to their core.
It all started when we moved into our new villa in Abu Dhabi. My wife and I were thrilled—a fresh start in a beautiful house in a brand-new area. After a long day of unpacking, arranging furniture, and settling in, we collapsed into bed on the third floor, exhausted but happy.
At around 2 AM, I was jolted awake by a strange sound. The room was dark, pitch-black. I couldn’t see a thing. I glanced over at my wife, still deep in sleep, and told myself it was nothing—probably just my imagination running wild after such a tiring day.
But then, just as I was drifting back to sleep, I heard it again. A faint noise. Something in the room. My heart quickened. I sat up, staring into the darkness, and this time, my wife stirred awake too. In a hushed voice, I asked her if she had heard anything. She nodded, her eyes wide.
For the next ten or fifteen minutes, we lay there in silence, straining to hear. We whispered to each other that it had to be our minds playing tricks on us. Surely, after the stress of moving, we were just overly tired. But as we tried to convince ourselves, the sound returned—this time louder, more distinct. A knock. Then another. It wasn’t just a noise; it felt as if something—or someone—was moving the bed.
A chill ran down my spine. My wife’s face mirrored my own fear. This wasn’t our imagination anymore. Something was in the room. But what? A new house, a new bedroom—what could be lurking here?
Before we could make sense of it, the knocking returned, louder, more forceful. We were not alone. Panic gripped me, but with all the courage I could muster, I silently recited every verse of the Quran I could remember. Summoning my strength, I leapt out of bed and flicked on the light.
Nothing. The room was empty. Just our bed, the closet, and the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows on the walls. My heart pounded as I inspected every corner, every crevice, even opening the closet doors. Nothing. The sound had vanished as mysteriously as it had come.
Confused and shaken, we tried to convince ourselves it was over. Exhausted, we crawled back into bed, hoping to finally get some sleep. But as soon as we settled, there it was again—a violent thud against the bed, harder than before.
This time, we both jumped up, flipping on every light in the room. No more explanations. No more logic. Something was in here with us, and we couldn’t deny it any longer. My wife, trembling, knelt down and peered under the bed—a place I should have checked earlier.
And there, curled up and sound asleep, was our eight-year-old son.
Relief washed over us in waves as we realized the source of the mysterious noises. He had somehow crawled under the bed, and with the limited space, he had been kicking and bumping against the frame in his sleep.
We pulled him out, laughing at our earlier terror, our hearts slowly returning to normal. That night, with our son tucked safely in bed beside us, we finally slept soundly—thankful the only ghost in the room was our own overactive imagination.
