At first, I thought it was just play. My five-year-old sat in the corner with our dog, whispering about a “line” that kept them safe. But his tone wasn’t playful—it was serious. “She doesn’t go past the line,” he said. Our dog sat pressed against him, silent, as if he agreed.
Over the next days, he refused to walk down the hallway, dragged his blanket into the corner to sleep, and built block “lines” across the carpet. When I finally asked who “she” was, he answered simply: “The lady in the hall.”
At first, I brushed it off—until I began hearing dragging sounds at night. My sister later swore she heard footsteps when she stayed over. Research revealed a woman named Margaret had died in our hallway decades ago—right around the same time of year.
One night, I caught a faint shadow lingering in the hall. Our dog growled low but never crossed his “line.” Then suddenly, my son told me, calm as ever: “She said goodbye. The dog told her to go.”
After that, the house felt lighter. My son stopped making “lines,” and the dog went back to his playful self. Weeks later, I found an old photo in the closet—Margaret, standing in that very hallway.
We never saw her again. But I’ll never forget how my son and his dog stood together against something unseen. In the end, it wasn’t fear that drew the line—it was love.
