We never said hello...

I was on duty when my cell phone rang. It was my wife. It was odd—she'd usually be asleep with the kids at that hour (it was almost two in the morning).

On the other end of the line, a frightened Natasha whispered, sobbing, asking me to come home immediately, as the twins were behaving, to put it mildly, inappropriately (they were six years old). She couldn't explain anything clearly, only started crying harder. I had to leave work, beg my shift manager to cover for me with my boss, and drive across town in the middle of the night.

Natasha met me in the entryway, wearing only a robe and barefoot. She threw herself into my arms, sobbing, and barely agreed to my offers to come into the apartment. When I asked her to explain what was going on, she burst into tears and started pointing toward the children's room.

I went to the kids, but she didn't follow me. The children were in the room, delighted to see me, but when I asked what had happened, they couldn't give me a clear answer either. They only said that Mom had been frightened by an old woman who had climbed out the window. I asked who the old woman was and why Mom was afraid of her. My son replied that Mom had come in and hadn't said hello, and we wanted to introduce them; the old woman had offered her hand, but she had run away...

"And where is that old woman now?" I asked, perplexed.

"Oh, right there, above you. Dad, you're so funny, look up—she'll say hello!"

I looked up, not realizing what I was doing. A shadow was visible on the ceiling. I quickly realized it couldn't have come from there. I grabbed the children and, on the verge of hysteria, ran out of the apartment. My wife ran out after me, and we drove to my parents' house in the middle of the night.

 Natasha still hasn't told me what happened that evening. But she refused to go home until the priest was brought. The children still remind us that we offended Grandma—and she, they say, was so funny, she could even run up the walls.