We’ve been coming to the same greasy spoon since my boys were old enough to reach the counter stools on their own. Saturday pancakes, extra syrup, chocolate milk in to-go cups. It’s our little tradition.

That morning felt like any other. My older son asked for his usual with a proud “you know what I like,” and my younger one spilled three sugar packets into his lap before the menus even hit the table.

Then the waiter walked over—someone I didn’t recognize. Mid-40s maybe, New York accent, friendly but not overly so. He looked right at the boys and said, “Hey! You guys back from the cabin already?”

My sons just looked at him, blinking. I smiled politely and said, “I think you’ve got us mixed up.”

He laughed and pointed. “Nah, I remember them. These two were here all the time last summer. Sat right there—same spot. I even remember the sketchbook.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Because last summer, my boys weren’t here. We were living with my sister two states away. My older son had a broken leg. My younger couldn’t even draw yet.

But then my older son said something that made my stomach flip.

“We’ve never had a cabin,” he said. “Unless you mean the one in the woods.”

I turned and looked at him sharply. “What cabin in the woods?”

He shrugged. “Just a dream I keep having. It’s not real.”

The waiter laughed again, this time a bit uncertain. “Well, maybe I’ve got the wrong kids after all. Just weird—real weird. They looked just like them.”

He dropped off the menus and walked back to the kitchen. I stared at my boys, suddenly unsure of what exactly I was looking at.

The rest of breakfast was quiet. My younger son was unusually fidgety. My older son poked at his pancakes. Neither finished their chocolate milk.

On the drive home, I asked again. “What cabin were you talking about?”

My older son shrugged. “I told you—it’s just a dream. There’s a cabin in the woods. We go there sometimes. There’s a lady there who makes us tea.”

That was odd enough. But it was my younger son who made it worse.

“She’s the one with the big eyes,” he said from his car seat. “She talks funny. And she tells us not to tell you.”

I nearly swerved off the road.

That night, I barely slept. I stayed up Googling missing kids, doppelgängers, anything. I tried to rationalize it. Kids have wild imaginations. They mix up dreams with real life.

But the next weekend, we went back to the diner. I didn’t want to, honestly, but I also didn’t want to scare them. I figured if the waiter was there again, I’d ask some careful questions.

This time, he wasn’t. A younger girl was taking orders. I asked her if the other guy was around. She gave me a blank look.

“We haven’t had any guy like that working here in a year,” she said. “Ever since George passed. He was older, though. Grey hair.”

“No, this guy was about mid-forties. New York accent. Called my kids by mistake last week.”

She frowned. “Ma’am, I’ve been on this shift for months. Only me and Nancy cover mornings. No guy. Maybe it was a customer being friendly?”

My stomach dropped. That man had taken our order. He’d gone into the kitchen.

That night, I tried asking the boys again. I tried to be gentle. I asked them to draw the cabin, the lady, whatever they could remember.

My older son drew something that made me feel cold. A small wooden house with smoke coming from the chimney. Trees all around. And in the window, a woman with huge eyes, almost too big for her face. She had no mouth.

My younger son just drew circles. Circles inside circles, all black.

I showed the drawings to my sister. She’s not the superstitious type, but she went quiet. Then she asked if I remembered that news story from a few years ago—about the cabin in Millers Grove. The one where two kids showed up, claiming they’d been living in the woods with a woman who “wasn’t human.”

It rang a bell, faintly.

I looked it up. And sure enough, in a local article from three years ago, two children—around my sons’ age now—had wandered into town saying they’d “escaped the cabin.” Their parents were never found. And the kids were placed into foster care.

But what made me freeze was the sketch the authorities had released. It had been drawn by one of the kids. Same cabin. Same trees. Same woman in the window.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

Weeks passed. I tried to forget. But then strange things started happening at home.

My older son started sleepwalking. I’d find him standing by the back door in the middle of the night, whispering, “She’s waiting.”

My younger one stopped talking for two days straight. Then suddenly started humming a lullaby I’d never taught him.

I recorded him. Played it for a friend of mine who studied folklore.

She went pale.

“That’s old,” she said. “It’s Appalachian. Something about the woods calling the children back. Supposed to be a cautionary tale.”

We started locking the boys’ doors at night. I even slept in the hallway once, just to feel in control.

Then one evening, my older son looked at me and said, “We have to go back.”

“No,” I said. “There’s no going back.”

He tilted his head. “But we promised.”

That night, I sat with my sister and asked her a hard question.

“Did anything weird happen while we lived with you last year? Did the boys disappear, even for a minute?”

She hesitated.

“There was one day,” she said slowly. “I was in the garden. They were playing inside. I came back in and they weren’t there. I searched the whole house. Ten minutes later, they were back—said they’d been playing hide and seek. But they were muddy. And it hadn’t rained.”

I felt dizzy.

Something had happened. Something I couldn’t explain.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I took the boys back to Millers Grove.

I didn’t tell them where we were going. I just said it was a trip. But the second we got close, their eyes lit up.

“You remembered,” my younger son said quietly.

I parked near the edge of the woods. I had no plan. No idea what I was doing. Just a mother, desperate for answers.

“Where’s the cabin?” I asked.

They didn’t point. They just started walking.

I followed.

It took nearly an hour. We went deep into the trees. Deeper than I was comfortable with.

And then, we saw it.

The cabin. Just like the drawing.

It looked abandoned. But smoke curled up from the chimney.

I didn’t want to go in. But my sons didn’t hesitate.

They walked right up to the door.

I screamed at them to stop. They turned and looked at me.

“She says you can come in this time,” my older son said.

My legs moved on their own.

Inside, it was warm. Too warm. The smell of old wood and something sweet hung in the air.

And there she was.

The woman from the drawing. Huge eyes. No mouth. Except now… now she had one.

She smiled. And it chilled me.

“You came,” she whispered. “At last.”

My voice trembled. “Who are you?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked at the boys.

“They’re mine,” she said. “They chose me.”

“No,” I snapped. “They’re mine. I gave birth to them.”

She tilted her head.

“And I gave them peace.”

I didn’t understand.

She pointed to the boys.

“They came to me broken. One hurt. One scared. I gave them what you couldn’t. A place where nothing hurt. No pain. No fear. Just stillness.”

I realized then… she had taken them. Not physically. But part of them. Their dreams, their sleep, their trust.

And she wasn’t done.

“You have a choice,” she said. “Let them stay. Or take them back and watch them forget.”

“Forget what?”

She smiled wider.

“Me. Each other. You.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll take them back. Even if they forget everything. As long as they live. As long as they’re free.”

She sighed, like I had disappointed her.

“So be it.”

There was a flash of white.

And I woke up.

On the ground. At the edge of the woods. Alone.

I panicked. Screamed their names.

Then I heard laughter.

My boys were playing near the car.

They didn’t remember the cabin.

They didn’t remember the diner.

They didn’t remember the dreams.

But they were happy.

And the next night, my older son said, “I had a weird dream. About a lady with no mouth. But she faded away.”

He smiled.

“I told her I liked Mommy more.”

I hugged him, tears in my eyes.

That was the last time they ever mentioned the cabin.

I took the drawings. Burned them.

Deleted the recording of the lullaby.

I stopped going to that diner.

Sometimes, late at night, I still think about her.

I think about whatever deal I made.

And I know one thing.

I got my boys back.

Not because I was stronger.

But because I chose love over fear.

And that’s what saved us.

Sometimes, when we’re faced with the unknown, the only way out is to choose love—even if it means letting go of what makes sense.

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