I live in the city now, but when I was young, my sister and I loved exploring our old farmhouse. What we liked the best was the attic. There was an antique wooden chair up there.

Strange things happened in that house. We often found old coins or candies on our nightstands when we woke up. We called the ghost "The Sitter", because sometimes, we heard the wood creak, and the antique chair moved on its own across the attic floor.

Several years later, when we were adults, my sister found an old newspaper article hidden in the basement. It was from 1920. The article revealed the dark truth.

It said that a lonely woman had lived in our farmhouse. She had lost her two daughters to a terrible illness. Before she passed away, she had spent her final years sitting in a wooden chair in the attic, waiting for her children to return.

Now, I understand. She wasn't a monster. The ghost is just a mother who had mistaken my sister and me for her lost daughters.