When I was growing up my little brother, who was three at the time, used to sleepwalk through our house at night. He’d walk down to the basement where I slept and crack open my door between 11pm-2am. He’d then slowly push it open and shuffle inside. When I’d ask what he was doing he’d always stare at the floor and say “Where’s mom?” I’d tell him that she was upstairs. He would repeat “Where’s mom?” Each night I would take him back upstairs and lead him back to bed where he’d fall asleep.
One night at about 1am I awoke to hear crying at the bottom of the stairs. I walked out to investigate and he was sitting on the bottom step. I asked him what was wrong and again he said, “Where’s mom?” I told him she was upstair and we should go get her. “No,” he said staring at the floor, “there’s a bloody head following me”.
“What??” I asked. He looked up from the floor, stared me right in the eyes, opened his mouth and let out the shrillest blood curdling scream I have ever heard in my life. It scared the living shit out of me. It was so loud that the whole family got out of their beds to see what was going on. After that I’d never ask him what he was doing downstairs, I’d just take him immediately back to his room.