THE MAD WOMAN’S WARNING: “YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD!” – JOYCE’S STORY, PART 1

I always thought my street was ordinary—quiet neighbors, children playing after school, the occasional stray dog wandering by. But there’s one figure who has always unsettled me: a mad woman who roams the street at all hours, muttering to herself. And every time her eyes fall on me, she screams something that freezes my blood:

“Your mother is dead! Run away! She wants you dead too!”

My name is Joyce, I’m 26 years old, and my life has always been anchored by my parents. They live happily together, constantly supporting me, offering advice, prayers, and love. I’ve always considered myself lucky. I’ve never felt fear inside my home, and I certainly never imagined that fear would be whispered at me by someone who seemed entirely unhinged.

That evening, I stepped out to buy bread. The sky was a bruised purple, the kind of evening that feels heavy, like it’s holding a secret. I hadn’t gone far when I saw her—a woman in filthy, tattered clothes, hair matted and tangled, eyes wild and glinting like shards of glass. I froze as she locked onto me.

“Your mother is dead!” she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger straight at me.

Shock washed over me. My knees almost buckled. I hissed back, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in my voice: “Woman… I’m serious. Your mother isn’t a human being. She died years ago. And now… she wants you to join her!”

Her words hung in the air like smoke, strange and suffocating. I didn’t reply. I turned on my heel and walked quickly back home, my heart hammering in my chest. I told myself she was just mad, a lunatic lost in her own world. But the piercing clarity of her eyes stayed with me, as though she had glimpsed some invisible truth I couldn’t see.

Entering my apartment, the silence hit me like ice. I dropped the bread on the table, too shaken to eat. My mind raced: God, please let this be just the ramblings of a madwoman. I can’t imagine my own mother… dead.

I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my shaking hands. I pictured Mom, laughing in the kitchen, cooking dinner, reminding Dad about the time he’d left his glasses in the fridge. That image, which should have comforted me, only made the chill in my spine sharper. The mad woman’s voice echoed in my head: “She died years ago.”

My thoughts were a whirlpool of disbelief and fear. Should I call my parents? Tell them about the strange warning? I hesitated. It sounded ridiculous. Too ridiculous. Mom was home, alive and laughing, waiting for me to come back and eat my favorite soup.

I took a deep breath, whispering to myself: “It’s stress… just stress. She’s a poor woman who has lost her mind. Nothing more.” But even as I said it, my hands continued to tremble, my heart refusing to calm.

And then… my phone rang.

It was Mom. Her familiar, warm voice filled the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

“Joyce, my daughter,” she said softly, “don’t work too hard. We’re waiting for you to come home. I’ve made your favorite soup.”

I exhaled a shaky breath, relief washing over me. But still, that chilling image of the mad woman’s eyes lingered. It was as if she had seen something, some invisible thread that connected my mother to… something else. My mind couldn’t rest.

The evening passed slowly. I kept glancing out the window, half-expecting her to appear again, pointing and screaming her cryptic warning. Every shadow seemed alive. Every creak in the floorboards made me jump. I tried to push the thoughts away, telling myself over and over: Mom is alive. Mom is safe. Everything is normal.

Yet, deep down, a question gnawed at me: Why did she say that? Why me?

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on my bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering every laugh, every word, every touch from my parents. And yet, that single, horrifying phrase kept echoing in my mind: “Your mother is dead.”

By morning, I decided I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Something about that woman… something about her words… felt too precise, too certain to be random. The dread had lodged itself inside me. I had to find out if it was just the ramblings of a madwoman—or a warning of something far more sinister.

I made up my mind. I would follow her, watch her, learn everything I could about her strange visits. And perhaps, somehow, I would uncover the reason she had singled me out… the reason she screamed such words at me.

Because deep down, I feared this was only the beginning of a story I was about to live—a story that would test everything I knew about family, love, and the unseen forces that might be lingering just beyond the edges of my life.