Uncle Tawfiq

of the Child

​My five-year-old son, Yassin, asked me a question that turned my life upside down: "Daddy, why does Uncle Tawfik only visit me at night when you’re asleep?"

​Since I didn’t know anyone by that name, and we have no relatives or neighbors named Tawfik, a cold shiver ran down my spine. I decided to install a hidden camera in his room and wait.

​After the divorce, it was just Yassin and me. He’s a sensitive kid with a vivid imagination; the kind of child who talks to his teddy bears as if they have souls. At first, I dismissed it as typical childhood imagination. But then, things escalated. One morning at breakfast, Yassin casually said, "Uncle Tawfik says you work too much." A week later, while I was brushing his hair, he looked at me in the mirror

and asked, "Why does he only come when you’re fast asleep?"

​I asked Yassin to describe him. He said, "He’s an old man… he smells like old garages, and he walks very, very slowly." That night, sleep evaded me. I checked every lock and window, but my heart wasn't at ease. I hid a small camera on his bookshelf and waited.

​At 2:13 AM, my phone vibrated with a motion alert. I opened the app with trembling hands. On the screen, Yassin was sleeping peacefully, but in the corner stood an old man. His back was hunched, and he wore a tattered, vintage suit. He was staring at Yassin, moving his hand slowly as if stroking the boy’s hair from a distance.

​I burst into the room, flicking the lights on and screaming, "Who are you?!" The room was empty. But when I looked at my

phone, the man was still there on the screen! He looked directly into the camera, gave a faint, eerie smile, and pulled an old pocket watch from his vest—the exact same watch I had seen in photos of my grandfather, Tawfik, who died years before I was born.

​Yassin woke up terrified and whispered, "He’s gone, Daddy… but he says that 'garage smell' isn't his. It’s the smell of the thing standing behind the door right now!" At that moment, a heavy scent of gasoline and engine oil began wafting through the hallway. I ran to the front door and looked through the peephole. What I saw froze the blood in my veins. It was my ex-wife, Yassin’s mother. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes vacant, and she was clutching a gasoline canister and a lighter.

​The terrifying truth?

My ex-wife had died in a car accident in a public garage two months ago. I had hidden the news from Yassin, telling him she had just gone away. I looked back at the camera feed; my grandfather Tawfik was standing firmly in front of Yassin’s bedroom door, shielding him from the ghost of his mother who had come to burn the house down.

​As the dawn call to prayer echoed, everything vanished—the smell, the ghost, and my grandfather. I packed our bags and fled that house immediately. On my way out, I found an old pocket watch lying on the floor. Inside, there was a photo of me, my father, and my grandfather, with a handwritten note: "The trust is in your hands, little Tawfik… protect the child."

​I realized then that houses have guardians, and "Uncle Tawfik" stayed awake

so we could sleep in peace.