The Undertone Podcast

The Hawthorne Care Notes

In 2018, a woman named Marissa Hale began documenting unusual behavior in her grandmother’s home, not because she believed anything paranormal was happening, but because she was afraid she was missing something medically important.

Her grandmother, Eleanor Hawthorne, was eighty-nine years old and in the early stages of dementia. Marissa had moved into the house full-time after Eleanor began wandering at night and forgetting where she was.

The first notes were practical.

Sleep disruption.
Auditory hallucinations?
Possible sundowning.

Marissa kept a notebook on the kitchen counter and wrote in it whenever something felt off. At the time, she assumed it would all make sense later.

It mostly didn’t.

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The house was old but unremarkable—single story, built in the 1950s, no history of deaths or renovations. Neighbors described it as quiet. Normal.

The issues began around 2 a.m.

Marissa would wake to Eleanor sitting upright in bed, staring into the hallway. When asked what was wrong, Eleanor would respond calmly:

“Someone’s standing where the house ends.”

Doctors attributed this to confusion and fear. A low-dose sleep aid was prescribed. The behavior continued.

Soon after, Eleanor began speaking to someone Marissa couldn’t see.

Not conversations—short, polite responses. Pauses. Listening. Sometimes nodding.

Marissa recorded one of these incidents on her phone to show the doctor. The video shows Eleanor sitting at the edge of the bed, hands folded, eyes focused just past the doorframe.

At one point, Eleanor says, “No, she’s awake now.”

Marissa is visible in the mirror behind her.

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Skeptical explanations are plentiful.

Dementia patients often misinterpret shadows and sounds. Pattern recognition breaks down. The brain fills gaps. This explains the perceived presence, the fixation, even the timing.

What it doesn’t explain is the house itself beginning to change.

Marissa noted temperature drops in specific rooms. Cold spots are common in older homes, especially at night. But these were localized and brief—always in the hallway outside Eleanor’s bedroom.

Motion lights installed as a safety measure began activating without visible cause. Electrical inspections found no faults.

The most troubling change came in Eleanor’s sleep patterns.

She stopped waking at night.

Instead, she began sitting up exactly at 2:07 a.m., eyes open, breathing shallow, remaining perfectly still for several minutes before lying back down.

Marissa timed it.

Every night.
Six minutes.

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In March, Eleanor’s condition worsened rapidly. She became withdrawn, stopped recognizing Marissa, and refused to enter certain rooms.

When asked why, she whispered:

“That’s where it waits when I’m not done.”

Doctors suggested hospice care.

On Eleanor’s final night, Marissa sat beside her bed, notebook in hand. At 2:07 a.m., Eleanor’s eyes opened.

She didn’t look at Marissa.

She looked down the hallway and smiled faintly.

“You can come closer,” she said.
“She won’t interrupt.”

Marissa reports a sudden sensation of pressure in the room, like a change in altitude. Her ears popped. The hallway felt longer than it should have.

At 2:13 a.m., Eleanor exhaled and did not inhale again.

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After the funeral, Marissa moved out. She later reviewed her notes while preparing them for her therapist.

That’s when she noticed something she insists she didn’t write.

Between entries, in handwriting that resembles Eleanor’s but shakier, is a repeated sentence:

It takes turns.

Marissa doesn’t believe the house was haunted. She doesn’t believe her grandmother was seeing ghosts.

She believes Eleanor was aware of something that arrives when people slow down enough to notice it—something patient, structured, and polite.

Something that waits at the edge of the house.

And stays longer when someone is being cared for.

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