Soul Calling — The Night My Brother Came Back
My friend's brother was a year old when he suddenly went rigid in his crib—one night, their mother said he'd lost his soul and told them to call him back. Her father walked four floors down, calling his name. The baby came back.
I grew up watching Hong Kong horror movies. My parents loved them—the old kind, with the bamboo sticks and the yellow talismans and the monks who talked to the dead. By the time I was old enough to start asking questions, I was already deep into folklore. Ghost stories. Urban legends. The quiet, persistent belief that the dead don't always stay gone.
I'm not saying I believe everything. I believe most of it, maybe. The part I can't quite commit to is the part where I haven't seen it myself. Yet.
My friend Amy believed it, though. Completely. And she's not the type to make things up.
---
Amy grew up in Guangzhou. A high-rise apartment building on the fourth floor, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone because you heard them through the walls. She was the oldest—she told me she was six, maybe seven at the time. Her brother was a baby, just a year old. Their mother was strict about routine: every evening before dark, she'd take the baby out in his stroller for a walk around the building. Fresh air. Normal thing.
One evening, something was wrong the moment their mother tried to put him in the stroller. The baby screamed. Not the ordinary kind of cry—this was desperate, frantic. He thrashed, pushed against the seat, arched his back like he was trying to get as far away from the stroller as possible.
Their mother got frustrated. It was getting late. She pressed him down into the seat, firm. And the moment she did—something shifted. He went still. Quiet. His face was blank. He sat there, motionless, staring at nothing.
She took him out. Put him to bed.
---
That night, their mother was already asleep when she woke to a sound from the baby's crib.
She turned on the lamp.
Her son was sitting up. Eyes wide open. Not crying. Not moving. Just sitting, perfectly rigid, like a wooden doll propped against the headboard. His breathing was shallow. His skin had gone pale—not the pale of sleep, but something thinner. Translucent, almost.
Their mother panicked. She shook him. Called his name. Nothing. He just sat there, breathing in tiny sips, like the air around him was running out.
It was then she said something that changed everything: "His soul is gone. He lost it today. We have to call it back."
She turned to Amy. "Take your father's hand and go downstairs. Call his name. Keep calling until he comes back to you."
Amy was terrified but she understood. She grabbed her father's hand and they went down—four flights of stairs, out the lobby, into the courtyard. It was dark now. Almost fully dark. Her father stood in the middle of the pavement and started calling.
"Xiao Wei," he called. "Come home. Come back."
He said it over and over, walking slowly. One step at a time. From the courtyard, back into the lobby, up the first flight of stairs. Second flight. Third. Fourth.
And with every step, Amy said she could feel something changing. The air was lighter. The building felt less heavy. They reached the fourth floor and walked back into the apartment.
Their mother was still sitting by the crib. The baby was lying down. His breathing was slow and deep. Color was returning to his face. Within minutes, he was asleep. Really asleep. The kind of sleep that looks like peace.
---
Amy told me this story years later. We're in our twenties now. She said she still remembers the feeling of walking those stairs behind her father, calling her brother's name into the dark.
She said she didn't believe in ghosts before that night.
She does now.
---
*Have your own experience with soul-calling traditions? Share it at CreepyVibes.*
I'm not saying I believe everything. I believe most of it, maybe. The part I can't quite commit to is the part where I haven't seen it myself. Yet.
My friend Amy believed it, though. Completely. And she's not the type to make things up.
---
Amy grew up in Guangzhou. A high-rise apartment building on the fourth floor, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone because you heard them through the walls. She was the oldest—she told me she was six, maybe seven at the time. Her brother was a baby, just a year old. Their mother was strict about routine: every evening before dark, she'd take the baby out in his stroller for a walk around the building. Fresh air. Normal thing.
One evening, something was wrong the moment their mother tried to put him in the stroller. The baby screamed. Not the ordinary kind of cry—this was desperate, frantic. He thrashed, pushed against the seat, arched his back like he was trying to get as far away from the stroller as possible.
Their mother got frustrated. It was getting late. She pressed him down into the seat, firm. And the moment she did—something shifted. He went still. Quiet. His face was blank. He sat there, motionless, staring at nothing.
She took him out. Put him to bed.
---
That night, their mother was already asleep when she woke to a sound from the baby's crib.
She turned on the lamp.
Her son was sitting up. Eyes wide open. Not crying. Not moving. Just sitting, perfectly rigid, like a wooden doll propped against the headboard. His breathing was shallow. His skin had gone pale—not the pale of sleep, but something thinner. Translucent, almost.
Their mother panicked. She shook him. Called his name. Nothing. He just sat there, breathing in tiny sips, like the air around him was running out.
It was then she said something that changed everything: "His soul is gone. He lost it today. We have to call it back."
She turned to Amy. "Take your father's hand and go downstairs. Call his name. Keep calling until he comes back to you."
Amy was terrified but she understood. She grabbed her father's hand and they went down—four flights of stairs, out the lobby, into the courtyard. It was dark now. Almost fully dark. Her father stood in the middle of the pavement and started calling.
"Xiao Wei," he called. "Come home. Come back."
He said it over and over, walking slowly. One step at a time. From the courtyard, back into the lobby, up the first flight of stairs. Second flight. Third. Fourth.
And with every step, Amy said she could feel something changing. The air was lighter. The building felt less heavy. They reached the fourth floor and walked back into the apartment.
Their mother was still sitting by the crib. The baby was lying down. His breathing was slow and deep. Color was returning to his face. Within minutes, he was asleep. Really asleep. The kind of sleep that looks like peace.
---
Amy told me this story years later. We're in our twenties now. She said she still remembers the feeling of walking those stairs behind her father, calling her brother's name into the dark.
She said she didn't believe in ghosts before that night.
She does now.
---
*Have your own experience with soul-calling traditions? Share it at CreepyVibes.*