“She Took It Again”: When Dementia Creates Phantom Thieves
“She took it,” my mother said, her voice sharp with suspicion and hurt. “That woman… she’s stealing my clothes.”
I looked at her closet—the doors wide open, her dresses hanging exactly where they’d always been. Nothing was missing. Nothing had been touched.
“Mom, all your clothes are right here. See?” I pointed to each familiar garment, trying to reassure her with visual proof.
She shook her head, unconvinced. “No. She hides them. She comes when I’m sleeping and takes them. Then she brings some back so you won’t believe me.”
This conversation happened daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. And no matter how many times I showed her the closet, opened every drawer, proved that nothing was missing—she remained absolutely certain someone was robbing her blind.
Welcome to one of the most exhausting and heartbreaking symptoms of Parkinson’s dementia: theft accusations and paranoia.
When Hallucinations Became Residents
The phantom thieves didn’t appear overnight. They evolved from the earlier hallucinations—the whispers in the attic, the little builders on the curtains, the sounds that never were.
By this stage of Mom’s dementia, those vague presences had solidified into something more concrete: an invisible family living in our house.
She’d accepted their presence with an unsettling resignation. They were simply there, sharing our space in a reality only she could perceive. But acceptance didn’t mean peace.
The Woman
The main character in Mom’s delusion was “the woman”—a faceless, nameless figure who became the source of nearly all her anxieties. This phantom resident had one primary activity, according to my mother: theft.
Every day brought new accusations:
- “She took my blue dress.”
- “My sweater is missing—she has it.”
- “Where’s my scarf? She took it again.”
The Expanding Family
But the woman wasn’t alone. Over time, Mom mentioned:
- A man (presumably the woman’s husband)
- Children (sometimes playing, sometimes crying)
- An entire extended family that would apparently visit
Our modest Romanian home had become, in her mind, a crowded boarding house where strangers helped themselves to her belongings.
The Daily Ritual: Proving Nothing Was Stolen
The routine became numbingly familiar.
Mom: “She took my clothes.”
Me: “Let’s check the closet together.”
We’d walk to her bedroom. I’d open the closet doors wide. We’d go through each item:
“Here’s your blue dress.” “Here’s the sweater.” “Here’s the scarf.”
For a moment—sometimes just seconds, sometimes a few hours—she’d be reassured. The visible evidence would temporarily override the conviction of her diseased brain.
But inevitably, the cycle would repeat.
“She took it again.”
The Van: When Theft Became a Moving Operation
Just when I thought I understood the pattern, the delusion escalated.
“They’re here again!” Mom exclaimed one afternoon, her voice urgent with panic. “She brought a van! They’re filling it with my things!”
A van. Now the invisible thieves weren’t just pocket-pilfering items—they had a vehicle. They were running a full-scale moving operation out of our house.
“They’re taking everything! My dresses, my blankets… everything!” She gestured frantically toward the hallway, her eyes wide with the terror of someone watching their life being dismantled.
I led her to the closet once more. “Mom, there’s no van. Your clothes are safe. Look.”
But this time, visual evidence had even less impact. Her belief was stronger, more entrenched.
“No, you don’t understand! They’re hiding some in the van! You have to stop them!”
Her distress was so acute it sometimes brought her to tears. And in those moments, my patience—already worn thin by months of these episodes—would sometimes crack.
The Shame of Losing My Temper
I’m not proud of this, but it’s the truth: I yelled at her.
Not every time. Not even most times. But there were two or three occasions when the frustration overwhelmed me.
“THERE’S NO VAN, MOM!” The words would burst out, louder than I intended, sharper than necessary. “NO ONE IS STEALING YOUR THINGS! LOOK AT THEM! THEY’RE RIGHT HERE!”
The outburst would silence her. A flicker of confusion or hurt would cross her face. But it never convinced her. How could it? Her brain was showing her something as real as the walls around us.
What shames me most is that she never yelled back. Not once.
She’d just look at me with that mix of worry and bewilderment, her belief in her own reality unshaken but now layered with the pain of not being believed.
Each time I raised my voice, guilt would crash over me immediately. This wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t being difficult or stubborn. She was sick. Her brain was failing her in the cruelest way—by making her fear the safety of her own home.
Understanding Theft Accusations in Dementia
After particularly difficult episodes, I’d research late into the night, trying to understand what was happening to her.
Why Dementia Causes Theft Accusations
According to neurologists and dementia specialists, theft paranoia happens because:
1. Memory Impairment When someone with dementia can’t remember where they put something, their brain fills in the gap with an explanation: someone must have taken it.
2. Loss of Control Dementia strips away independence. Believing someone is stealing creates an external reason for the chaos they feel internally.
3. Visual-Spatial Confusion Items in plain sight may not register visually. If the brain can’t process seeing the object, it must be “missing.”
4. Lewy Body Hallucinations In Parkinson’s dementia specifically, Lewy bodies in the brain create vivid hallucinations of people who don’t exist—perfect suspects for imagined crimes.
5. Emotional Processing Dysfunction The brain’s ability to regulate emotions and rational thought deteriorates, making paranoid thoughts feel absolutely true.
The Pattern I Noticed
Mom’s accusations followed a pattern:
- Worse in evenings (sundowning effect)
- Triggered by not finding something immediately
- Focused on personal belongings (clothes, blankets—things tied to identity and comfort)
- Directed at the same “person” (the invisible woman, not me or my siblings)
Understanding the pattern helped me prepare, but it didn’t make the accusations easier to bear.
What I Learned NOT to Do
Through painful trial and error, I learned several approaches that absolutely did not work:
❌ Arguing with Logic
Me: “Mom, if someone stole your clothes, the closet would be empty. Look—it’s full.”
Why it failed: Dementia doesn’t respond to logic. Her brain’s wiring was faulty; more data didn’t fix the circuit.
❌ Getting Frustrated
Me: “We’ve checked the closet five times today! Nothing is missing!”
Why it failed: Frustration only added to her distress. She was already scared; my anger made her feel more alone.
❌ Dismissing Her Concern
Me: “No one’s stealing anything. Don’t worry about it.”
Why it failed: This invalidated her very real fear. To her, the theft was happening. Dismissal felt like gaslighting.
❌ Over-Explaining
Me: “Your brain is creating images of people who aren’t there because of the Lewy bodies in your neural pathways affecting your visual processing…”
Why it failed: Too complex. She didn’t need a neurology lecture; she needed reassurance.
What Actually Helped
Slowly, painfully, I learned better approaches:
✅ Acknowledge the Emotion
Instead of: “Nothing’s missing.”
Try: “I can see you’re worried about your things. That must feel scary.”
This validated her fear without confirming the delusion.
✅ Provide Reassurance
“Let’s make sure everything’s safe together.”
Then we’d check the closet—not to prove her wrong, but to reassure her.
✅ Gentle Redirection
After checking the closet: “Everything’s here and safe. Would you like some tea?”
Shifting attention to something pleasant could sometimes break the anxiety cycle.
✅ Environmental Changes
I eventually moved her most treasured items closer to her bed where she could see them easily. If she could see them, she worried less about them being stolen.
✅ The Pile of Rugs
When she became convinced people were stealing her handmade rugs (precious items her mother had made), I gathered every rug in the house and piled them beside her bed.
The physical presence of her treasures, visible and touchable, finally eased that particular anxiety.
The House and the Baby: When Paranoia Mixed with Tenderness
The theft accusations weren’t the only manifestation of the invisible family. The delusion had contradictory layers that made it even more surreal.
“They’re Taking the House”
At times, Mom became convinced the woman was trying to steal not just clothes, but our entire house.
“She’s at city hall right now,” Mom would insist with genuine panic. “She’s signing papers. She’s taking advantage of me because I can’t walk. I need my ID—I need to stop her!”
The terror of losing her home—the house she’d worked her whole life to buy—was visceral and heartbreaking.
The Baby
But here’s the contradiction: sometimes, that same invisible woman would leave her baby with Mom.
“The woman left her baby here again,” Mom would say tenderly, her hand moving as if cradling an infant. “She worries when she can’t find him. Let me put this blanket over him so he doesn’t get cold.”
In these moments, she wasn’t afraid of the woman—she was helping her. Caring for her child.
The baby that didn’t exist became someone Mom nurtured. She’d “feed” him during meals, speak to him softly, worry about his wellbeing.
The same person who was stealing from her was also trusting her with their most precious possession.
The human brain with dementia defies logic in the most poignant ways.
The Breaking Point: When I Changed My Approach
The turning point came after one particularly exhausting episode.
Mom had been convinced for hours that the woman had taken her favorite blankets. I’d shown her the blankets multiple times. I’d explained, cajoled, and yes, raised my voice in frustration.
Nothing worked.
Finally, exhausted and defeated, I did something different. Instead of arguing, I gathered the blankets and brought them to her.
All of them.
I piled them beside her bed—a mountain of familiar textures and colors. Tangible proof she could touch.
“They’re all here now, Mom,” I said gently. “They’re safe, right here with you.”
She touched the soft wool, ran her hands over the familiar patterns. And slowly—finally—her anxiety eased.
I stopped trying to change her reality and instead met her need within it.
The blankets stayed by her bed for days. And for those days, she didn’t accuse anyone of stealing them.
For Other Caregivers: You’re Not Failing
If your loved one is accusing people of stealing, please know:
1. This Is a Symptom, Not Spite
They’re not trying to be difficult. Their damaged brain is creating a narrative that feels absolutely real.
2. You Can’t Logic It Away
No amount of proof will “fix” the delusion. The problem isn’t a lack of evidence; it’s faulty brain wiring.
3. Your Frustration Is Valid
Hearing the same accusation for the tenth time in a day is exhausting. You’re allowed to feel frustrated. What matters is how you respond after the frustration passes.
4. They’re Scared
Behind the accusations is fear—fear of loss, of powerlessness, of a world that no longer makes sense.
5. Small Adaptations Help
Moving items into view, creating visible piles of treasured possessions, maintaining routines—these won’t cure the paranoia, but they can ease it.
The Invisible Family Still Lives Here
To this day, the invisible family hasn’t moved out of Mom’s reality.
The woman still occasionally “steals” things. The baby still needs care. The house is still sometimes “under threat.”
But I’ve learned to navigate this strange, shared-but-separate world we live in.
I no longer argue with the presence of the woman. I don’t try to prove she doesn’t exist.
Instead, when Mom says, “She took it,” I say, “Let’s make sure your things are safe.”
When she worries about the baby, I say, “He’s lucky to have you watching over him.”
When she fears losing the house, I say, “You’re safe here. I won’t let anyone take your home.”
I meet her in her reality with reassurance, not contradiction.
It’s not perfect. There are still hard days. Days when my patience frays. Days when the twentieth accusation breaks through my carefully constructed calm.
But I’ve learned that love in dementia caregiving isn’t about fixing or curing. It’s about bearing witness to their altered reality while keeping them safe in ours.
The Woman, the Van, and What They Taught Me
The invisible family—particularly the thieving woman with her van—taught me something crucial about dementia care:
You can’t win an argument with a broken brain. But you can win your loved one’s trust by believing in their fear, even when you can’t see what they see.
The clothes were never stolen. The van never existed. The woman was a phantom created by dying neurons and Lewy body deposits.
But Mom’s fear? That was real.
And in the end, that’s what mattered most.
Continue Reading Our Story
This is one chapter in our ongoing journey with Parkinson’s dementia. Want to read more?
📖 Read the full story: Whispers From the Attic on Amazon
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Does your loved one accuse people of stealing? How do you handle it? Share your experience in the comments—this community understands.
Resources for Theft Accusations in Dementia
- Alzheimer’s Association 24/7 Helpline: 800-272-3900
- Parkinson’s Foundation: 1-800-4PD-INFO
- Family Caregiver Alliance: Resources for managing paranoia in dementia
Cristian is a full-time caregiver for his mother with Stage 4 Parkinson’s disease and dementia in Romania. The invisible woman still visits their home daily, but he’s learned to make peace with her presence. Follow their journey at HopesForMom.com and read the complete story in “Whispers From the Attic.”
