From the moment their newborn came home, Ink—their black dog—refused to leave the bedroom. At first, Son and his wife, Han, thought it was touching: a loyal protector watching over the crib. But after three nights, comfort turned to fear.
On the fourth night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., Ink stiffened. His fur bristled, his throat released a guttural growl—long, muffled, unnatural—directed straight at the baby’s crib.
The child slept peacefully, lips twitching in dreams. But Ink’s eyes locked on the shadows beneath the bed. His body pressed low, nose pushing into the darkness. When Son knelt to shine his phone’s light, he saw only boxes, spare diapers… and something else. A shadow that pooled like bottomless water.
The same thing happened the next night. And the next.
On the sixth night, Han woke to a deliberate scratching: ret… ret… ret… across the floorboards. “Mice,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. Son set a trap. Ink never stopped staring at the bed.
By the seventh night, Son vowed not to sleep. With his phone recording, he sat awake in the dim glow of the hallway light. At 2:13, Ink pressed his nose against Son’s hand, pleading. Then he crept toward the bed, growling low and steady.
Son lifted the flashlight.
And froze.
A pale, dirt-smeared hand, bent like a spider, reached from the shadows.
The light shook, flickered. Ink lunged, teeth snapping, claws raking the floorboards. Something retreated, scuttling back into darkness. The baby kept sleeping, milk on her lips. Han screamed for him to call the police.
Minutes later, two officers arrived. Beneath the bed they found only dust, claw marks—and a jagged crack in the wall wide enough for a hand to slip through. The wood was new, nails bright against the old frame.
The cavity behind was hollow, reeking of damp and spoiled milk. Inside lay scraps: a pacifier, a crumpled washcloth, tally marks etched into the boards. And a notebook. Its handwriting was frantic, broken:
Day 1: Sleeps here. I hear her breath.
Day 7: The dog knows. He watches me.
Day 19: I just want to touch her cheek. Don’t wake them.
The tunnel stretched along the wall, lined with blankets, milk cans, and fresh marks: Day 27: 2:13. She breathes harder.
The officers didn’t have to guess. This wasn’t a ghost. It was someone living inside the walls.
That night, they waited. At 2:13, the fabric over the crack shifted. A hand emerged. Then a gaunt face appeared: hollow eyes, matted hair, cracked lips. She whispered into the room, voice raw with longing:
“Shhh… don’t wake her… I just want to watch.”
It was Vy, the niece of the home’s previous owners. Months earlier, she had lost her baby late in pregnancy and collapsed into grief. When her family sold the house, she returned secretly, carving herself a nest within the walls, clinging to the sound of someone else’s child breathing.
The police coaxed her out gently. As they led her away, she looked one last time at the crib.
“Shhh…” she murmured.
Afterward, the walls were sealed. New floors were laid. Cameras were installed. But the real guardian remained Ink. He never growled at 2:13 again. He simply lay beside the crib, steady and watchful.
A month later, at the hospital, Han spotted Vy outside—clean, hair brushed, holding a cloth doll, speaking softly with Officer Dung. Han didn’t approach. She simply pressed her cheek against her baby’s, grateful for breath warm on her skin, and for the dog who had sensed the truth before anyone else:
Sometimes the monsters under the bed are not evil. Sometimes, they are grief with nowhere left to go.
