It was around two in the morning when the young mother finally drifted into sleep. The day had drained her completely—three feedings, endless rocking, the constant cycle of burping, diaper changes, and the gnawing worry that came with caring for a three-month-old. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else, heavy and foreign. She collapsed into bed, sinking into the silence of the darkened house.
The street outside was empty, save for the occasional car slicing the blackness with its beams. Inside, everything was still. The hum of the refrigerator, the steady tick of the wall clock—these small sounds lulled her deeper.
Then came the scream.
It wasn’t just a cry, not the usual whimper or midnight fuss. It was a sharp, piercing wail that ripped through the house like glass shattering. Her eyes flew open. Adrenaline surged through her chest. She fumbled for the baby monitor on her nightstand, her hands trembling as she pressed the button.
The tiny screen flickered to life.
At first, she saw only the crib’s familiar outline. The baby, wrapped in a pale blanket, flailed his arms, his mouth open wide in his desperate cry. But as her eyes adjusted, she saw something else—something that didn’t belong.
In the far corner of the nursery, where the night-light barely reached, stood a figure.
Tall. Motionless. Its shape blurred, as though the camera couldn’t quite focus on it.
Her heart nearly stopped.
“No…” she whispered aloud, her throat dry. She blinked hard, willing the screen to change, but the figure remained. A faint distortion rippled across the pixels, bending the shadows.
For a moment, she thought she saw a face. Hollow eyes. A grin too wide.
Her baby shrieked louder.
The woman shot out of bed, feet hitting the floor before her mind caught up. She sprinted down the hall, every nerve screaming danger. She flung open the nursery door—
And stopped.
The room was empty.
The corner was just a corner, the shadows just shadows. The baby wailed in his crib, his little fists clenched, but no figure loomed over him. Nothing.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. She rushed to the crib, scooped him into her arms, and held him tightly. His tiny chest heaved against hers.
“Shhh, sweetheart. Mommy’s here.”
She turned to glance at the monitor camera mounted above the dresser. Its red light blinked steadily, watching. She swallowed hard. Was it malfunctioning? A glitch?
But the terror she felt wasn’t something she could dismiss so easily.
She stayed awake the rest of the night, rocking her son in the living room until dawn broke and light spilled across the windows.
The next morning, exhausted but determined, she carried the monitor to the kitchen table and replayed the night’s footage. The feed stuttered, pixelated, but when the baby’s scream began, her stomach dropped.
There it was.
The corner darkened unnaturally, shadows pooling upward, twisting, until they formed the same figure. For three full minutes, it stood unmoving while the baby cried. And then—frame by frame—it tilted its head toward the camera.
Straight toward her.
The young mother slammed the laptop shut. Her skin crawled.
By afternoon, she convinced herself it must have been interference. A technical error. She unplugged the monitor, reset it, and told herself it was over.
But that night, as she finally lay down, dread pooled in her stomach.
At exactly 2:00 a.m., the baby screamed again.
Her eyes shot open. She grabbed the monitor.
This time, the figure wasn’t in the corner.
It was standing right by the crib.
Her scream caught in her throat. She bolted down the hall, heart hammering. She burst into the nursery—
And again, the room was empty.
Her baby’s cries echoed off the walls. She snatched him up, trembling.
The monitor camera blinked silently from its post, as if mocking her.
The next day, desperate, she called an electrician. “It must be a wiring issue,” she insisted, though her voice shook. The man checked the outlets, the monitor, the camera. Everything was in perfect condition.
“No interference, ma’am. Equipment’s fine,” he said, packing his tools.
That night, she didn’t sleep at all. She sat in the rocking chair with her baby, eyes glued to the crib, waiting. Two o’clock came and went in silence. Relief washed over her—until the monitor crackled from the nightstand.
She turned her head slowly.
The screen was on, though she hadn’t touched it. The live feed showed the nursery—empty, except for her sitting with the baby in her arms.
Then, behind her rocking chair, in the monitor’s frame, the figure appeared.
Her blood froze.
She spun around—nothing. Just the wall.
But when she looked back at the monitor, the figure was closer.
Step by step, it was moving toward her.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She clutched her baby, whispering frantic prayers. She dared to glance once more—
The figure was at the edge of the crib, leaning over where the baby should have been.
But her baby wasn’t there. He was in her arms.
The figure turned its head on the screen. Slowly. Deliberately. Until its face pressed against the camera.
The monitor went black.
Neighbors later said they heard the woman screaming, doors slamming, hurried footsteps in the night. When the police arrived, the house was locked from the inside. No intruder. Nothing disturbed.
Only the monitor lay shattered on the nursery floor.
The mother and child were gone.
No trace was ever found—except for the footage recovered from the camera. Footage that ended with the woman clutching her baby, staring wide-eyed at something behind her chair… and a distorted voice whispering from the speakers:
“Mine.”