From the moment they brought their newborn daughter home, Ink — their black dog — never left the bedroom.
Son and his wife Han thought it was sweet at first: the loyal family dog acting as a quiet guardian, keeping watch over the crib and the door. But on the fourth night, the peace broke.
Night Four — 2:13 a.m.
Ink stiffened, his fur standing on end like needles. On all fours, he crouched low, growling toward the baby’s crib. Not barking. Not lunging. Just growling — a low, choked sound, like someone was holding him back by the throat.
Son switched on the lamp. The baby was still sleeping peacefully, lips puckered in a silent suckle.
But Ink wouldn’t stop. He pressed his snout to the floor and growled harder — at the space under the bed.
Son knelt with his phone light and looked. He saw only storage boxes, spare diapers, and a thick shadow that pulsed in place — too dark, too deep.
Night Five — 2:13 a.m.
Same growl. Same crouch. Same spot.
Night Six
Han shot awake. A faint sound scratched from beneath the floorboards — slow, deliberate, like fingernails dragging on wood.
“Must be mice,” she whispered, though her voice shook.
Son moved the crib to the other side of the room and placed a trap. Still, Ink never moved his eyes from under the bed.
Night Seven
Son didn’t sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, the only light a thin line from the hallway. His phone was recording.
- 1:58 a.m. — A gust blew in through the cracked window, carrying the smell of damp soil.
- 2:10 a.m. — The air changed. Still. Hollow.
- 2:13 a.m. — Ink sat up. He didn’t growl right away. Instead, he pressed his nose to Son’s hand, like a warning. Then crept forward, slow and silent.
He lowered his head.
Then the growl came.
Son raised his phone light — and saw something move.
Not a rat.
Not a toy.
A hand — pale, dirt-streaked, coiled like a spider.
The flashlight flickered. Son gasped and stumbled back into the closet.
Han sat up, panicked. The baby kept sleeping, unaware, lips slick with milk.
Son grabbed his daughter and backed away. With his free hand, he grabbed an old bat. Ink lunged under the bed, snarling, barking, his claws scraping wildly.
From beneath, something scraped across the floorboards, and then — silence.
The light flickered. A smear of black dust traced its retreat.
Han was sobbing, begging Son to call the police. His fingers trembled as he dialed.
Within ten minutes, two officers arrived.
Ink remained by the crib, growling, teeth bared. One officer crouched low and slowly moved boxes aside.
“Easy, boy,” he muttered. “Let’s see what’s back here…”
Under the bed: nothing. Only churned dust. Claw marks etched into the floor.
Then the flashlight caught on something: a narrow crack in the wall near the headboard. A wooden panel, splintered just enough for a hand to pass.
The officer tapped it.
Hollow.
“There’s a cavity back here. You guys ever do any work on this room?”
Son shook his head. “We bought the house three months ago. The old couple who lived here said they only repainted the living room.”
The baby stirred.
Ink growled — low and vicious — staring straight at the crack.
Then… from the wall… a human whisper:
“Shhh… don’t wake him…”
No one slept after that.
The younger officer, Dung, called for backup.
While waiting, he pried off the baseboard with a crowbar. The nails were new — shiny, untouched by age. Fresh work hidden in an old house.
Inside was a cavity. Cold. Black. The air reeked of rot, spoiled milk… and baby powder.
Han clutched her child tightly. Ink pulled Son back from the opening.
Dung shone his light in.
“Anyone in there?”
No answer. But when the beam passed through, they saw:
- A plastic pacifier.
- A crumpled washcloth.
- Tiny baby socks.
- And dozens of tally marks scratched into the walls — some crossed out, some frantic and erratic, forming nets of time lost.
They inserted a small inspection camera. What it revealed was worse:
- A makeshift bed.
- Milk cans.
- Torn cloth.
- And a small, filthy notebook.
Inside were frantic entries, written in a woman’s shaky hand:
“Day 1: He sleeps here. I can hear his breath.”
“Day 7: The dog knows. Watches me.”
“Day 19: I just want to touch her cheek. I just want to hear her cry. But quiet. Always quiet.”
“Day 27: 2:13. She breathes harder.”
That time — 2:13 a.m. — matched their daughter’s nightly feeding schedule.
Someone had been listening. Watching. Living inside the walls.
“Not a ghost,” Dung said grimly. “This was someone real.”
Further inspection showed a narrow tunnel carved between walls, leading to a weak point in the attic. One window latch had been forced open — the likely point of entry.
That Night
Dung set up a trap. The plan was simple: lock the room, leave the dog and an officer inside, and wait.
At 2:13, the cloth curtain covering the wall crack shifted.
A hand emerged — thin, grey, dirt-caked.
Then a face. Hollow cheeks. Matted hair. Glassy eyes fixed only on the crib.
She whispered again:
“Shhh… don’t wake her… I just want to look…”
It was Vy.
The niece of the previous owners. She had lost her own baby late in pregnancy, fallen into psychosis, and disappeared weeks before the house was sold. Now she had returned — not to haunt the house, but to find a baby she could still hear.
Vy was gently taken into custody. She offered no resistance. As she was led away, she glanced once more at the crib, eyes misty.
“Shhh…” she said again.
In the following weeks, the crawlspace was sealed, the floorboards reinforced. Security cameras were installed. But the true guardian, Ink, stayed exactly where he’d always been — beside the crib, no longer growling, only breathing deeply in sleep.
One month later, during a hospital visit, Han saw Vy again. She was clean, her hair tied neatly, clutching a soft doll. She smiled gently as she spoke with Officer Dung.
Han didn’t go over. She simply looked down at her baby, kissed her forehead, and listened to her steady breath.
And silently, she reached down and scratched behind Ink’s ears.
Because some monsters under the bed aren’t evil.
They’re just grief… with nowhere left to go.
