We found the baby monitor while packing up my daughter’s things for college — a cheap plastic set we hadn’t used in over a decade. My husband thought it would be funny to plug it in again for nostalgia. It crackled to life, dusty and distorted, but mostly silent.
That night, around 2 a.m., I woke to the soft hiss of static coming from the monitor on the nightstand. Then a small voice came through.
“Mommy… he’s in my room again.”
I froze. It was her voice — my daughter’s voice, but younger, trembling.
I ran to her old bedroom. It was empty. Just boxes and old wallpaper. I checked the monitor again — the voice whispered, “He’s behind you.”
I turned. Nothing.
We tried throwing it away the next morning, but it showed up back on the dresser that night, turned on, green light blinking. This time, I didn’t wait for the voice. I smashed it to pieces and buried it outside.
That was three nights ago. Now, every night at 2 a.m., my phone vibrates with a new voicemail — nothing but static and a child whispering my name.
