Every night, Maddie’s mom would lean over her bed, kiss her forehead, and whisper softly, “Goodnight, baby.” It was comforting—ritual, safety, love. One night, though, something felt wrong. The whisper came too soon, too close to her ear. The voice sounded… hollow. When Maddie opened her eyes, she saw the door still cracked open—her mom’s silhouette hadn’t moved. Yet, the whisper came again, from right under the bed: “Goodnight, baby.”
Thinking it was a prank, Maddie giggled nervously and leaned down to look. In the dim glow from her nightlight, a pale face stared back—her mom’s face. Eyes wide, trembling, whispering frantically, “Get out, that thing’s not me.” The air turned heavy. Maddie slowly sat up, and the figure standing by her door stepped forward, its smile stretching far too wide. The floor creaked once. Then twice. And as Maddie reached to switch on her lamp, the whisper returned from both voices—one above, one below—chanting in perfect unison, “Goodnight, baby.”
