Hide & Seek

Table of Contents

The baby monitor crackled to life at exactly 3:00 a.m., the sound so sharp in the quiet that it yanked me out of sleep. I lay there for a moment, disoriented, my heart already picking up its pace. Soft static filled the room, whispery and uneven, as though something were breathing into the microphone. I reached out blindly to the nightstand and grabbed the small, square device. The monitor’s screen glowed faintly in the dark, washing my hands in pale blue light. My eyes adjusted enough to make out the image.

My daughter was standing in her crib. She wasn’t moving, just standing perfectly still, facing the camera. Her little hands gripped the wooden bars, and her head was tilted slightly downward so that the shadows covered most of her face. But even through the grainy feed, I could feel her eyes on me.

“Mama,”

She whispered.

The word was wrong. The pitch of it was too low, the tone too deliberate. My daughter’s voice is high and soft, with that sing-song lilt toddlers have—but this sounded like an imitation, something wearing her voice like a mask. I was out of bed before I even realized I’d moved, my bare feet slapping against the cool hardwood. The hallway was dark, and the air felt strangely heavy, as though the house was holding its breath. When I reached her room, I braced myself for… something. But she was asleep. Completely asleep.

She was curled beneath her blanket, thumb in her mouth, breathing slow and even. The moonlight from her window outlined her small shape, innocent and peaceful. I stood there for several long moments, my pulse still hammering in my ears, before I finally exhaled. I told myself it was a dream. That I’d half-woken to the sound of static, imagined the rest, and my mind had filled in the details. It was easier than believing the alternative. I went back to bed.

The next night, it happened again. Same time. Same crackle. Same soft static building into that faint but deliberate.

“Mama.”

But this time, when I looked at the monitor, the crib was empty. Her blanket lay perfectly flat, untouched. I don’t remember standing up, but suddenly I was moving, my breath shallow and quick. My mind kept repeating, She climbed out. She must have climbed out. It didn’t matter that the crib’s sides were too tall for her to scale. It didn’t matter that she’d never once tried before. The only thing that mattered was finding her. I called her name as I went from room to room, switching on lights, checking behind doors, looking under tables. The house felt wrong—colder than it should have been, the shadows sharper, like they were watching me.

When I reached the kitchen, I thought I heard movement from the living room, a tiny rustle, the sound of something brushing against the carpet. I followed the sound. And then I heard it: a giggle. High and quick, like a bubble popping in the air. It came from my hand. From the monitor. I lifted it slowly, my stomach turning to ice. The screen showed her crib again—and there she was.

She was standing in the exact same position as the night before, small hands gripping the bars, head tilted downward. But now she was smiling. Her smile was too wide. And her eyes were black. Not shadowed, not dark—black. Like someone had scooped them out and filled the sockets with tar.

“Come find me,”

She said. The feed went dark. I didn’t sleep after that. The next day, I tried to tell myself it was just some glitch—some bizarre, tech-induced nightmare. Maybe the monitor’s signal had picked up interference from another house. Maybe my exhaustion was making me hallucinate. But no amount of rationalizing could explain the way my daughter looked at me over breakfast. She didn’t say anything unusual. She didn’t act strange. But every so often, she would pause, mid-bite, and just… watch me. No smile, no expression. Just stillness, like she was waiting for something.

That night, I didn’t go to bed. I sat in the hallway outside her room, the monitor in my lap. I thought, If something’s going to happen, I’ll be here. I’ll see it for myself. The house was quiet, so quiet I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the occasional creak of wood settling. The monitor’s screen was dark, but I kept my eyes on it.

At 2:58 a.m., the static began. It was softer this time, almost hesitant, like a breath drawn in and held. At 3:00, the screen lit up. She was there. Standing in her crib again. Her mouth moved, forming the word before I even heard it: “Mama.” Only, she was still lying in her bed. I turned my head. She was under her blanket, fast asleep. But the monitor still showed her standing, head tilted, smiling that too-wide smile. The figure on the screen took a step forward. Closer to the camera. And then another. I dropped the monitor.

I’ve kept it unplugged ever since, shoved into the back of a drawer. I still wake up at 3:00 a.m. most nights, listening for the static. Sometimes, I think I hear it anyway—faint and far away, like it’s seeping through the walls.

Sometimes I dream that I’m standing outside her room and I can hear her whispering. I can never quite make out the words. But in the mornings, when I go to wake her, she’s always already sitting up, watching the door. And smiling.