It was the splash that ripped me from sleep — a shock of freezing water that drenched my skin, my sheets, and what was left of my heart. The world blurred into focus, and standing at the foot of the bed was my mother-in-law, her face carved in stone.
“Time to wake up,” she said. Calm. Cold. Cruel.
I sat there trembling — not from the chill, but from the pain that radiated low in my abdomen. The same pain that had followed me since I lost my baby a week ago. My body was still healing; my soul was not.
She didn’t flinch as I staggered past her into the bathroom. “Breakfast is in twenty minutes,” she called after me. “Try not to be late again.”
When I entered the kitchen, she was sitting at the table, sipping her tea as though nothing had happened. The scent of burning toast lingered, acrid and heavy.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, my voice quiet but sharp.
She looked up at me — not angry, not apologetic, just… indifferent. “Because you’ve been lying in bed for days,” she said. “You can’t stay like that forever.”
“Forever?” I echoed, incredulous. “It’s been seven days since I—since we—lost him.”
Her tone didn’t soften. “You think you’re the only one grieving? My son lost his child too. But he doesn’t have the luxury of wallowing.”
“Wallowing?” I repeated, my throat tightening. “You think this is wallowing?”
She didn’t respond. She just stirred her tea, the spoon clicking against the porcelain like a metronome.
I took a shaky breath. “You’ve never accepted me,” I said finally. “Not as his wife, not as family. But I didn’t expect you to hate me enough to do this.”
Her eyes flickered — a crack in the mask. “You don’t know what hate is,” she said softly. “Not yet.”
That night, the house felt too large, too quiet. My husband, Thomas, was away on business — a trip he couldn’t cancel, even after what happened. Or so he said.
I sat in the living room, trying not to think about the nursery upstairs — the one we never got to finish painting. My mother-in-law’s bedroom was across the hall. I could hear faint movement — drawers opening, closing, footsteps pacing.
Then, a soft sound drifted from the baby monitor on the coffee table.
A hum.
A lullaby.
I froze. The monitor had been off since the day we came home from the hospital. I hadn’t touched it.
The humming grew clearer — tender, low, familiar.
It was coming from the nursery.
I crept upstairs, every step deliberate, silent. The hallway was dim, the air thick with something old — grief, dust, fear. The nursery door stood slightly ajar.
Inside, moonlight spilled through the half-closed curtains. The rocking chair creaked gently back and forth. Empty.
And yet, the humming continued.
It wasn’t in the room. It was coming from the baby monitor itself — the speaker emitting a faint, ghostly voice.
“Sleep, my darling… sleep.”
I stumbled backward, heart pounding. The hum stopped abruptly, replaced by static.
And then, through the crackle:
“Why did you let him die?”
My blood ran cold.
I yanked the plug from the wall, the static cutting off instantly. Silence.
By morning, I told myself it was grief. Exhaustion. Nothing more. But when I went downstairs, the monitor sat on the kitchen counter — neatly coiled cord, polished surface. As if someone had cleaned it.
My mother-in-law stood by the stove, humming.
That same lullaby.
“Where did you learn that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
She turned, smiling faintly. “Sarah used to sing it.”
I frowned. “Who’s Sarah?”
Her eyes went distant. “Thomas’s first wife.”
My stomach dropped. “He never told me—”
“He doesn’t talk about her,” she interrupted. “Not after what happened to their baby.”
I stared at her. “Their… what?”
Her expression hardened. “You need to stop asking questions.”
That afternoon, while she was in the garden, I went searching. The house was old, with corners that smelled like secrets. I found the door to the basement — locked, dusty, the key nowhere in sight.
But something glinted between the floorboards beside the door — a small silver key, half-buried in dust.
The lock clicked open with a sound that felt final.
The air below was cold. Damp. The faint smell of rot lingered in the walls.
At the bottom of the stairs sat a trunk — old, heavy, padlocked. The key fit perfectly.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed fabric, were photos. Dozens of them. Thomas, younger, smiling beside a woman with kind eyes — Sarah. And in her arms, a baby boy.
Until the last few photos — where the smiles were gone. Sarah’s eyes were hollow. The boy’s face bruised.
And then — a newspaper clipping.
Local Woman Found Dead in Apparent Accident — Husband Unharmed.
The photo showed the wreckage of a car. Thomas’s car.
My hands shook. I dug deeper into the trunk — until I found the baby blanket. The same pattern I had chosen for our nursery.
The same initials embroidered into the corner: N.M.
Not our baby’s name.
But his.
When I came upstairs, my mother-in-law was waiting in the doorway.
“You shouldn’t have gone down there,” she said quietly.
I stared at her, trembling. “What happened to her?”
“She wasn’t strong enough,” she said. “She couldn’t handle what my son needed.”
Her eyes, sharp and cold again. “Neither could you.”
I backed away, but she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “The baby wasn’t yours to lose, dear. You were just part of the pattern. And now…” She smiled, cruel and serene. “…it begins again.”
That night, I locked my bedroom door. Every sound made me flinch — the creak of floorboards, the whisper of wind against the glass.
Around midnight, I woke to the faint sound of running water. From downstairs. The kitchen faucet.
Then — footsteps. Slow. Dragging. Coming up the stairs.
The handle on my door twisted once. Twice.
I grabbed my phone, dialing Thomas.
He answered on the second ring. “Hey, honey.”
“Thomas,” I whispered, voice shaking. “She—your mother—she’s trying to—”
A pause. Then, confusion. “My mother? What are you talking about?”
“She’s here. She poured water on me. She—she said—”
“Stop.” His voice dropped, cold. “What mother?”
I froze. “What?”
“My mother’s been dead for three years.”
The line crackled — and from the hallway came a low hum.
That same lullaby.
They found the house two days later. The bedroom door splintered open.
A soaked bed.
An empty room.
And, sitting neatly on the nightstand, a baby monitor — still humming faintly.
“Sleep, my darling… sleep.”