Ivy was the quietest baby you’d ever meet. No midnight wailing, no dramatic meltdowns. Just peaceful sleep, night after night. So when I started hearing those sounds coming from her nursery, I knew something wasn’t right. The baby monitor was supposed to give me peace of mind. Instead, it showed me something that made my blood run cold.
Those evenings were my favorite. Watching Ivy tucked under her little duck-patterned blanket, her breath coming in soft, rhythmic puffs. Judson would be puttering around the kitchen, usually making hot chocolate. And me? I’d be stretched out on the couch, staring up at nothing in particular, thinking about how perfectly everything had fallen into place.
When Judson emerged from Ivy’s room that night, he had that satisfied grin plastered across his face. Barefoot, cocky as hell.
“Two minutes flat. I’m telling you, I’ve got some kind of supernatural lullaby powers.”
“More like she’s already figured out who runs this house,” I shot back.
He set down our mugs and collapsed next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“Look at what we’ve become, Rey. We’re those people now. The ones who document every bodily function.”
I couldn’t help laughing. He wasn’t wrong. We’d literally recorded Ivy’s first sneeze and mass-texted it to our entire contact list. Family, friends, even my former supervisor got the video.
Everything felt right. Balanced. Easy.
Then came that night.
I woke up in darkness. No idea what had pulled me from sleep. Judson was snoring away beside me, the clock’s blue numbers reading 03:15.
I was turning over, ready to sink back into oblivion, when I caught it.
A sound. Faint rustling from down the hall. From Ivy’s room.
Like fabric moving. Or maybe footsteps, soft and deliberate.
I shook Judson’s shoulder. “Do you hear that?”
“Mmm? Hear what?” He barely opened his eyes.
“There’s something in the nursery.”
“She’s probably just rolling around. Come on, go back to sleep.”
But I was already up, feet hitting the cold floor. I padded down the hallway, my heart thumping against my ribs. Slowly, carefully, I pushed open Ivy’s door.
Nothing.
Complete stillness.
Ivy lay there, perfectly peaceful. Her toys sat undisturbed in their basket. The mobile above her crib rotated gently, same as always. No breeze, no open window.
Just silence.
I stood frozen, straining to hear. Trying to catch whatever had woken me.
But there was nothing.
The next night, it happened again. That same subtle noise. I checked on her, and once more, everything looked perfectly normal.
By the third night, Judson was losing patience.
“Rey, it’s probably the heating system. Or the plumbing. This house has some age on it.”
“But I keep hearing it. Every single night. One of these times, I’m going to walk in there and find something actually wrong.”
“What, like a nursery burglar? A ghost with a pacifier fetish?”
I didn’t find it funny.
That morning, I pulled out my phone and ordered the baby monitor Kaylie had been raving about. My best friend was basically an encyclopedia of baby products.
“You’re overthinking this,” she said in her voice note, laughing. “But fine, this one’s incredible. Audio, video, night vision. You can literally watch her from the shower if you want.”
When the package arrived, I set it up immediately. Mounted it near the crib, adjusted the angle until it was perfect. Ran a test. The image was sharp and clear—I could see every detail of Ivy’s tiny fingers.
“There,” I told Judson as we climbed into bed that night. “Now I can actually relax.”
“Thank God,” he muttered, kissing my forehead.
I lay there watching the monitor screen. Ivy’s small face, her chest rising and falling steadily. I placed it on the nightstand and let my eyes close.
Maybe fifteen minutes passed.
Then—a scream. Sharp and sudden.
Followed by crying.
Ivy!
I grabbed the monitor, my hands shaking.
The image flickered. Pixelated. Dark shapes moving across the screen.
And there, behind the crib—something.
A figure. Just for a split second.
Then gone.
I screamed. “Judson! Get up!”

I flew into Ivy’s room like I was levitating. She was crying hard, her face flushed and damp with sweat.
But the room was empty.
I checked everywhere—under the crib, inside the closet, behind the rocking chair. Nothing. No one. Just that thick, unsettling quiet.
Then I saw it.
Ivy’s bottle. Lying on the floor next to the chair.
I picked it up. The plastic felt warm against my palm. Not room temperature. Warm.
Someone had heated this. Recently.
“What the hell…”
“Reina?” Judson stumbled in behind me, half-dressed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What’s happening?”
I scooped Ivy into my arms. “I’ve got her.”
Her diaper was soaked through. She hiccupped against my neck. I laid her on the changing table, trying to steady my trembling hands.
Judson leaned in the doorway. “You said she was screaming?”
“I saw something. On the monitor. A shadow behind the crib. A person.”
“A what?”
“A person, Judson. I’m not imagining this.”
“You probably saw your own reflection or something. You were barely awake.”
I turned to face him, still holding Ivy’s little foot. “No. It wasn’t a reflection. I saw someone. And look—” I gestured toward the bottle. “Someone warmed up her milk.”
Judson stared at it, then shrugged. “Are you sure you didn’t do that while sleepwalking? Remember that time you tried to make a grilled cheese with the clothes iron?”
“This is completely different.”
He picked up the monitor from the shelf. “You’ve been wound up for days. First the noises, now this. Maybe you’re just running on empty.”
“I’m not paranoid, Judson. There was someone on that screen.”
“She probably just woke up needing a change,” he said softly, running his hand over Ivy’s hair. “That’s what babies do. This isn’t some thriller movie.”
“Then explain the bottle.”
“You made it. Without realizing. It happens to people.”
“No. I didn’t heat that bottle. And if I somehow did, why would I leave it on the floor?”
He sighed and pulled out his phone. “Alright. Let me check the security log.”
While he scrolled through his phone, I finished changing Ivy and held her close. She was already drifting back to sleep, poor little thing.
“Everything’s armed and secure,” Judson mumbled. “No breaches. No doors opened. Nothing. The system would’ve alerted me immediately if anything was off.”
I said nothing.
“I’m heading back to bed,” he added, kissing my temple. “And I really think you should too.”
I stayed there, watching Ivy breathe. But the feeling wouldn’t leave me.
I walked over to the window, just to double-check.
It wasn’t completely shut. A thin gap let cold air slip through.
I reached to close it properly, and something caught.
Wedged in the window frame was a small silver pendant. A charm. A delicate heart, split down the middle.
No way.
I hadn’t seen that pendant in years.
And I knew exactly who it belonged to.

I could barely make it through the night. At exactly 7 a.m., the nanny arrived. I handed over Ivy with two bottles, a blanket, and strict instructions.
“Keep watching the monitor. Don’t look away. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Then I got in the car and drove.
I hadn’t been to that house in years. There was a reason for that.
It still stood in the same spot by the woods, sagging and stubborn. The chipped ceramic owl still sat on the porch railing. The same lace curtains hung in the windows. Like time had simply stopped.
I barely made it onto the porch before the door opened.
“I figured you’d show up eventually, dear.”
“You broke into my house, Mom.” I pushed past her. “I don’t want you anywhere near me. Anywhere near my family.”
“I just wanted to hold her. Just once. Just for a minute.”
“How did you even get inside? We have a security system.”
She didn’t answer.
I heard a creak from the hallway. Judson stepped out.
“You?! You’re part of this?”
Judson raised his hands defensively. “I caught her once. In Ivy’s room, holding her. I almost called the police. But then she looked at me and begged me not to tell you.”
I turned on my mother. “Explain. Now.”
“Your father had an affair,” she whispered. “He didn’t want a custody battle. Didn’t want lawyers. So he used his connections to have me committed to a psychiatric facility. He claimed I was mentally unstable.”
“Oh God, Mom. How did this happen? And… who was it?”
She hesitated. “Jessie.”
“Aunt Jessie? That’s impossible. She took care of me when you vanished. She was good to me. She… she helped me.”
“Of course she did. She kept me locked up for five years. She ran the department. She and your father made absolutely certain I couldn’t see you. Couldn’t call. Nothing.”
I sank into the nearest chair, my heart hammering. “You came back.”
“I did. When you were in college. I stood outside your lecture hall once, hoping you’d notice me. But you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“He released me once you left for school. Once he sold the house. Once there was nothing left to fight over.”
I pressed my fingers against my temples. “Mom…”
Judson stepped closer. “I believed her, Reina. I didn’t want to at first. That’s why I hired a private investigator. I had to know if she was telling the truth. And she was. Everything checked out. When I learned what really happened, I went to a lawyer. We’re handling it now.”
I looked at him, my voice dropping to ice. “And this whole time? You just… what? Let her sneak in through windows?”
“I left the back window unlocked. Disabled that section of the alarm. Only for her. I made sure nothing dangerous could happen.”
“You lied to me. Both of you. Night after night.”
“No,” Judson said. “We waited. Until we could give you the full truth.”
I looked between them: my mother, who I’d spent years resenting, and the man I’d trusted more than anyone.
“I don’t know what to feel right now. But I’m exhausted. I’m going home to Ivy.”
I headed for the door. “If either of you wants to help, make dinner. We’ll talk tonight.”
I stepped out into the late morning sunlight, got in the car, and drove.
I let the silence fill everything. The space between breaths. Between years. Between what had been shattered and what might still be repaired.
I was furious. At them. At myself. At all the time we’d lost—years built on lies, silence, and pain.
But something else was rising in my chest too.
Love was creeping back in. So was hope.
And a quiet happiness, knowing that Ivy would grow up with a grandmother who genuinely loved her.
And I would finally have a mother who loved me too.