The Silent Guardian

From the moment they brought their newborn home, their black dog, Ink, became a constant sentinel beside the bedroom.
At first, Son and his wife, Han, thought it was sweet—Ink was simply guarding the baby, watching over her sleep.

But by the third night, comfort turned into dread.

At exactly 2:13 a.m., Ink’s body stiffened, fur bristling like static. His growl rumbled low and steady—not loud, not frantic—just a restrained warning, as if something unseen was breathing too close.

Son flicked on the lamp.
The baby slept soundly, her lips twitching in a dream.
But Ink’s eyes never left the space beneath the bed.

Crouching, Son shone his phone’s light into the shadows—only boxes, spare diapers, and darkness that seemed too deep for such a small space.

The Nights That Followed

On the fifth night, it happened again. 2:13. Like clockwork.

On the sixth, Han awoke to a slow, scraping sound—like nails dragging across wood.
“It’s just mice,” she whispered, trying to convince herself.

Son moved the crib closer to the closet, setting traps in every corner.
But still, Ink wouldn’t stop staring at the bed frame, growling each time the baby stirred.

The Seventh Night

That night, Son didn’t sleep.
He sat by the bed with the lights off, only the hallway lamp spilling a thin line of gold into the room. His phone was set to record.

1:58 a.m. — a gust of wind blew through the half-open window, carrying the damp scent of soil.
2:10 a.m. — the silence felt heavy, unnatural.
2:13 a.m. — Ink sprang to attention.

He looked at Son, pressing his cold nose against his hand, urging him forward. Then, creeping low, he aimed his snout beneath the bed and growled—a deep, primal sound that warned something to stay back.

Son raised his phone’s flashlight.

And froze.

Movement. Not a mouse. A hand—thin, greenish, caked in dirt, curling like a spider’s leg.

The beam trembled. Son stumbled backward, hitting the closet. Han jolted awake. The baby slept on, undisturbed.

Ink lunged under the bed, barking wildly, claws scraping.
A dragging sound echoed—then silence. Something retreated, fast, leaving a smear of black dust behind.

The Police Investigation

Shaking, Han clutched the baby as Son called the police.

Within ten minutes, two officers arrived.
The younger one, Dung, crouched and aimed his flashlight under the bed.

Ink blocked the crib, teeth bared.
“Easy, boy,” the officer murmured. “Let me look.”

The space was empty—only churned dust and claw marks on the floorboards.

Then Dung’s light caught something: a crack near the headboard. The wood had been cut.
He tapped it. Hollow.

“Did this house have any renovations?” he asked.
Son shook his head.

Just then, the baby whimpered. Ink turned toward the crack, growling softly.

And from that black slit in the wall came a whisper—
“Shhh… don’t wake him…”

Everyone froze.

The Hidden Wall

Dung immediately called for backup.
While waiting, he pried off the wooden paneling.
The nails were shiny—new. “This was tampered with recently,” he said.

Son’s voice cracked. “The previous owners… an old couple. They said they only repainted the living room, not this room.”

Dung forced the rest of the panel loose.
Behind it gaped a dark cavity, reeking of rot and sour milk.

Ink pulled Son backward, growling furiously.
Han clutched the baby tighter.

The officer shone his light into the void.

Inside were small baby items—
A pacifier.
A plastic spoon.
A wrinkled washcloth.

And carved into the wood—dozens of tally marks, scratched by trembling hands.

The Diary in the Dark

When the backup arrived, they inserted a small camera into the cavity.
What came out was a filthy, crumpled notebook.

The writing inside was jagged, frantic:

“Day 1: Sleeps here. I hear his breath.”
“Day 7: The dog knows. Keeps watch, but doesn’t bite.”
“Day 19: I must be quiet. I just want to touch her cheek. Don’t wake anyone.”

Each line felt more desperate than the last.

“Who lived here before?” an officer asked.

Son remembered: during the sale, an elderly couple had come with a young woman.
She had kept her head down, silent, her hair hiding her face.
The woman had said softly, “She worries too much. Doesn’t talk.”
He hadn’t thought much of it then.

The Woman in the Walls

The camera revealed the truth: the cavity stretched along the wall, forming a narrow tunnel.
In one spot, a blanket, a pillowcase, and empty milk cans.
Scrawled on the floor:
“Day 27: 2:13. Breathe harder.”

2:13—the baby’s nightly feeding time.
Someone had been listening from inside the walls.

“It’s not a ghost,” Dung said quietly. “It’s a person.”

They found broken window latches and muddy footprints leading to the roof.
Someone had been coming and going—for weeks.

The Final Night

That night, police waited inside with Ink.
At exactly 2:13, fabric near the crack shifted.

A hand—thin and dirt-streaked—reached out.
Then a gaunt face emerged: hollow eyes, matted hair, cracked lips.

Her gaze locked on the crib.
She whispered, almost tenderly,
“Shhh… don’t wake her… I just want to watch…”

It was Vy, the niece of the former owners.
She had lost her baby late in pregnancy, fallen into madness, and returned to this house—haunting its walls, living in the dark beside another woman’s child.

As the officers led her away, Vy looked back at the crib one last time and whispered, “Shhh…”

Aftermath

The cavity was sealed. New floors installed. Cameras added.

But the truest protector remained—Ink.
He no longer growled at 2:13.
He simply lay by the crib, tail curled, breathing slow and steady.

A month later, at the hospital, Han saw Vy again—clean, calm, holding a small cloth doll.
Officer Dung stood beside her, speaking gently.

Han didn’t approach.
She only pressed her cheek against her baby’s head, grateful for the soft rhythm of life in her arms—
and for the dog who sensed what no one else could.

Because sometimes, the monsters under the bed aren’t evil—
just grief, trapped with nowhere left to go.