I had barely finished giving birth when my eight-year-old daughter rushed into the hospital room, her eyes large and frightened. She darted to the window, pulled the curtains shut, then leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Mom… get under the bed. Right now.”
My body went cold. I didn’t argue. We slid beneath the bed, pressing ourselves into the tight space. Suddenly heavy footsteps entered. I tried to peek, but she gently covered my mouth, her expression filled with a fear I had never seen in her. And then…
When Raina slipped inside, her light sneakers barely tapped the tile before she shut the door behind her. Something about her face made my heart jolt. She was eight, but her eyes carried a fear too old for her years. Without speaking, she rushed to the curtains and pulled them shut with a swift tug. The baby slept soundly nearby, unaware of the danger settling into the air.
“Mom,” she whispered, voice cracking slightly, “under the bed. Now.”
I was still weak from labor, my legs shaky, my stomach sore, but the urgency in her voice tore through every ache. I didn’t hesitate. Her fear was real. Her instinct was sharp.
We crawled beneath the hospital bed together. It was cold under there, the smell of metal and disinfectant thick in the air. Raina clutched the edge of the blanket so tightly it trembled in her hands. I opened my mouth to ask what was happening, but she shook her head, eyes wide.
Then we heard them. Footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Calm.
The pattern didn’t belong to staff. Nurses moved quickly. Doctors moved with purpose. This rhythm was something else. Something unsettling.
Raina grabbed both my hands and held them tight against her chest. Her heartbeat thudded rapidly, almost painfully.
I shifted slightly to look out, but she placed her hand over my mouth, her stare intense and pleading. She was terrified. Truly terrified.
The footsteps stopped right at the bedside. No one spoke. No one breathed. Then the mattress above us dipped, just enough to make the metal frame creak. I could hear breathing now, slow and deliberate, like the person was examining the room calmly, confidently.
A shadow slid closer to where we hid. And then…
…and then a hand reached down.
Not fast.
Not searching.
Knowing.
Long fingers curled over the edge of the bed frame, inches from Raina’s face. I felt her whole body go rigid, her nails digging into my palms.
The hand didn’t grope blindly the way someone looking would.
It rested there—patient, certain, as if the person attached to it already knew we were underneath.
I held my breath until my lungs ached.
Then a voice—low, male, and chillingly calm—broke the silence.
“Raina. Come out.”
Every muscle in me locked.
He said her name.
My daughter’s name.
Raina’s lips tightened, as if trapping a scream inside her. Tears filled her eyes, but she shook her head and pressed even closer to me.
“Raina,” the man repeated, this time with a touch of amusement. “You know I’ll find you.”
The mattress dipped further as he leaned his weight on it. Dust drifted down from the springs. I could see the tip of his shoe now—dark leather, polished, wrong for a hospital.
My newborn, still in the crib, let out a tiny whimper.
The man paused. I felt the silence deepen, sharpen.
“He was born today… wasn’t he?” the man murmured, sounding almost joyful. “Perfect timing.”
Raina shuddered violently.
He reached lower—lower—until his fingers were almost brushing the floor.
I squeezed her hand once, hard, signaling her to stay completely still.
But suddenly, a loud knock blasted through the room.
“Mrs. Carter?” a woman’s voice called. “Your dinner tray—”
The door pushed open.
The man’s hand vanished so fast it scraped metal. By the time the door swung fully inward, nothing but the mattress’s faint sway showed he’d been there at all.
A nurse stepped inside, cheerful and oblivious.
“Oh! I didn’t know your curtains were shut… let me just—”
Raina shot out from under the bed so fast the nurse almost screamed. She grabbed the woman’s wrists.
“Don’t open them!” she cried. “Please!”
The nurse froze, confused. “Sweetheart, what—?”
But then the woman’s eyes flicked toward the window.
And she saw it.
A perfectly shaped handprint smudged in the condensation.
Pressed from the outside.
Three stories up.
Her face drained of color.
She backed toward the hall, grabbing Raina gently. “Okay… okay, honey. Let’s get security.”
Raina looked back at me, voice trembling:
“Mom… he came for the baby. I saw him climbing the walls.”
My whole body turned to ice.
“The same man from before?” I whispered.
She nodded.
“The same one who told me… he’d take my brother the day he was born.”
The nurse didn’t even wait—she hit the emergency button on the wall so hard it cracked. Alarms erupted through the ward.
Doors slammed. Boots thundered. Radios crackled.
But in the midst of the chaos, only one thing mattered:
Someone had been waiting for this birth.
Someone who knew my daughter.
Someone who climbed three stories without leaving a sound.
And he had almost taken my baby.
I pulled Raina close, my voice shaking:
“Sweetheart… who is he?”
Her answer hit me like a punch to the chest.
“Mom… he’s the man who used to visit me in my dreams.”
