He immediately called the police, and from then on, they discovered the horrifying truth under the bed.
From the day they brought their baby home, the black dog named Mực suddenly became a constant guardian of the bedroom. At first, Sơn and his wife thought it was a good sign: the dog was protecting the baby, watching over the door. But after only three nights, their peace of mind was shattered.
On the fourth night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., Mực stiffened on all fours, his fur standing on end, growling at the crib beside the bed. He didn’t bark or lunge, he just growled, a long, broken sound, as if someone were muffling his voice from the shadows.
Sơn turned on the lamp and went to comfort him. The baby slept peacefully, his lips twitching as if he were sucking, not crying at all. But Mực’s eyes were fixed under the bed. He crouched down, stretched out, stuck his nose into the dusty, dark space, and hissed. Sơn knelt down, used his phone’s flashlight, and saw only a few boxes, spare diapers, and a thick shadow gathered like a bottomless pit.
On the fifth night, the same thing happened at 2:13 a.m. On the sixth, Sơn’s wife, Hân, woke with a start when she heard a scratching sound—slow, deliberate, like nails dragging across wood. “It must be mice,” she said, her voice trembling. Sơn moved the crib closer to the closet and set a trap in the corner. Still, Mực stared at the bed frame, letting out short grunts whenever the baby moved.
By the seventh night, Sơn decided not to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off, leaving only the hall lamp casting a golden sliver into the room. His phone was ready to record.
At 1:58 a.m., a gust of wind swept through the half-closed window, bringing the damp scent of the garden.
At 2:10 a.m., the house felt hollow, drained.
At 2:13 a.m., Mực jumped up, not growling at first, but looking at Sơn, pressing his nose against his hand, urging him with his eyes. Then he crawled, as if on the prowl, and pointed his snout under the bed. His growl erupted, deep, drawn out, preventing anything from emerging.
Sơn raised the light on his phone. In that brief flash, he saw movement. Not a mouse. A hand, pale greenish, smeared with dirt, curled up like a spider. The lightning flickered as his hand trembled. Sơn stumbled backward, hitting the wardrobe. Hân sat up, asking panicked questions. The baby was still asleep, milk moistening his lips.
Sơn grabbed his son, shielded him behind his back, and grabbed an old baseball bat. Mực lunged from under the bed, his growls turning into furious barks, claws scraping. From the darkness came a frozen scraping sound, then silence. The lights flickered. Something retreated inside, long and fast, leaving a trail of black dust.
Hân sobbed, urging him to call the police. Sơn’s trembling hands dialed. Within ten minutes, two officers arrived. One crouched down, shining his flashlight as he moved boxes aside. Mực barricaded the crib, baring his teeth. “Calm down,” the officer said evenly. “Let me check…” Under the bed was empty. Just stirred dust, claw marks snaking across the floorboards.
The officer’s light stopped on a crack in the wall near the headboard: the wood had been cut away just enough for a hand to reach. He tapped; it sounded hollow. “There’s a cavity. Did this house have renovations?”
Sơn shook his head. At that moment, the baby whimpered. Mực’s eyes flashed; he turned his head toward the crack in the wall and grunted. From the darkness, a whisper filtered through, harsh, human: “Shhh… don’t wake him…”
No one in the house slept after that whisper.
The youngest officer, Dũng, called for backup. While he waited, he ripped off the wooden baseboard at the bottom of the wall. Strangely, the nails were new, gleaming against the old, time-worn wood. “Someone tampered with this a month or two ago,” he said. Sơn’s throat went dry. He had bought the house from an elderly couple three months earlier. They had said they only repainted the living room and fixed the roof, not the bedroom.
With a crowbar, Dũng pryed the wood out. Behind it was a hollow cavity, black as a cave entrance. The damp stench mingled with another smell: spoiled milk and talcum powder. Mực pulled Sơn back, grunting. Hân grabbed the baby, his heart racing. Dũng’s light shone from within.
“Anyone there?” Silence. But when the beam pierced through, they all saw: small baby items (a pacifier, a plastic spoon, a crumpled cloth) and dozens of tally marks scratched into the wood, crisscrossed like a net.
When the backup team arrived, they inserted a small camera and attached a package of dirty cloth. Inside h
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