From the day they brought their baby boy 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 protective of the baby, keeping watch at the door. But after only three nights, their peace of mind was shattered.

On the fourth night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., Mực stood rigid on all fours, his fur bristling like needles, growling at the crib beside the bed. He didn’t bark or lunge—just growled, a long, broken sound, as if someone were muffling his voice from the shadows.

Sơn turned on the lamp and went to soothe him. The baby slept peacefully, lips twitching as if suckling, not crying at all. But Mực’s eyes were fixed under the bed. He crouched low, stretched out, shoved his nose into the dusty dark space, and hissed. Sơn knelt down, used his phone flashlight, and saw only some boxes, spare diapers, and a thick shadow pooled like a bottomless pit.

On the fifth night, the same thing happened at 2:13. On the sixth, Sơn’s wife, Hân, startled awake when she heard a scratching sound—slow, deliberate—like nails dragging across wood. “Must be mice,” she said, her voice trembling. Sơn moved the crib closer to the wardrobe and set a trap in the corner. Still, Mực stared at the bedframe, letting out short growls whenever the baby stirred.

By the seventh night, Sơn decided not to sleep. He sat at the edge of the bed with the lights off, leaving only the hallway lamp casting a golden sliver into the room. His phone was set to record.

1:58 a.m., a gust swept through the half-closed window, bringing the damp smell of the garden.
2:10, the house felt hollow, drained.
2:13, Mực sprang up—not growling right away, but looking at Sơn, pressing his nose into his hand, urging him with his eyes. Then he crept low, as if stalking, and pointed his muzzle beneath the bed. His growl erupted—deep, drawn-out—blocking something from crawling out.

Sơn raised his phone light. In that brief flash, he saw movement. Not a mouse. A hand—pale greenish, dirt-stained—curled up like a spider. The beam flickered out as his hand shook. Sơn stumbled back, hitting the wardrobe. Hân sat up, asking questions in panic. The baby kept sleeping, milk moistening his lips.

Sơn snatched up his child, shielded him behind his back, and grabbed an old baseball bat. Mực lunged 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 back inside, long and fast, leaving a streak of black dust.

Hân sobbed, urging him to call the police. Sơn’s trembling hands dialed. Within ten minutes, two officers arrived. One crouched, shining his flashlight while moving boxes aside. Mực blocked the crib, baring his teeth. “Calm down,” the officer said evenly. “Let me check…” Under the bed was empty. Just churned dust, claw marks winding across the floorboards.

The officer’s light paused at a crack in the wall near the headboard: the wood had been cut open wide enough for a hand to reach through. He tapped—it sounded hollow. “There’s a cavity. Did this house have renovations?”

Sơn shook his head. Just then, the baby whimpered. Mực’s eyes blazed; he snapped his head toward the wall crack and growled. From the darkness, a whisper seeped out—raspy, human-like: “Shhh… don’t wake him…”

No one in the house slept after that whisper.

The younger officer, Dũng, called for backup. While waiting, he pried off the wooden skirting at the wall base. Strangely, the nails were new, shiny against the old, time-stained wood. “Someone tampered with this one or two months 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 pried the wood away. Behind was a hollow cavity, black as a cave throat. The damp stench mixed with another smell: spoiled milk and talcum powder. Mực pulled Sơn back, growling. Hân clutched the baby, heart racing. Dũng shone his light inside.

“Anyone in there?” Silence. But when the beam swept across, they all saw: small baby items—a pacifier, a plastic spoon, a scrunched-up cloth—and dozens of tally marks scratched into the wood, crisscrossing like a web.

When the backup team arrived, they inserted a small camera and hooked out a dirty bundle of cloth. Inside was a thick, worn notebook with shaky, feminine handwriting:
“Day 1: It sleeps here. I hear its breath.”
“Day 7: The dog knows. It stands guard, but doesn’t bite.”
“Day 19: I must be quiet. Just want to touch its cheek, hear its cry closer. Don’t wake anyone.”

The entries were short, frantic, as if scribbled in darkness.

“Who lived here before?” an officer asked. Sơn remembered vaguely—three months ago, during the handover, an old couple had been accompanied by a young woman. She kept her head down, hair covering half her face. The older woman had said: “She’s troubled, doesn’t talk much.” At the time, they hadn’t paid attention.

The camera revealed more: the cavity ran along the wall, forming a narrow hidden tunnel. At one spot was a makeshift nest—thin blanket, pillowcase, empty milk cans. On the floor, a new scrawl: “Day 27: 2:13. Breath strongest.”

2:13—the baby’s night feeding time. Somehow, their child’s routine had been tracked—from within the walls.

“It’s not a ghost,” Dũng said grimly. “It’s a person.” Investigating further, they found broken window latches and dirty footprints on the back roof. Someone had been entering and exiting until recently.

At dawn, Dũng advised: “Lock the room tonight. Leave the dog inside with one of us. We’ll see if she returns.”

That night, at 2:13, the fabric covering the wall crack twitched. A thin hand emerged, dirt-stained. A gaunt face followed—sunken eyes, matted hair, cracked lips. But what struck them most was her gaze fixed on the crib, like thirst shaped into human form.

She whispered again: “Shhh… don’t wake him… I just want to look…”

It was the young woman—Vy, the niece of the house’s previous owners. She had lost her baby late in pregnancy, fell into deep depression, and somehow returned to this house. For nearly a month, she had lived in the walls, clinging to the sound of a child’s breath as her only tether to reality.

The officers coaxed her out gently. Before leaving, Vy looked once more at the crib and whispered: “Shhh…”

Afterward, the hollow spaces were sealed and new flooring installed. Sơn and Hân installed cameras, but the true guardian remained Mực. He no longer growled at 2:13. He simply lay beside the crib, sometimes snorting softly as if to say: I’m here.

A month later, at the hospital for vaccinations, Hân saw Vy outside—clean, hair tied neatly, holding a cloth doll, smiling faintly while speaking with Officer Dũng. Hân didn’t approach. She just pressed her cheek to her baby, grateful for the sound of steady breathing, and for the dog who had sensed what no one else dared face: sometimes the monsters under the bed aren’t evil, but simply grief with nowhere else to go.