Toddle

 

The baby monitor crackled to life at 12:03 a.m.

Mara sat up in bed, heart already thudding. The monitor on her nightstand hissed with static. Then came a soft, rhythmic thump-thump... thump-thump.

Tiny, unsteady footsteps.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, eyes darting to the nursery camera feed. The baby was still in the crib, fast asleep.

Another thump. This time slower, closer.

She stared at the monitor, gripping it tightly. The sound wasn’t coming from the nursery floor. It was overhead.

Above the nursery.

Above her.

The attic.

Mara crept down the hall, avoiding the creaky boards. The baby slept on, peaceful, unaware. She reached the attic door and paused. The footsteps had stopped.

Silence.

Then—tap tap tap—like fingers drumming right on the other side.

She backed away. Slipped into the nursery. Gently scooped up her child. The monitor in her hand crackled once more.

A breath. Not hers. Not the baby’s.

Then a voice, small and distant, called, “Come toddle with me.”

***

170 words

Why do I have these creepy house stories stuck in my head? I swear my house is nice and cozy... not creepy at all. For now?