Musfara Ai

My grandmother used to say the house was hungry. I thought it was dementia. She died five years ago. I inherited the house. Last month, I started losing things. Keys. Wallet. Phone. Always found them in strange places. Inside the microwave. Under the sink. I bought cameras:

Empty. Just baby clothes. Diapers. A box of unopened toys. But the floor was cold. Colder than the rest of the room. And there was a smell. Sweet. Like flowers. I closed the door. Turned around. The crib was different. The blanket was pulled back. Like someone had been lying in it. The stuffed rabbit was facing us now.

I drove to her house that night. We sat in the nursery. Everything looked new. Too new. Like someone was expecting a baby. Then we heard it. A sound from the closet. Soft. Like breathing. My sister grabbed my arm. "It's been doing that all week. At night. I don't go in here after dark." I opened the closet door.

"I was cleaning the nursery," she said. "I haven't been in there since the hospital. The door was locked. I had to break the knob." "The crib was made. Fresh sheets. A pink blanket. A stuffed rabbit in the corner. I didn't put those there." I told her maybe our mother did. Trying to help. She said no. "The rabbit. I bought that rabbit when I was five months pregnant. I never took it out of the bag. The bag was in my closet. Unopened."

That's chilling... something isn't right here now!

My sister had a miscarriage three years ago. She was six months along. They named her Emily anyway. Last week, my sister called me crying. "She's back. Emily. She came back." I thought she meant the grief. The memory. I was wrong. What I discovered next is terrifying:

If you're reading this, don't have a nursery before the baby is born. Don't buy the rabbit. Don't open the closet. Because sometimes, the baby doesn't wait. Sometimes, the baby has been waiting for you. For years. For decades. For longer than you've been alive. And when you finally open the door, the crib won't be empty. It never was.

I looked at the door. The handle is turning. The cry is inside the room now. My sister is screaming. But not in pain. She's saying a name. "Emily. You're here. You're finally here." The door is opening. I'm not looking.