"You're not losing your mind. It's just waking up."
He always used to sing me that lullaby. I haven't heard it since he died...until last night.
Our baby, Lily, is barely two weeks old, but she's taken to crying at exactly 3:14 AM.
It started on the third night in the hospital, a high-pitched keening that rattled the monitors and made me bolt upright.
My husband, Jacob, sleep-shy but determined to comfort her, reached into the bassinet. When he came back, his face was pale.
"She did it again," he whispered. "She sounded like…like Matt."
Matt was my little brother. He died three years ago, drowned in the creek behind our childhood home.
The slackjawed image of his lifeless face still haunts me. But Jacob, who was working nights then hadn't known Matt. How could he say the baby sounded like him?
I didn't reply, i didn't want to think about it. Instead, I stole into the nursery, where Lily lay curled in a white blanket.
Her tiny fists clutched the air as if warding off a nightmare. I picked her up, cradling her against my chest. Her whining dissolved into quiet coos, soothed by my touch.
I traced a trembling finger along her cheek. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm here."
She turned her eyes to mine, deep knowing eyes that seemed too old for a newborn. They reminded me of my brother's eyes., restless, bright, and always curious.
I blinked and shook my head, telling myself I was just exhausted. New mothers see or hear things; it's the late-night delirium. Yet her gaze felt eerily strange, like she were peering not at me, but at someone behind me.
---
By the time we arrived home, Lily's cries had become almost ritual. At precisely 3:14 AM each night, she would awake, then begin crying loudly, making a sound that was too grown-up for a baby her age.
On the fourth night at home, I waited until the exact minute, tiptoeing down the hall in my robe.
The nursery door was wide open; the pale moonlight cast the crib in jagged shadows. Lily lay on her back, her tiny chest rising and falling with slow breaths. I pressed my ear close, expecting the usual gurgle, but instead, i heard a whisper, "Remember when we climbed the willow?"
My heart skipped a beat.
Matt and I had spent every summer afternoon climbing that willow tree by the creek. I used to push him onto the lowest branch, and he would laugh until his stomach hurt, his curly hair tangling in the breeze. He would sometimes say, "If I can't see the ground, nothing bad can touch me."
I leaned over the crib. "Lily…?"
She moved a little but was still fast asleep. I stumbled back, telling myself again and again that it was all in my imagination.
---
That afternoon, I went through an old box of Matt's stuff in the attic, candy wrappers, messy drawings and my heart skipped when I remembered the voice from last night. I sat on a box with some of his things, wondering if I just imagined hearing that voice. Why did I feel so nervous?
---
That night, Lily did not cry at 3:14 AM. I pried open the nursery door at 4:00 AM, shaking her gently. Her eyes were wide, and she stared at something behind me, her stubby finger pointing toward the closet door. I followed her gaze.
A shadow stayed hanging near the closet door. I squinted my eyes, while my heart was beating fast.
"Who's there?" I whispered shakily.
Lily began humming our old lullaby, one that only Matt and I knew.
"Rock-a-bye, where the willow weeps…"
The closet door made a creaking sound, and the shadow moved forward, slowly taking the shape of a pale boy, his hair plastered to one side, and eyes as familiar as the moon. I caught my breath; it was Matt.
He smiled at Lily and said, "You found it."
I wanted to scream, to grab the baby and flee, but my feet were nailed to the floor. Behind Matt's silhouette, I heard the faint drip of water.. sounding like the creek on a rainy night. The silhouette tilted its head, studying me.
"Why are you here?" I managed, tears slick on my cheeks.
Matt's shape rippled. "You know why." He pointed at the crib, then at me. "She remembers. She remembers what they did to me. Are you going to help her?"
He reached out his ghostly hand, picked up Lily, and said, "Catch me."
Then, with a final glance, Matt's figure dissolved into darkness.
I jolted awake, soaked in sweat, and my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst through my chest.
I tried to catch my breath and wipe my palms on my nightshirt, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince my pounding mind that it was just a nightmare.
Then the bedroom door slowly creaked open. "She did it again," Jacob whispered as he stepped inside, "She sounded like…like Matt."
The words sounded all around me, too familiar and too real.
I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake our daughter, and padded down the hallway. When I reached the nursery, the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and found Lily standing in her crib, chubby fingers curled over the rail, her eyes wide and smiling as if she'd been waiting for me.
—He always used to sing me that lullaby. I haven't heard it since he died—until last night.199-212.
This first chapter is just a small taste. Each story in Things We Don't Talk About will explore different shades of horror, from the paranormal to the unsettlingly human. Some will be short like this one. Others will go deeper, darker, and stranger.
Consider this the introduction to what's waiting just out of sight.
More stories soon. Don't read alone. Or do.