I woke up to a sound I couldn't place.
It wasn't crickets.
Wasn't frogs.
Not the wind through the trees.
It was something else—soft, high-pitched, and childlike.
A cry.
At first, I thought it was a cat. But it wasn't. It was too deliberate. Too… human. And that's what made it terrifying.
My wife was asleep beside me. The moon had vanished, hidden behind clouds. The bedroom was soaked in shadows. She breathed steadily in her sleep, unaware.
But the sound was still there.
Thin. Distant.
Somewhere just beyond reach.
I got out of bed, careful not to wake her, and moved through the house in the dark. Past the oversized sofa and the undersized coffee table. Past the water dispenser we barely used. It stood in the corner like a silent witness.
Sometimes I imagined it was watching me.
I know how that sounds. But in the dark, it didn't feel like a machine. It felt… aware.
I ignored it and checked every room. The kitchen. The bathroom. The child's room. Nothing. Even the yard was empty, though the wind gnawed at the doorframe like it wanted in.
The crying didn't stop.
But it didn't get louder either.
It floated on the edge of sound.
Then I remembered the basement.
There was a ramp near our building, sloping down into a black, unlit doorway. No lights. No guardrails. Just a hole in the concrete leading underground.
Officially, it was for bicycle storage. But no one used it. No one even talked about it.
And yet, tonight, it felt… alive.
The basement sat directly beneath our apartment.
Most people here had cars. Bicycles were more for decoration. So the basement remained empty, forgotten. A hollow stomach under the building.
And I hated it.
I always had.
Basements reminded me of graves.
I like high places. Even with wind. Even with danger.
Because at least up there, you can see what's coming.
Down there, in the dark--you only feel it.
And tonight,l felt it watching back.