From the day Sơn and his wife brought their newborn son home, their black dog, Mực, became a constant guard at the nursery door. At first, they thought it was sweet — a loyal protector watching over the baby. But after only three nights, their sense of comfort was shattered.

On the fourth night, precisely at 2:13 a.m., Mực stood stiffly by the crib, his fur bristling like needles. He didn’t bark — instead, he growled in a low, broken rhythm, as if straining against something hidden in the shadows.

Sơn switched on the lamp. The baby slept soundly, lips twitching as though still nursing. Yet Mực’s gaze was fixed beneath the bed. Crouching down, he shoved his muzzle into the dark gap, growling louder. When Sơn shone his phone’s flashlight, he saw only boxes, spare diapers, and a thick shadow that seemed too deep for such a small space.

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The following nights brought the same pattern — always at 2:13. On the sixth night, Hân, Sơn’s wife, woke to a deliberate scratching sound, slow and sharp, like nails dragging on wood. “Probably mice,” she whispered, though her voice trembled. But Mực’s eyes never left the crib, his body tense.

By the seventh night, Sơn decided not to sleep. He sat in the dark room with only the hallway light glowing faintly. His phone was set to record.

At 2:13, Mực pressed against his hand, then crouched low and growled at the bedframe. Sơn lifted his light just in time to see movement. Not a mouse. A hand — pale, dirt-stained, its fingers curling like a spider. His flashlight flickered as he stumbled back, clutching the baby.

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Mực lunged under the bed, barking furiously. From the shadows came a scraping sound — then silence. When the police arrived minutes later, they found only dust and claw-like marks on the floorboards. But a closer look revealed a narrow opening in the wall, patched with fresh nails. Behind it was a hidden cavity filled with baby items — a pacifier, a spoon, a crumpled cloth — and dozens of frantic carvings etched into the wood.

Among the debris lay a small notebook. The entries were brief, written in a shaky hand:

Day 1: He sleeps here. I hear him breathing.

Day 7: The dog knows. He watches me.

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Day 19: I must stay quiet. I just want to touch his cheek…

The officers realized it wasn’t a ghost at all, but a person.

That night, under police watch, the figure emerged — a frail young woman with hollow eyes, tangled hair, and trembling lips. Her gaze locked on the crib as she whispered, “Shh… don’t wake him. I only want to watch.”

She was Vy, the niece of the home’s former owners. Months earlier, she had lost her own child late in pregnancy and fallen into a deep depression. She had returned to the house and hidden between the walls, clinging to the sound of another baby’s breath as her only tether to reality.

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The officers gently led her away. Before leaving, Vy turned once more toward the crib and whispered, “Shh…”

Afterward, Sơn and Hân sealed the hidden spaces and installed cameras. Yet the true guardian remained Mực. He no longer growled at 2:13. Instead, he simply lay beside the crib, letting out a soft sigh as if to reassure: I’m here.

A month later, at the hospital, Hân glimpsed Vy outside. She was clean, her hair tied neatly, a fabric doll clutched in her arms. She spoke quietly with Officer Dũng, a faint smile on her lips. Hân didn’t approach. She only pressed her cheek against her baby’s head, grateful for his steady breathing — and for the dog who had sensed what no one else could: that sometimes the monsters under the bed aren’t evil at all, but sorrow with nowhere to go