Every night, the black dog growled at the newborn, making the father suspicious. He immediately called the police, and from then on, they discovered the horrible truth under the bed.

From the day they brought their baby home, the black dog named Ink suddenly became a constant guardian of the bedroom. At first, Son and his wife thought it was a good sign: the dog was protecting the baby, guarding the door. But after just three nights, their peace of mind was shattered.

On the fourth night, at exactly 2:13 a.m., Ink stiffened on all fours, his fur standing on end like needles, growling at the crib beside the bed. He didn’t bark or lunge, he just growled, a long, staccato sound, as if someone were muffling his voice from the shadows.

Son turned on the lamp and went to soothe his baby. The baby slept peacefully, her lips twitching as if she was sucking, not crying at all. But Ink’s eyes were fixed on the bed. He crouched down, stretched, stuck his nose into the dusty, dark space, and hissed. Son knelt, used his phone’s flashlight, and saw only a few boxes, spare diapers, and a thick, accumulated shadow like a bottomless pit.

On the fifth night, the same thing happened at 2:13. On the sixth, Son’s wife, Han, woke with a start when she heard a scratching sound, slow, deliberate, like nails dragging on wood. “Must be mice,” she said, her voice shaking. Son moved the crib closer to the closet and placed a trap in the corner. Still, Ink stared at the bed frame, letting out short grunts whenever the baby moved.

By the seventh night, Son decided not to sleep.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off, leaving only the hallway lamp casting a golden sliver in the room. His phone was ready to record.

At 1:58 a.m., a gust swept through the half-closed window, bringing the damp smell of the garden.

At 2:10 a.m., the house felt hollow, drained.

At 2:13 a.m., Ink jumped up, not growling immediately, but looking at Son, pressing his nose against his hand, urging him on with his eyes. Then he crept forward, as if on the prowl, and pointed his snout under the bed. His growl erupted, deep and drawn out, preventing anything from coming out.

Son raised the light on his phone. In that brief flash, he saw movement. Not a mouse. A hand, pale greenish, smeared with dirt, coiled like a spider. The beam flickered as his hand trembled. Son stumbled backward, hitting the closet. Han sat up, asking panicked questions. The baby continued sleeping, milk moistening his lips.

Son grabbed his baby daughter, shielded her behind his back, and grabbed an old baseball bat. Ink lunged under the bed, his growls turning into furious barks, claws scraping. From the darkness came a frozen scraping sound, then silence. The lights flickered. Something retreated inside, long and fast, leaving a trail of black dust.

Han sobbed, urging him to call the police. Son’s trembling hands dialed. Within ten minutes, two officers arrived. One crouched, shining his flashlight as he moved boxes aside. Muc blocked the crib, baring his teeth. “Calm down,” the officer said evenly. “Let me check…” Under the bed was empty. Only churned dust, claw marks snaking across the floorboards.

The officer’s light stopped on a crack in the wall near the headboard: the wood had been cut enough for a hand to reach. He tapped; it sounded hollow. “There’s a cavity. Did this house have renovations?”

Son shook his head. At that moment, the baby moaned. Ink’s eyes glittered; he moved his head toward the crack in the wall and grunted. From the darkness, a harsh, human whisper filtered out: “Shhh… don’t wake him…”