No one in the house slept after that whisper.

The younger officer, Dung, called for reinforcements. While he waited, he tore out the wooden baseboard at the base of the wall. Strangely, the nails were new, shiny against the old, weather-stained wood. “Someone tampered with this a month or two ago,” he said. Son’s throat went dry. “I had bought the house from an elderly couple three months earlier. They had said they only repainted the living room and fixed the ceiling, not the bedroom.”

With a crowbar, Dung ripped out the wood. Behind it was a hollow cavity, black as the throat of a cave. The damp stench mingled with another smell: spoiled milk and talcum powder. Ink pulled Son back, growling. Han grabbed the baby, her heart racing.

Dung shone his light inside.

“Anyone there?” Silence. But when the beam crossed, everyone saw: small baby items (a pacifier, a plastic spoon, a crumpled washcloth) and dozens of tally marks scratched into the wood, crisscrossed like a net.

When the backup team arrived, they inserted a small camera and attached a bundle of dirty cloth. Inside was a thick, worn notebook with shaky, feminine handwriting:

“Day 1: Sleeps here. I hear his breath.”
“Day 7: The dog knows. Keeps watch, but doesn’t bite.”
“Day 19: I must be quiet. I just want to touch her cheek, hear her cry closer. Don’t wake anyone.”

The entries were short, frantic, as if scribbled in the dark.

“Who lived here before?” an officer asked. Son vaguely remembered: three months ago, during the handover, an elderly couple had been accompanied by a young woman. She kept her head down, her hair covering half her face. The older woman had said, “She’s worried, doesn’t talk much.” At the time, they hadn’t paid attention.

The camera revealed more: the cavity ran along the wall, forming a narrow, hidden tunnel. In one place, there was a makeshift nest: a thin blanket, a pillowcase, and empty milk cans. On the floor, a new scribble: “Day 27: 2:13. Breathe harder.”

2:13: The baby’s nighttime feeding time. Somehow, their daughter’s routine had been tracked, from within the walls.

“It’s not a ghost,” Dung said grimly. “It’s a person.” Investigating further, they found broken window latches and dirty footprints on the back ceiling. Someone had been coming and going until recently.

At dawn, Dung advised, “Lock the room tonight. Leave the dog inside with one of us. We’ll see if he comes back.”

That night, at 2:13, the fabric covering the crack in the wall shrank. A thin, dirt-stained hand emerged. A gaunt face followed: sunken eyes, matted hair, cracked lips. But what caught their attention most was its gaze fixed on the crib, like thirst in human form.

She whispered again, “Shhh… don’t wake her up… I just want to watch…”

It was the young woman, Vy, the niece of the house’s previous owners. She had lost her baby late in her pregnancy, fallen into a deep depression, and somehow returned to this house. For almost a month, she had lived in the walls, clinging to the sound of a child’s breathing as her only tether to reality.

The officers gently coaxed her. Before leaving, Vy looked once more at the crib and whispered, “Shhh…”

Later, the hollow spaces were sealed and new floors were installed. Son and Han installed cameras, but the true guardian remained Ink. He no longer grunted at 2:13. He simply lay beside the crib, sometimes snorting softly as if to say, “I’m here.”

A month later, at the hospital for vaccinations, Han saw Vy outside, clean, hair tied neatly, holding a cloth doll, smiling slightly as he spoke to Officer Dung. Han didn’t come closer. She simply pressed her cheek against her baby, grateful for the sound of steady breathing and for the dog who had felt what no one else dared to face: sometimes the monsters under the bed aren’t evil, but simply pain with nowhere else to go.