After my sister moved out of that cursed house, we thought the nightmare was over. She rented a cozy apartment in the city, far from the unsettling shadows and eerie laughter. For the first time in weeks, she seemed at peace, and Lily began sleeping through the night.
But peace was short-lived.
One evening, as we sat together drinking tea, Lily’s baby monitor crackled to life, emitting a low, distorted static. My sister and I exchanged glances. “It’s probably just interference,” I said, trying to reassure her.
But then, through the crackling, we heard it: the same eerie, guttural laugh. My sister’s face went pale. She ran to Lily’s room, and I followed close behind. The door was slightly ajar, just as it had been in the old house.
Inside, Lily was standing in her crib, her tiny hands gripping the bars. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t laughing either. But her eyes—those wide, innocent eyes—were fixated on the corner of the room.
I followed her gaze, and there it was.
The shadow.
It stood there, darker than the night itself, its twisted form almost blending into the walls. But this time, it didn’t stay still. Slowly, it started to move toward the crib, stretching out an elongated, crooked hand toward Lily. My sister screamed, rushing forward to grab her, but as soon as she touched the baby, the shadow vanished, leaving behind an icy chill in the room.
We called a priest, hoping that some kind of blessing would rid Lily of whatever had attached itself to her. But no matter how many prayers were whispered, or how much holy water was sprinkled, the feeling of being watched never left. The baby monitor still crackled with static every night, and though we could never quite see it, we always knew: the shadow was still there.
It wasn’t the house. It wasn’t the place at all. It was Lily.
Whatever had taken an interest in her wasn’t letting go.
And we were powerless to stop it.