The Crib of Whistling Wood

I never put much stock in ghost stories. When my sister-in-law, Clara, lost her infant daughter, Elsie, to crib death, I told myself it was a tragedy, not a haunting. The doctors called it Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Clara and her husband, Marcus, were devastated, but they clung to their faith, believing Elsie’s soul was in a better place. I agreed, if only to give them comfort.

But I’ve always been wary of the other side—the unholy side. Demons, not ghosts, are the real danger. They’re cunning, shape-shifters that mimic the dead to sow chaos. They attach to objects, feeding on grief. And that old wooden crib, passed down from Clara’s grandmother, had become a vessel for something dark. When Clara announced she was pregnant again, I tried to warn her, but she dismissed it as superstition.

Eight months later, she gave birth to a healthy boy, Noah. The day they brought him home, I visited. The nursery was painted a soft yellow, with a mobile of smiling animals dangling above the crib. The crib itself was a monstrosity of dark oak, carved with intricate vines and flowers. It had seen four generations of babies, Clara had said with a smile. I suppressed a shiver as I watched Noah sleep peacefully inside.

The first oddity happened a week later. Clara called me, her voice trembling. ‘Marta, I think there’s something wrong with the crib. It hums at night, a low, vibrating sound. Marcus thinks I’m imaging things.’ I told her it might be the house settling, but she insisted she’d felt a warmth emanating from the wood, as if it were alive.

I offered to stay over, to help with the baby. That night, I slept on the pull-out couch in the nursery. At 2 AM, I was jolted awake by a sickly-sweet cooing, like a baby’s laugh, but wrong. It came from the crib. I crept over and saw Noah sleeping, but the mobile was spinning, its animals contorting into grotesque shapes. The crib’s wood seemed to glisten with moisture, and a faint smell of decay wafted up.

‘Noah,’ I whispered, reaching in to check on him. The moment my hand touched the railing, the cooing turned into a guttural hiss. I yanked my hand back, and the sound ceased. I stood there, heart pounding, until Clara came in. ‘Did you hear it?’ she asked, her face pale. I didn’t lie. ‘We need to get rid of this crib,’ I said.

Clara refused. ‘It’s an heirloom. And it was Elsie’s too. It’s all we have left of her.’ I tried to reason with her, but she was adamant. ‘I’ll bring in a priest to bless it,’ she said, as if that would solve everything.

The priest came, but he didn’t stay long. He performed a blessing, but as he left, he pulled me aside. ‘That crib is not just wood,’ he said. ‘There’s a malevolent presence. I’ve bound it for now, but you need to destroy it. Burn it.’ But Clara wouldn’t hear of it.

Days passed. Noah became fussy, crying at odd hours, especially when near the crib. Clara grew exhausted, dark circles under her eyes. Marcus, usually stoic, confessed he’d seen the crib’s wood grain shift, forming faces. But they were scared to move Noah, thinking the crib was cursed. ‘If we move him, it might follow him,’ Clara said.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. One afternoon, while Clara was napping and Marcus was at work, I went to the nursery with a hammer and a can of gasoline. I was determined to chop the crib to pieces. But as I raised the hammer, the room grew cold. The mobile spun violently, and I heard a baby’s cry—not Noah’s, but Elsie’s, coming from the crib itself.

‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ a voice pleaded, cloying and sweet. It was a child’s voice, but laced with malice. ‘I’m just a little girl. I want my mommy.’ I froze, my arm trembling. ‘You’re not Elsie,’ I said. ‘You’re a demon.’ The cry turned into a horrible laugh, and the crib’s wood warped, bulging outward like a throat.

I swung the hammer, but the wood splintered, and a black smoke surged out, enveloping me. I felt a terrible pressure in my head, and I heard my own voice, but twisted: ‘Get out, Marta. You’re not welcome here.’ I stumbled back, dropping the hammer, and ran out of the room.

I called Marcus and begged him to come home. When he arrived, we told Clara everything. She broke down, finally agreeing to let us get rid of the crib. But when we went to the nursery, Noah was gone. The crib stood empty, its wood blackened and smoking, as if it had burned from within. A faint, mocking coo echoed from the empty room.

We searched the house, but Noah was nowhere. The police were called, and they treated it as a kidnapping, but we knew the truth. The demon had taken him, maybe into the void it came from. Clara was catatonic, and Marcus was inconsolable. A week later, we found Noah’s body in the attic, not a mark on him. But his face was frozen in a terror that no infant should ever wear.

The crib was eventually burned, as the priest had advised. But I still hear that cooing at night, in my own home, echoing in my mind. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I know demons exist. And they love to whisper their victims’ names from the wood they inhabit.