The Crooked Lullaby

May 1, 2026

by Osborne

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (557 words)

"At fourteen, I woke to a weight on my chest that wasn’t mine. My room was a cramped attic in my aunt’s Victorian house, its slanted ceiling pressing down on me like a coffin lid. The night before, I’d listened to the radiators clank and hiss, a sound like old bones grinding. Now, in the […]"

At fourteen, I woke to a weight on my chest that wasn’t mine. My room was a cramped attic in my aunt’s Victorian house, its slanted ceiling pressing down on me like a coffin lid. The night before, I’d listened to the radiators clank and hiss, a sound like old bones grinding. Now, in the gray pre-dawn, a voice cut through the silence, thin and childlike, right by my ear. ‘Hello, Lily May.’ I tried to turn toward it, but my body was a stone. Only my eyes could move, darting to the corner where a shadow seemed to breathe. The voice came again, closer, ‘Hello, Lily May,’ and with it, a faint, sweet smell, like rotting apples. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against the walls of my chest, but I couldn’t even twitch. I strained, my muscles screaming, and managed to slide my hand a millimeter across the sheet before it snapped back, as if held by an invisible rubber band. The voice hummed a lullaby I didn’t recognize, off-key and wrong, like a music box that’s been dropped. Then the world went white, brilliant and blinding. When my vision cleared, a figure stood at the foot of my bed, facing away. It wore a tattered nightgown, and from its head hung a single strand of hair, thick and dark, slick with something that dripped to the floor with a soft, wet sound. That strand began to sway, back and forth, as if stirred by a breeze from nowhere. The voice, now a whisper, repeated, ‘Hello, Lily May.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, it was morning. My sheets were soaked, and my heart felt like it had been bruised.

A month later, it happened again. I woke not to a weight, but to a void. I was floating, a few inches above my mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Then a face descended into my view, ancient and decayed, its skin like stretched parchment, its eyes milky and filmed. It opened its mouth, and instead of breath, it released a sound, not words but a guttural, rhythmic chant, ‘Ba du awww, ba du awww,’ over and over, its jaw moving in a way that bones shouldn’t. I tried to speak, to tell it to leave, but my vocal cords were frozen. Slowly, I managed to push air past my lips, a hoarse, desperate plea, ‘Go away.’ The thing tilted its head, a sickening crack, and its song grew louder, more insistent, ‘BA DU AWWW, BA DU AWWW.’ I forced my eyes closed, and in the blackness, I felt its cold, dry fingers brush my forehead. A jolt of terror shot through me, and I screamed, or tried to, but it came out as a choked whisper. The chant seemed to echo around me, bouncing off the walls of my skull. Then, as suddenly as it began, the weight of my body returned, and I crashed back onto the mattress, gasping. I lay there, shaking, for what felt like hours, listening to the radiators clank, but now they seemed to keep time with that awful song. I never slept in that room again, but sometimes, in the quiet hours, I swear I can still hear it, faint and far away, ‘Ba du awww…’

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