The Hollow Crib

Mara was a light sleeper, but not even the soft hum of the refrigerator could lull her into a deep slumber. It was 2:00 AM, and she knelt beside the bed, her knees pressed into the cold wooden floor, whispering the familiar words of her nightly prayer. Her husband, Dan, lay motionless under the covers, his breathing steady and deep. The apartment was silent except for the faint rustle of leaves outside their third-floor window. No TV, no radio, no glowing screens. Just stillness.

Then, a sound broke the quiet: a giggle. High-pitched, childlike, and impossibly close—right beside her ear. It was joined by another, a second laugh, slightly deeper, like a boy of seven or eight. They giggled in tandem, a duet of mischief and joy, as if they were sharing a private joke just inches from her head. Mara froze, her breath caught in her throat. She finished her prayer hastily, her lips moving faster than her heart, then snapped her eyes open.

Nothing. The room was empty. The laughter had vanished, leaving only the oppressive silence. She turned to Dan, shaking his shoulder.

‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered, her voice trembling.

He stirred groggily, rubbing his eyes. ‘Hear what?’

‘Laughter. Children laughing. Right next to my ear.’

Dan frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. ‘I didn’t hear anything. You’re probably just tired. Come to bed.’

Mara hesitated, but the warm weight of his hand on her arm coaxed her into the sheets. She lay awake for a long time, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, but the sound did not return. Eventually, sleep claimed her.

At 6:00 AM, the sharp buzz of her phone jolted her awake. A text from her mother: ‘Please call me.’ The message was short, but the urgency was palpable. Mara dialed the number, her heart already racing. Her mother answered on the first ring, her voice high and excited.

‘Oh, Mara! Something incredible happened! Your father—just a few minutes ago—he was in the nursery, you know, the one we’ve been preparing for your brother’s baby? And he heard it too! Children laughing, clear as day, right in his ear! But here’s the thing: we haven’t even told anyone about that room. It’s been locked for years, ever since the last occupant moved out. And it’s soundproofed.’

Mara’s blood ran cold. She remembered the nursery in her parents’ old house—a small, windowless room at the end of the hallway, always kept shut. She had never been inside, and as a child, she had avoided it, fearing the locked door.

‘Wait,’ she said, her voice thin. ‘What do you mean? I thought you were repainting it for Uncle Todd’s baby.’

‘We were,’ her mother said, lowering her voice. ‘But we found something. Under the floorboards, there was a small box. Inside was a set of old toys—a wooden horse, a tin whistle, and a photograph of two children we don’t recognize. And on the back of the photo, someone had written: ‘They left the hollow crib.”

Mara felt a shiver trace her spine. The laughter she had heard—it wasn’t just in her apartment. It was connected to her parents’ house, to a room that had been sealed for decades. But how?

She decided to investigate. Once Dan left for work, she drove to her parents’ house, trying to rationalize. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe her mother was exaggerating. But as she pulled into the driveway, she saw her father standing in the doorway, his face pale, holding the box.

‘It’s just a coincidence,’ she told herself. But when she stepped inside, she heard it again—the faint, muffled laughter, drifting from the direction of the nursery. It was coming from behind the door.

She walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing. The door was ajar. She pushed it open. The room was empty except for a crib in the corner, draped in a white dust sheet. The box sat on a small table, the toys laid out beside it. And in the crib—she could see it clearly now—was a gaping hole, as if the floor had been removed, revealing a dark void beneath.

The laughter grew louder, bouncing off the walls. It was not playful anymore; it was mocking, almost triumphant. And then, a cold draft swept past her, extinguishing the single overhead light. In the darkness, she heard a child’s voice, clear and cold:

‘Come play with us. We’ve been waiting.’

Mara turned to run, but the door slammed shut. The laughter merged into a single, piercing shriek that seemed to come from everywhere at once. She screamed, and then silence.

When her parents found her an hour later, she was sitting in the corner, clutching the photograph. She had stopped laughing, and when they asked her what happened, she pointed to the crib. ‘They’re still here,’ she said, her voice hollow. ‘They’re in the hollow crib. And they want me to be their mother.’

Her parents exchanged glances, uncertain. But Mara knew. The children didn’t laugh anymore. They were silent, waiting for her to answer. And she knew that if she didn’t, they would never stop calling.