The Night Visitor of Ward 4

The fluorescent lights of Ward 4 buzzed like a trapped fly, casting a sterile glow on the pale green walls. My daughter, Mira, was only eight months old when the rotavirus hit her. Three days of fever, vomiting, and diarrhea had left her limp as a rag doll, her tiny chest heaving with each breath. The doctors said it was a stubborn strain, and we had been here for six nights already. On the seventh day, the fever broke. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she started babbling again, a sound I had missed more than I’d admit.

That evening, the nurse said we could go home in the morning. I was exhausted, running on fumes and stale vending machine coffee. I tried to coax Mira to sleep, humming a lullaby my mother used to sing. But she was restless, squirming in my arms, her little face scrunched in frustration. I switched off the main light, leaving only the soft glow of the night lamp by the window. The shadows pooled in the corners like spilled ink.

After a few minutes of futile rocking, I set her down on the bed, hoping she would settle herself. She lay there, staring at the door, which was slightly ajar. Then, she sat up and waved. A slow, deliberate wave, her chubby fingers opening and closing. My blood went cold. ‘Mira, who are you waving at?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper. She turned to me with a grin that seemed too wide for her face, then pointed at the door and clapped her tiny hands.

I followed her gaze. The hallway outside was dim, but I could see the nurses’ station at the far end, a silhouette hunched over a computer. No one else. No one. Yet Mira started giggling, a high-pitched, merry sound that echoed in the room. Her eyes tracked something moving from the door toward the foot of the bed, stopping right beside me. I felt a sudden drop in temperature, as if a window had opened. A smell of ozone and old dust filled the air.

I scooped Mira into my arms, my heart pounding against my ribs. ‘Stop it, Mira. Stop it now.’ But she wouldn’t. She kept laughing, reaching out to grab at something only she could see. I clutched her so tight she started to whimper. But then her laughter turned to a low, guttural imitation of a giggle, like a record slowing down. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and she went stiff.

I screamed. The nurse rushed in, flicked on the main light, and the moment the fluorescent bulbs buzzed to life, Mira blinked and relaxed. Her pupils returned to normal, and she looked at me as if nothing had happened. She smiled, a sweet, innocent smile, and pointed at the door again. ‘Bye-bye,’ she said, her first word. The nurse checked her vitals and shrugged, saying it was probably a dream.

But I knew better. That was the first time. Over the next few weeks, Mira would often wave and chat with ‘Freddy,’ an invisible friend. She would describe him as tall, with a long coat and a hat, always smelling like rain. She told me he had ‘shiny eyes’ and that he liked to sit on the windowsill. I tried to dismiss it as childhood imagination, but one night, while Mira was sleeping, I saw a thin, dark silhouette pass by the nursery window, three floors up. When I ran to the window, nothing was there, but the glass was frosted on the inside, despite the warm evening.

I searched the house from top to bottom, found nothing. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that ‘Freddy’ was still there, lurking in the corners of my vision. Now, when I look at Mira, I see her eyes sometimes dart to the corner of the ceiling, as if watching something. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear a soft, childish giggle from her room, echoing down the hallway, a sound that makes my skin crawl. I haven’t told anyone, because who would believe me? That my baby girl has a friend named Freddy, and he’s always watching, always waiting for the light to go out.