The Unattended Crawl

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when I decided to tidy up the cluttered corners of my apartment. The building was quiet, bathed in the amber glow of a sun that seemed to hang still in the sky. I hummed a tune as I dusted the bookshelf, but soon an odd sensation prickled my neck: the feeling of being watched. I turned, expecting to see my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Pemberton, shuffling past my open door, but there was only the narrow hallway, empty and silent. I shrugged it off and continued my chores.

After finishing, I leaned against my windowsill, gazing at the row of townhouses across the street. My attention was drawn to the Donahue family’s house, where a new baby girl named Lily had recently arrived. She was a tiny, adorable thing with tufts of copper hair and eyes that seemed to absorb the light. As I watched, I realized the usual sounds of infant cooing or the chatter of the young parents were absent. No laughter, no footsteps, just a profound stillness that made the air feel heavier.

Then I saw it—a small, pale hand emerging from the partially open front door of the Donahue house, followed by the chubby body of little Lily, crawling onto the porch. Her diaper sagged, and she looked around with a puzzled expression. My heart lurched. The porch had a steep set of steps leading down to a concrete path. I threw the window open and called out to the house, desperate to alert Lily’s mother or the maid. My shouts echoed unanswered. Panic clawed at my throat.

I bolted down the stairs, nearly tripping over the cat that had materialized at my feet. My own mother, Marie, was in the entryway, sorting mail. I grabbed her arm, babbling about the baby about to tumble down the steps. Without a word, she sprinted out the front door, and I followed closely, my pulse roaring in my ears. But when I reached the wrought-iron gate of our building, I froze. Something held me back—an inexplicable dread that made my legs refuse to move. I watched as my mother crossed the street and reached the Donahue porch just in time to scoop up the baby, who had nearly reached the edge of the top step.

Relief washed over me for a second, but then my mother’s face contorted with fury. She cradled the baby and stomped back toward our building, her steps heavy with anger. I turned and rushed back inside, not wanting to face her wrath. In our apartment, I heard the door slam and then her voice, sharp and accusing: ‘Did you see her? Did you see that thing crawl out?’ I was confused, expecting a lecture about why I hadn’t gone over myself.

She thrust the baby into my arms and pointed at the Donahue house. ‘That is not a real baby. Look at her hands, her feet—they’re too perfect, like porcelain. And there is no one inside. I knocked, I called, and the house is empty. Yet this… thing… was crawling like a live child.’ I looked down at the baby in my arms. She smiled up at me, revealing tiny, needle-like teeth that I had never noticed before. Her eyes, which I had thought were innocent, now seemed to hold a knowing, mocking glint.

A cold chill ran down my spine. I tried to set her down, but her grip tightened around my arm with unnatural strength. My mother stepped back, her face pale. The baby giggled, a sound that didn’t reach her eyes, and then she spoke in a voice far too deep for an infant: ‘You left me out there to starve. But it’s okay. I know where you live now.’

I dropped the baby, and she landed gracefully on her feet, standing upright like a tiny, horrid doll. She toddled to the door, looked back at us with a wicked grin, and then vanished through the crack, leaving us in a silence that felt louder than any scream. That night, we heard faint scratching on our door, and in the dawn light, we found tiny, hand-shaped burn marks on the wood—a warning. And perversely, from that day on, we never left our windows open, and we never dared to look at the Donahue house again, for we knew that something had been birthed there, something that craved the warmth of care but thrived on the fear it inspired.