The Strange Sounds
It started as a quiet, ordinary afternoon.
Edduin, my three-year-old son, was in his room, having just been put down for his afternoon nap. The house was calm, the hum of the refrigerator and the soft whirr of the ceiling fan the only sounds breaking the silence.
I went about my usual routine, tidying up the living room and folding laundry. The peace was exactly what I needed. Life had been hectic lately with work, errands, and everything in between, and I cherished these quiet moments when I could relax.
But then, I heard it.
At first, I thought it was the sound of Edduin talking to himself, maybe making up a little game in his crib. But as I listened more closely, I realized that the sound wasn’t coming from him at all. It was laughter. Soft giggles, like someone was in the room with him.
A cold shiver ran down my spine as I froze, standing still in the middle of the hallway. The laughter continued, innocent and playful, but it didn’t make sense. No one else was supposed to be here. The only other person who lived with us was my husband, Mark, and he was out running errands.
I set down the laundry basket in my hands and walked slowly toward Edduin’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and as I approached, I heard the giggling again. It was faint, like a whisper, but unmistakable. My heart began to race as I threw the door open, expecting to find someone inside.
But there was no one.
Edduin lay in his crib, staring up at me with wide, innocent eyes. He didn’t appear scared or disturbed—just curious, like he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. The room was quiet again, and the only sound was the soft rustling of the baby blanket as it moved with his slow, steady breathing. I felt a wave of relief, but also confusion.
I stepped inside the room, looking around. The closet was empty. The bathroom door was closed, and when I opened it, there was nothing. I even checked under the bed, half-expecting to find some explanation, but there was none.
“Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me,” I muttered to myself. “It’s been a long week.”
I tried to calm myself down, convincing myself that the giggling had been a figment of my imagination. But as I left the room and closed the door behind me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
Part 2: The Repetition
Days went by, and I tried to push the incident out of my mind. Work was overwhelming, and I didn’t have time to dwell on odd noises. But then it happened again.
This time, it was clearer. Edduin had been asleep for about twenty minutes, and I was making dinner in the kitchen when I heard it again—the soft, giggling sound. It was coming from his room. It was faint but distinct, like a child’s laughter.
My pulse quickened as I wiped my hands on a dish towel and walked toward his room. The door was shut this time, but as I reached for the handle, I heard the giggle again—closer this time, as if someone was whispering in his ear.
I opened the door quickly, my breath shallow, but once again, I found Edduin alone in his crib, staring up at me with those wide, innocent eyes. The room was silent, save for the gentle hum of the air conditioning.
I looked around the room, my eyes darting from corner to corner. No one was there. No one was even hiding. I stepped inside again, checking the closet, the bathroom, under the crib, and even behind the curtains. I couldn’t find a single person. My heart raced with unease. The house was empty, and Edduin was just as calm as before.
But I couldn’t ignore the fact that the laughter was real.
I tried to tell myself it was just my imagination. Maybe it was stress, maybe the house settling, but deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. That night, as I lay in bed, the sound of Edduin giggling echoed in my mind. I couldn’t escape it.
Part 3: The Baby Monitor
The giggles continued every afternoon. At first, I tried to ignore them, telling myself they were just random noises I was misinterpreting. But then I began to worry. Was Edduin seeing something I couldn’t? Was he playing with an imaginary friend?
I couldn’t just let it go anymore. I needed answers. So I did what any modern parent might do: I decided to install a baby monitor. Not just any baby monitor, though—one with Wi-Fi capabilities so I could keep an eye on him even when I wasn’t in the room.
It wasn’t about not trusting my son; it was about peace of mind. If there was something going on, I wanted to see it for myself.
The monitor arrived a few days later. It was a sleek, high-tech camera that I could set up in his room, and it promised to provide clear audio and video. I set it up quickly, positioning it in the corner of his room to get a full view of his crib and the rest of the room.
That afternoon, after I put Edduin down for his nap, I opened the app on my phone and waited.
At first, nothing happened. I sat in the living room, my mind racing with all sorts of possibilities. Was I being paranoid? Were these just random noises? But then, just ten minutes after I turned on the camera, something caught my eye.
Movement.
The camera showed Edduin, lying perfectly still in his crib, but the room seemed different. There was something in the corner of the screen—a flicker, a shape. At first, I thought it was a glitch, but then the figure became clearer. There was something—or rather, someone—standing at the foot of his crib.
My stomach dropped.
I jumped up from the couch and rushed to his room. My mind was racing, my heart pounding as I prayed that I was just overreacting. But when I threw open the door, the room was empty. Edduin was still in his crib, lying exactly the same way he had been when I left him.
I looked around, scanning every inch of the room. No one. No movement. Just the usual stillness of the room.
The monitor, though, was still showing that odd flicker. It wasn’t a glitch, not at all. My hand trembled as I stared at the screen.
The image didn’t lie. Something or someone—had been in that room.