The Nursery Monitor
My breathing stopped. The digital glow of the monitor cast a pale green light over my trembling hand, still resting against the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest beside me.
I turned my head, inch by agonizing inch, toward the pillows. The familiar silhouette of Mark—my husband—lay there, his face buried in the crook of his arm, half-asleep.
If Mark is in bed with me… who is in the nursery?
My eyes darted back to the small screen. The figure in the rocking chair was still there. He had Mark’s broad shoulders, his dark hair, even the same worn flannel shirt he’d worn to dinner. He swayed back and forth, holding our baby girl, Lily, close to his chest. But as I watched, the rhythmic rocking began to change. It wasn’t a soothing sway anymore; it was frantic, jerky.
“Mark,” I choked out, violently shaking the shoulder of the man in bed. “Mark, wake up. Now.”
He groaned, rubbing his eyes and rolling over. “What? Is Lily crying?”
“Look.” I shoved the monitor into his hands.
Mark squinted at the bright screen, his sleep-fogged brain taking a second to process the image. I watched the blood drain from his face as the terrifying reality hit him. He was looking at himself.
“What the…” he breathed, tossing the blankets aside.
On the screen, the figure abruptly stopped rocking. Slowly, the imposter raised his head. Even through the grainy green night-vision, I could see his eyes—they were pitch black, completely devoid of light. He stared directly into the camera lens, and the corners of his mouth stretched into a wide, unnatural smile.
Then, he raised a single, long finger to his lips. Shh.
Mark didn’t hesitate. He bolted from the room, grabbing the heavy brass flashlight we kept on the nightstand. I was right on his heels, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The short hallway felt endlessly long, the few feet to the nursery stretching into miles.
Mark kicked the door open, the beam of the flashlight slicing through the dark.
“Hey!” he yelled, stepping inside, ready to swing.
I peered around his shoulder, dreading what we’d find.
The rocking chair was completely still. The room was empty.
I rushed to the crib, throwing my hands in to feel for Lily. She was there. Safe, warm, and sound asleep, a tiny smile playing on her lips. I scooped her up, pressing her against my chest, tears of relief and terror spilling over my cheeks.
“He’s gone,” Mark whispered, frantically sweeping the closet and under the crib with the flashlight. “The window is locked from the inside. How did he get out?”
I didn’t have an answer. Shaking, I looked down at the monitor I had carried with me. The screen was still on, still connected to the camera feed.
But the view had changed. It was no longer showing the nursery. It was panning across our bedroom. And sitting on the edge of our unmade bed, staring right into the lens, was the man in the flannel shirt—waiting for us to come back.
