From the day the baby was brought into the house, the black dog named Mực became the unwavering guardian of the room. At first, Sơn and his wife thought it was a good sign: a dog protecting the baby and guarding the door. But after only three nights, that peace was broken.

On the fourth night, at just 2:13 a.m., Mực stood up with all four firm legs, his hair standing on end, and groaned into the cradle at the side of the bed. He didn’t bark, he didn’t attack: he just moaned, a long, hoarse sound, as if something was stopping him from using his voice from the darkness.

Sơn turned on the light and came over to calm him down. The baby slept peacefully, barely moving his lips as if he were breastfeeding, without crying. But Mực did not take his eyes off the space under the bed. He slid to the ground, supported his paws, stuck his head into the dusty darkness, and groaned. Sơn knelt down, used the flashlight of his cell phone and saw only boxes with objects, some spare diapers, and a thick shadow like bottomless dark water.

On the fifth night, the same thing happened at 2:13. On the sixth night, Hân, Sơn’s wife, was startled to hear a sound like fingernails scratching the wood: “I ret… ret…”, slow and deliberate. “Perhaps a rat,” Hân said, though his voice trembled. Sơn brought the crib close to the closet and set a trap in a corner. Still, Mực kept looking under the bed, emitting short moans as the baby moved.

On the seventh night, Sơn decided not to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off; only the light from the corridor dimly illuminated the room. He prepared his cell phone to record.

• At 1:58 a.m., a wind struck from the half-open window, bringing the damp smell of the garden.
• At 2:10, the house quietly shut down.
• At 2:13, Mực got up. He didn’t moan immediately: first he looked at Sơn, brought his muzzle to his hand as if asking for attention. Then he slid forward, stealthily, and directed his thigh into the space under the bed. There the moan broke out: deep, prolonged, as if blocking something that longed to crawl out.

Sơn raised the light of his cell phone. In the blink of an eye, he saw movement. It wasn’t a mouse. A hand—pale, dirty with dirt—bent like a spider’s leg. His pulse froze; He turned off the light as his hand trembled. He took a step back and crashed into the closet. Hân woke up, asking in fright. And the baby… He was still sleeping peacefully, breathing well, with milk on his lips.

Sang protective shadow, Sơn picked up the boy, hid him behind his body, and picked up an old baseball bat. Mực lunged under the bed. Their moans turned into barks, accompanied by scratches. From the darkness came a “soat” sound like something stiff moving, then silence. The lights flickered. Something crept backwards, long and swift, leaving a black furrow of dust.

Hân sobbed as he shouted for the police to be called. Sơn’s hands trembled as he scored. In less than ten minutes two officers arrived. One leaned over, turned on his flashlight, and pushed the boxes aside. Mực kept watch by the bedside, grunting, preventing anyone from approaching the crib.

“Be calm, brothers,” the officer said in a calm voice. “Let’s check…”
But under the bed there was nothing. Only dust removed with circular markings. The officer frowned, directed his light into a crack in the wall near the head of the bed: a piece of cut wood, large enough for a hand to pass through. He hit him: it was hollow.

“There’s a hidden space here,” he said. “Have any repairs been made to this house?”

Sön denied. At that moment the baby moaned. Simultaneously, Mực’s eyes flashed, he turned quickly and groaned again towards the slit in the wall…

The young officer, named Dũng, called for reinforcements. While they waited, he removed the board from the wall. Behind him he discovered a black hole like a cave throat, damp and smelling of a mixture of rancid milk and talcum powder. Mực was pulling Sơn back with his strength, growling. Hân held the baby, feeling his heart pound. Dũng explained what his flashlight revealed:

“Is anyone there?” he asked. Silence. But when his beam crossed space, everyone saw tiny baby objects — a pacifier, a plastic spoon, a crumpled rag — and dozens of count-marks scraped off the wood, like a spider’s web of memories.

When the backup team arrived, they inserted a small camera and removed a dirty bundle of cloth. Inside they found a thick, old and trembling notebook, with feminine writing:

“Day 1: He’s sleeping here. I hear his breathing.”
“Day 7: The dog knows. He watches, but does not attack.”
“Day 19: I must remain silent. I just want to touch her cheek, hear her scream up close. Don’t wake anyone up.”

The entries were short, delirious, written in the dark.

“Who lived here before?” an officer asked. Sön replied in a subdued voice: three months ago they bought the house from an elderly couple who lived with a girl. The woman said at the time: “The place made her uneasy, she didn’t talk much.” They did not give it importance at that time.

The camera revealed even more: the gap continued inside the wall as a narrow passage. In one corner was a makeshift “nest”—a thin blanket, a pillowcase, empty cans of milk. On the ground, a new striped inscription:

“Day 27: 2:13. Her breathing harder.”

2:13 — Time to feed the baby. It was as if someone was watching her routine from inside the house.

“This is not a ghost,” Dũng muttered sadly. “It’s a person.” Upon further investigation, they found chains of forced windows and dirty footprints on the rear roof. Someone had come and gone until very recently.

At dawn, Dũng recommended, “Lock the room tonight. Leave the dog inside with us. We’ll see if he comes back.”

That night, at 2:13 a.m., the cloth covering the crack moved. A thin hand appeared, dirty. Then a pale face emerged: sunken eyes, matted hair, cracked lips. But what was most striking was his gaze fixed on the crib, as if he were thirsty to see…

The whisper returned:

“Shhh… Don’t wake her up… I just want to watch.”

It was the young woman—Vy, the niece of the former owners. She had lost her baby at the end of her pregnancy, fell into a deep depression, and somehow returned to that house. For nearly a month she lived hidden in the walls, clinging to the sound of another baby’s breathing as her only link to reality.

The officers gently persuaded her. Before leaving, Vy looked at the crib and whispered:

“Shhh…”

The hollow spaces were sealed and a new floor was installed. Sơn and Hân placed chambers, but the true guardian remained Mực. He no longer moaned at 2:13, but lay down by the crib, sometimes purring softly, as if to say, “I’m here.”

A month later, at the vaccination hospital, Hân saw Vy outside: neat, her hair neat, with a cloth doll in her hand, smiling shyly as she spoke to Officer Dũng. Hân did not approach. She just rested her cheek on her baby, thanking her steady breathing, and the dog who felt what no one else had the courage to face: sometimes monsters under the bed aren’t evil… only desperately alone.

The hollow spaces were sealed and a new floor was installed. Sơn and Hân placed chambers, but the true guardian remained Mực. He was no longer growling at 2:13. He would just lie down next to the crib, sometimes snoring softly, as if to say
, “I’m here.”

A month later, at the hospital where the baby was being taken for vaccination, Hân saw Vy outside: clean, her hair neatly tied up, holding a rag doll, smiling faintly as she spoke to Officer Dũng. Hân did not come close. She just pressed her cheek against her baby’s, grateful for the constant sound of her breathing and for the dog who had felt what no one else dared to face:

Sometimes monsters under the bed aren’t evil… they are only sadness that no longer has anywhere to go.