The first time Emily wandered out of bed in the middle of the night, Sean thought it was kind of cute. She padded into the kitchen barefoot, opened the fridge, and stared inside for a full minute before shuffling back to bed.
But within a few months, the “quirk” had turned into something darker. What used to happen once a week was now every single night. She’d vanish sometime after midnight and sometimes wouldn’t return until the first light of dawn. The morning she stumbled through the front door at six a.m., hair damp with dew, shoes muddy, Sean realized he didn’t even know where his wife was spending half her nights.
The doctors all said the same thing: stress, trauma, unresolved emotional grief. And Sean knew what they were talking about—everyone did. Six months after their son was born, Emily had put him down for a nap and covered him with a blanket. Somehow, the blanket had ended up pressed over his face. By the time she checked on him, he was gone.
Sean never blamed her out loud. They’d both carried the weight, both sat in silence during the funeral, both stopped talking to friends. But he could feel the guilt living in her like a second heartbeat.
Still, trauma didn’t explain everything.
Two weeks ago, he’d woken to find her side of the bed empty. By habit, he checked the front door—wide open. When she finally returned at sunrise, she collapsed into bed without a word. Later that morning, while she was in the shower, Sean noticed faint swelling on her inner thighs. Not the kind of thing you get from walking around in your sleep.
That thought had stayed with him, buzzing in the back of his head.
On Tuesday afternoon, Emily mentioned her friend Cara had connected her with a “spiritual healer” named Mr. Wong. According to him, their home wasn’t just unlucky—it was haunted by the angry spirit of their dead child.
Sean had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. “You believe that?”
Her face was pale but determined. “At this point, I have to try. He says if the spirit moves on, I might finally get my life back. He’s already on his way over.”
When the doorbell rang, Emily hurried to answer it. She returned with a lean man in his thirties, dressed in black from collar to shoes. His gaze swept the living room without so much as a nod in Sean’s direction.
“Not right,” Wong said, voice low.
“What’s not right?” Sean asked.
“Your house. The energy here—it’s… angry.”
Before Sean could reply, Wong raised a finger for silence and started up the stairs. Emily followed close behind, clutching her arms. Sean trailed them reluctantly until Wong stopped in front of the baby’s old room.
The door had been closed for months.
Wong rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood.
“No one’s in there,” Sean said flatly.
“I know,” Wong replied. “But something is.”
Sean opened his mouth to argue—then froze as the bedroom light clicked on, flooding the crack under the door with pale yellow.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He’d never told anyone, but that room still smelled faintly of baby powder.
Emily gasped and stepped back, her eyes shining with sudden tears. “You saw that, right?” she whispered.
Sean swallowed. He wanted to say it was a trick. He wanted to insist there had to be another explanation. But for the first time in years, he didn’t know what to believe.
