Living alone allows me to walk around naked, shit with the door open, leave dirty dishes in the sink, and masturbate with impunity. It’s the best arrangement I’ve ever had, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

But it makes things so much creepier when I hear people in the next room.

I was almost asleep when the crying started.

We’re good at convincing ourselves that the nighttime sounds we hear are natural creaks and sighs of a house settling. It would be impossible to sleep otherwise; think about that next time you’re drifting off in the dark.

It was quiet at first, so I told myself to ignore it.

Then it got louder, and I convinced myself that my mind was playing tricks on me. I pressed my ear firmly against the pillow until I could hear the thrumming of my own pulse. The room has to be pitch black when I sleep, so I had almost complete sensory deprivation.

Except for the sobbing. As the noise grew louder, it became harder and harder to pretend it was a natural sound.

My bedroom is adjacent to the living room. They share a wall.

The noise was emanating from my living room. I could tell, even from a distance, that something was on the couch.

I prayed for sleep, but my heart rate accelerated too quickly for that to be possible. Instead, I wrapped the pillow around my head in an attempt to drown out the noise. It worked.

Until it didn’t.

The sobs were now loud enough for me to tell that it was a baby crying. Wailing. Its little lungs were at full volume as it screeched on my living room couch.

I wished I hadn’t left my phone charging in the living room, on the table right next to the couch.

I wiped my tears on the pillow at told myself that it would go away if I could just fall asleep. It would either be a dream, or – if this were real – it could simply disappear if I didn’t hear it. We all believe that night monsters can’t reach us if we’re safe under the covers, and I was grasping at the same logic.

But I couldn’t fall asleep.

The baby in my living room was just too loud.

I had no other choice. The infant was between me and my front door, computer, and phone. I live on the second floor and can’t climb out the window.

And I live alone.

I had to confront the baby.

The delirious part of my mind wondered if I would have to attack something that awaited me in the dark, but it didn’t matter. I have no weapons, and I wouldn’t know how even to attempt overpowering someone.

So I pulled back the covers and stepped out of bed. My hands shook. I tried to keep my breaths as quiet as possible, which just left me gasping.

I resolved not to turn on any lights, because I didn’t want any potential attackers to know where I was.

So I moved through the dark.

I’m not a brave person. But slinking through my apartment in the middle of the night, knowing that I was going to find a stranger, was no great feat of overcoming fear.

I was simply too terrified to stay in bed.

I blinked tears away as I tried to fight back the vomit. My instincts simultaneously told me not to move forward and not to stay still as I pulled open my bedroom door and looked into the darkness beyond.

The crying was much louder with the door open, but I still couldn’t see anything. I considered crumpling into a ball and sobbing myself, but was too scared of being watched by someone who might be in my living room.

I thought about running out the front door and into the night. Even without a phone, car keys, or a plan, I still embraced the thought of sprinting into the freezing dark wearing nothing other than the shirt that I sleep in.

But I would have had to pass the baby in the dark. It was too much.

The tears streamed down my face as I clapped a hand over my mouth in an attempt to keep myself quiet. I stepped forward at the apex of each scream, resting one bare foot on the wooden floor at a time, hoping to make no noise.

Step by step, I moved through the pitch black living room.

I had no choice. Whoever was in here with me would almost certainly be watching as I moved through the center of the room. I felt them looking at me as I slinked closer to the baby, closer to the door. There were eyes on all sides, I was sure of it.

My entire body shook as I realized the truth: I had to turn on the lights. They knew where I was. I had to know what was happening.

A sob slipped from my lips as I leaned over the couch in the darkness, the baby’s crying just beneath me. I prayed that I would wake up, or that turning out the lights would make everything magically disappear.

I found the switch and hesitated for a moment, knowing that I couldn’t go back once I saw what was waiting for me.

I didn’t want to do this.

Then I forced myself to flip the switch.

The room came into view all at once. An unfamiliar newborn, wrapped in swaddling clothes, shook on the couch just three feet away from me. My stomach dropped at the sight; it was somehow more terrifying that I could have imagined. It was just so out of place. I didn’t want to touch it. I wanted the thing gone.

It screamed as though it could hear my thoughts.

The nausea spiked, putting me on the precipice of vomit, as I stepped backward. My legs felt like they were made of thick, gooey concrete. All I knew was that I couldn’t touch the baby. The thought sickened me too much.

After staring, frozen, for several seconds, my mind finally jump-started:

My phone.

I shot my focus to the table where I’d left it charging. I grabbed it with a shaking hand.

It was dead. My jaw fell as I realized that part of the cord was still plugged into the device; the last few inches had been cut off.

Someone didn’t want me to call for help.

My eyes shot up to the corner of the room, right next to the front door. It was the farthest point from my lamp, and still partially obscured in darkness, particularly near the drapes. I stared at it.

There was a shadow. It was the size and shape of a tall man.

It moved when I looked at it.

That’s when I turned and sprinted back into my bedroom. The door has no lock, so all I could do was jump back under the covers, body shaking as I sobbed, and wait.

I stayed there until morning. It was the worst night of my life.

At one point, I heard by bedroom door squeak. The heavy breathing may or may not have been my own; when you’re that tied up inside your own mind, hiding in the dark and quiet, it becomes impossible to tell what dreams are made of.

I finally dared to peek one eye over the blanket when sunlight had filled the space.

I was alone.

No noise came from the living room.

I wiped my eyes and nose before pulling the blanket away and emerging a second time. I was exhausted beyond words as I approached the door; I don’t know if I’d slept, but if I did, dreams had intertwined so thoroughly with reality that I couldn’t tell the difference.

I opened the door. It creaked.

No one was in my living room. The couch was empty.

A sob of relief escaped my lips.

Then it stopped.

Something had been left for me on the cushion. It looked like a note and a photo.

I didn’t want to pick them up, but the thought of leaving them terrified me more. I walked toward them and reached out with a trembling hand.

I picked up the photo.

Of me.

And a baby, along with a man and woman I couldn’t recognize.

I was about five years old. I’ve seen enough pictures of myself as a child to be certain that it wasn’t anyone else.

I flipped it over and saw writing on the back.

“Xavier and Tricia, along with Miriam (five years old) and Charlie (one), 9/13/2002, celebrating their daughter’s birthday”

My mouth went dry.

I’m Miriam. September 13th is my birthday.

But Xavier and Tricia aren’t my parents.

I placed the photo back on the couch, because I didn’t have the strength to hold it anymore. I grabbed the note and blinked away tears as I read it:

“It’s easier than you realize to take a child, to make her forget, and to destroy lives. The only reason you grew up without fear is because you didn’t realize how close to danger you’ve always been, and because you don’t want to believe that you’ll never be safe.”

BD

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