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For a moment, nothing. Then, a sound like wet breathing, and a small, distant voice—not from the nursery, but from somewhere inside his own speakers—whispered, "Five more minutes, mister. You said five more minutes."
The video glitched. For a single frame, the camera swung around to face its own lens. And staring directly into the feed, as if he had always been there, was a small boy with empty eyes and a perfect, dark handprint pressed against the glass from the inside .
The page loaded slowly, like a confession. The video feed was grainy, black and white, with a flickering timestamp: 2024-12-18 – 02:17:44 . The title bar simply read: WEBCAM 5 – NURSERY WING B . intitle webcam 5
Leo slammed the laptop shut. The room was silent. Then, from the hallway behind him, came a soft, rhythmic sound.
The angle was wrong. It was mounted high in a corner, looking down at a child's bed. But the bed was empty. The sheets were a tangled mess, frozen mid-crumple as if someone had just thrown them off. For a moment, nothing
Leo leaned closer to his monitor. The room was still, save for a single detail.
A small handprint. It was on the wall, just beside the door. It wasn't drawn in paint or crayon. It was dark, almost liquid, and it was slowly, very slowly, sliding down the plaster, leaving a fresh streak behind it. For a single frame, the camera swung around
The handprint was gone. But now, the door was slightly open. A sliver of darkness, where before it had been shut tight.