The evening light slipped through the blinds in Kathy Carter’s nursery, brushing the room in soft orange hues. She sat in the antique rocking chair, one hand on her belly, the other resting on the armrest worn smooth by years of use. Her grandmother had given her the chair, insisting it would bring comfort during sleepless nights with the baby.
Just then, the cradle across the room caught her eye. She had found it recently in a roadside antique shop, for its intricate carvings of roses had caught her eye despite of the worn out paint and creaky joints.
As the house settled into the quiet of the night, Kathy leaned back, savouring the stillness. And she heard what sounded like a faint creak. However, it wasn’t from the chair she was sitting in; instead, it came from the cradle. She froze and gripped the armrest, turning her head towards the cradle, not expecting in her farthest imaginations that the cradle would be swinging.
It was perfectly still.
“You’re imagining things,” she said to herself, shaking her head as if to shake away the thoughts.
Yet the sound lingered in her mind as she left the room.
The First Signs
The cradle’s quirks seemed harmless at first: it rocked gently in the dead of night without anyone having touched it. A faint smell of lavender often lingered despite Kathy keeping no flowers in the house.
“You’re overthinking it,” David said one morning, brushing crumbs off his tie before heading to work. Her husband, ever the sceptic, dismissed her concerns.
Nevertheless, Kathy’s younger sister, Taylor, found it all fascinating. In a very playful tone, she exclaimed, “That’s how every good ghost story starts. I bet there’s some spooky backstory to this cradle as well.”
That night, Taylor joined Kathy in the nursery, flashlight in hand. They crouched by the cradle, peering underneath it for anything unusual. Kathy’s fingers brushed against something: it was a hidden compartment.
With Taylor holding the flashlight steady, Kathy pried it open and found a folded yellowed piece of paper inside. The inked handwriting was jagged, almost frantic.
“To whomever inherits this cradle, beware. It houses the Silent Child. Love it, and you’ll be cursed; abandon it, and you’ll be hunted. Its name must never be spoken.”
Taylor let out a nervous laugh. “Okay, that’s… seriously creepy.”
Kathy didn’t reply, for she was too focused on the sudden chill in the room. Their flashlight flickered, and the cradle groaned loudly, tipping on its side before slamming against the wall.
Then, a faint, echoing laugh filled the air.
The Darkness Unfolds
The next few days were a waking nightmare for the family. Kathy began hearing faint whispers that were more like a child’s lullaby. She heard them whenever she walked past the nursery. Shadows moved unnaturally and stretched along the walls in ways that defied logic.
Even David, the ever-practical guy, finally admitted something felt wrong when he saw a small handprint pressed against the fogged mirror in their bathroom. There was no child at home.
Desperate for answers, Taylor suggested they visit Father Hall, a retired priest known for his knowledge of cursed objects.
The priest examined the cradle in the dim light of the church’s cellar, and with each passing moment, his expression grew graver. “This is no ordinary artefact,” he said, focusing on the carvings. “The Silent Child is a parasite. Think of it this way: it binds itself to objects of love—like this cradle—and feeds on its owner’s devotion. The more you care, the stronger it becomes.”
Kathy was shaken, “How do we stop it?”
“You must sever your bond with it as soon as possible”, Father Hall replied. “Burn it, destroy it—anything to break the connection. But beware, the creature will fight to survive, and its wrath will be unlike anything you’ve faced.”
The Confrontation
That night, Kathy, David, and Taylor prepared to destroy the cradle. It was raining cats and dogs while they dragged it into the backyard and soaked it in gasoline.
Kathy took the first step: she lit a matchstick and steadily approached the cradle, which began to rock violently. A piercing wail then tore through the air, and the three saw a childlike figure emerge from the dark. Although it had a vague form, they could clearly see its hollow eyes glowing with malice.
“Mama,” it hissed, its voice sharp and grating. “Don’t leave me.”
Kathy froze; her whole being began to shiver; a strange warmth filled her chest, and it felt almost like a maternal instinct to her to comfort the thing, despite the terror it brought.
Taylor screamed, “Kathy, don’t listen to it!”
The entity lunged, stretching its shadowy limbs toward her. And that is when Taylor stepped forward and threw the match onto the cradle;
Flames erupted; the entity shrieked as the fire consumed it.
For a moment, the ground beneath them seemed to shudder, and the windows in the house all shattered. The rain had stopped, and the air thickened with the stench of burning wood and something far fouler. David grabbed Kathy and Taylor and dragged them to safety as the cradle was reduced to ash.
The Aftermath
Months later, life returned to normal—or as close to normal as it could. Kathy gave birth to a healthy baby girl, and their new home was warm, bright, and untouched by shadows.
She had kept the book gifted by Father Hall on a shelf in the nursery: it had details of all the dangerous artefacts that Kathy had decided to learn about so that she could warn others.
One afternoon, talking to her baby, she whispered, “Trust your instincts, my child. If something doesn’t feel right, don’t ignore it, for some things just aren’t worth the risk.”
As her baby cooed softly, Kathy glanced at the sunlight pouring through the window, feeling grateful for the peace she had fought so hard to reclaim.
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