When Sơn and Hân brought their newborn home, their loyal black dog, Mực, never left the baby’s side. At first, his constant guarding felt heartwarming—until he began growling at 2:13 a.m. every night, fixated on the space under the crib.
What started as a harmless routine turned terrifying when Sơn saw a pale, dirt-stained hand slip beneath the bed. Police were called, uncovering a hidden cavity inside the wall filled with baby items, tally marks, and a chilling diary:
“Day 7: The dog knows. It stands guard, but doesn’t bite.”
“Day 27: 2:13. Breath strongest.”
The truth unraveled—a woman had been living inside the walls, drawn to the sound of their baby breathing. She was Vy, the niece of the home’s previous owners, who had lost her own child and spiraled into grief.
After her rescue, Vy was taken for treatment. Mực, the silent protector, still lies by the crib each night—proof that sometimes, what we fear in the dark is not evil, but grief searching for warmth.
