Then, on the tenth night, at exactly 2:00 a.m., my phone buzzed.
Motion detected – Lily’s room.
Half asleep, I opened the feed.
There she was—curled on her side, breathing softly.
Still.
Quiet.
Normal.
Then the mattress moved.
Just slightly.
Like something underneath had shifted.
I froze.
Because there was nothing under that bed.
No storage. No boxes. Just hardwood floor.
But I kept watching.
And then—
It moved again.
A slow push upward, right beneath her back.
The blanket lifted ever so slightly.
My heart started pounding.
I ran.
By the time I reached her door, the movement had stopped.
The room was silent.
Lily slept peacefully.
Too peacefully.
I stepped closer, my pulse loud in my ears, and slowly lifted the edge of the mattress.
At first… nothing.
Then I felt it.
Something hard.
Cold.
Not part of the bed.
I pulled Lily out of the room and carried her to the living room before going back.
This time, I lifted the mattress completely.
And that’s when I saw it.
A thin metal mechanism—compact, deliberate—wedged between the wooden slats and the mattress.
Wires.
A small motor.
And something else.
A tiny blinking light.
I didn’t touch anything.
I called the police.