One night while I was babysitting my sister’s infant son, something happened that still gives me chills whenever I think about it. It had been a quiet evening—I’d fed the baby, rocked him to sleep, and placed him gently in his crib by 9 p.m. The house was silent, dimly lit, and peaceful. I settled into the couch with a blanket and the baby monitor beside me, ready to relax until my sister returned home. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everything remained calm—until 3 a.m., when the baby monitor suddenly came to life.

At first, I assumed the baby had stirred, maybe crying or making the usual sleepy noises. But when I checked the screen, he was still fast asleep, peaceful and still. That’s when I heard it. A voice, low and chilling, whispered through the monitor: “He’s not okay.” My blood instantly ran cold. I sat there frozen for a moment, unsure if I had imagined it, or if someone had somehow tapped into the device. My hands were trembling as I grabbed my phone and called my sister. I didn’t even finish my sentence before she cut me off, panic rising in her voice. “Get my son and flee to the car! Lock the doors and call 911!” she shouted. Her fear was contagious. She went on to explain that she had been hearing strange noises coming from the monitor over the past few days, but had convinced herself it was just interference or maybe the baby fussing in his sleep.

But now she was certain—something was wrong. As she spoke, I turned my head toward the window in my nephew’s room. That’s when I saw it. A shadow moved just outside, slow and deliberate. My heart stopped. I slowly approached the window and noticed that the latch was undone—the window was open. That window had been locked when I put the baby down for the night. We always made sure it stayed closed, especially with the crib so close to it. The fear became real in that moment. I didn’t wait for anything else to happen. I rushed over to the crib, picked up my nephew as gently but quickly as I could, and ran straight out the door with him in my arms.

I got to the car, locked the doors, and called 911 while trying to keep my voice steady. I stayed in the locked car, engine running, holding the baby and watching the house from the rearview mirror until the police arrived minutes later. When they showed up, they searched the entire property, yard, and surrounding area. They looked for signs of forced entry, footprints, any evidence that someone had been there.

But they found nothing. No suspect, no damage, nothing that could explain the open window or the shadow I saw. Later that morning, one of the officers told us that the baby monitor model we were using had received complaints about “strange noises.” Apparently, it wasn’t uncommon for certain baby monitors to pick up signals from radios, walkie-talkies, or even other nearby monitors. That could’ve explained the voice. But it didn’t explain the shadow. It didn’t explain the open window. After that night, we immediately replaced the monitor with a more secure, encrypted version. Ever since, there haven’t been any more strange noises. No more whispers. No more shadows. But the memory still haunts me. I know what I heard. I know what I saw. That wasn’t just faulty technology or a weird coincidence. Something—or someone—was outside that window, watching. To this day, I can’t shake the feeling that if I hadn’t acted as quickly as I did, the outcome could have been very different. That night changed the way I look at little things we often dismiss—a noise, a shadow, a window left slightly ajar. Because sometimes, what we think is nothing can turn out to be something terrifying.