25/03/2025
The Baby Cries at 3:00 AM – Part 1
Amaka had always wanted a place of her own. After years of noisy roommates and family interruptions, she finally found a cozy one-bedroom apartment at the edge of town. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers. A quiet space to rebuild her life after a painful breakup.
The apartment had its quirks—creaky wooden floors, an old-fashioned kitchen—but she didn’t mind. She felt safe there, as if the walls held a quiet promise of peace.
The first few nights were blissfully uneventful. After work, she curled up with a warm mug of tea, enjoying the stillness. For the first time in years, there was no one to argue with, no drama to unravel. Just her and the sound of the distant city hum.
But on the eighth night, everything changed.
At exactly 3:00 AM, Amaka woke up abruptly. The room was silent except for the soft ticking of the clock on her wall. Confused, she turned over and tried to go back to sleep—until she heard it.
A faint, distant cry.
It was soft, fragile—like a baby’s whimper. At first, she brushed it off. Babies cry all the time. Maybe her neighbor had a newborn. But the sound was strange… distant, yet somehow too close.
The next night, it happened again. 3:00 AM. Like clockwork.
This time, she listened carefully, trying to trace the source. The crying didn’t seem to come from the hallway or the apartment next door. It was faint, but it felt as though it was somewhere inside her apartment.
By the third night, the sound had grown louder. It wasn’t just a distant wail anymore—it was a plea, filled with a sorrow that clung to the air. It echoed through her bones long after the crying faded.
The following morning, she asked her landlord about it.
“No one in this building has a baby,” he said, without even looking at her. “You must be hearing things.”
His answer sent a cold shiver through her. She tried to shrug it off. Maybe the sound was coming from outside the building. Maybe it was nothing.
But deep down, she felt the creeping sense that something wasn’t right.
That night, she stayed awake—waiting. At exactly 3:00 AM, the crying returned, louder and more desperate. Her curiosity overpowered her fear. She had to know where it was coming from.
She walked through her darkened apartment, the floor cold beneath her bare feet. The sound didn’t seem to come from the walls or the front door. She knelt on the floor and pressed her ear against it.
Her breath hitched.
The crying… was coming from beneath the floorboards.
A chill spread through her body as she pulled back the old rug near the bed. Her fingers trembled as they traced the edge of a loose floorboard. It was slightly out of place, as if someone had pried it open before.
Taking a deep breath, she wedged her fingers beneath the edge and lifted it.
The smell of cold earth wafted up. Underneath the floorboard was something unexpected—an old, rusted handle. A trapdoor, hidden beneath her bedroom floor.
Amaka’s heart pounded as she knelt beside it. She shouldn’t open it—every instinct told her to walk away. But the crying hadn’t stopped. It echoed through the small opening, softer but more insistent, as if something—someone—was waiting for her.
With shaking hands, she grasped the handle and pulled.
The trapdoor groaned open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.
The crying grew louder.
Amaka hesitated, her body frozen at the edge. Somewhere deep below, something called to her.
And she couldn’t stop herself from answering.
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What happens when Amaka goes down the stairs? Will she find the source of the crying—or something far worse?
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