I don’t talk about this much. Mainly because I don’t even understand what happened myself. But it’s been four years, and I still think about it every day.

It started after we moved into the old house outside of town — the kind of place with warped wood floors, cold drafts even in summer, and light switches that clicked but did nothing. I was pregnant when we moved in, so I blamed the unease I felt on hormones and exhaustion. My husband laughed it off.

Our daughter, Isla, was born healthy. Perfect. But things started… shifting.

At first, it was small. Her mobile would spin on its own. The baby monitor picked up soft humming at night — not lullabies, not anything I recognized. Just low, wordless tones. Sometimes it sounded… almost like two voices in harmony.

When Isla turned one, she started waving to someone in the corner of her room. Always the same corner. Always with that quiet little smile. I chalked it up to imagination — or a reflection. Babies see things, right?

But one night I found her standing in her crib, humming.

The same melody I’d heard for months. Exactly.

She couldn’t even say “mama” yet.

That same week, we started finding small handprints on the inside of the hallway mirror. Much smaller than hers. When I tried to clean it, the prints wouldn’t wipe away. Not even with cleaner. My husband insisted I was being dramatic, that maybe I had touched it without realizing.

One night I left the monitor on while I took a shower. When I came back, I heard whispering coming from her room. It wasn’t her voice. I rushed in.

She was asleep. But the mobile above her head was spinning fast — faster than it should’ve been able to — and the room felt ice cold.

We moved out six weeks later.

I’ve never told Isla. She doesn’t remember that house. But sometimes, when she’s playing quietly by herself, I still catch her humming that tune.

I’ve never heard it anywhere else. Not in a movie. Not on a toy.

And I still hear it sometimes in my dreams.