My Baby Laughs at the Corner of the Room Every Night at 3 A.M.

The pediatrician says it’s normal—my mother says it’s not

By Anees Ul Ameen

My son learned how to laugh before he learned how to crawl.

At first, I thought it was a blessing. New parents cling to small miracles when sleep disappears and fear creeps in through exhaustion. Aarav was only six months old when his laughter filled our apartment for the first time—high, joyful, innocent.

But there was something strange about it.

He never laughed at us.

The first night it happened, my wife Lina nudged me awake. “Do you hear that?”

I listened.

Aarav was laughing through the baby monitor.

Soft. Delighted.

I checked the screen.

He wasn’t looking at his mobile toys. Not at the ceiling fan. Not at the nightlight.

His eyes were fixed on the far corner of the room.

The darkest corner.

“Babies smile at shadows,” I said, forcing calm into my voice.

But Lina didn’t answer.

She was staring at the monitor, her face pale.

“He’s… reaching out,” she whispered.

On the screen, our son lifted his tiny hand, fingers curling as if something was holding them back.

It became routine.

Every night at exactly 3:00 a.m., Aarav woke up laughing.

Same corner. Same joyful sound.

Same reaching hand.

We asked the pediatrician. He smiled reassuringly.

“Babies imagine things,” he said. “Their brains are developing. Nothing to worry about.”

I wanted to believe him.

Lina didn’t.

“She’s back,” Lina said one night.

“Who?”

“My grandmother.”

I laughed softly. “She passed away years ago.”

Lina didn’t smile. “She used to stand in corners when she watched children sleep. She said it kept them safe.”

That night, I barely slept.

Things escalated.

Aarav started babbling words too clear for his age.

“Maa… da… ta-ta.”

Then one night, something else.

“Again.”

Clear as day.

I froze beside the crib.

“Again,” he giggled, eyes fixed on the corner.

“Please,” Lina whispered. “Please stop.”

The temperature in the room dropped suddenly.

The baby monitor flickered.

For just one second, the corner wasn’t empty.

It looked… deeper.

Like space folding inward.

I blinked.

It was gone.

The next morning, Lina found handprints on the crib.

Not Aarav’s.

They were too large.

Too long.

We moved Aarav into our bedroom.

The laughter followed.

Same time.

Same corner—now beside our wardrobe.

Same reaching hands.

Same joy.

One night, Lina broke down crying. “She wants him.”

I snapped. “Stop it. You’re scaring yourself.”

But deep down, fear had already rooted itself inside me.

At 3:00 a.m. the following night, Aarav didn’t laugh.

He screamed.

High-pitched. Terrified.

I grabbed him from the crib.

His eyes weren’t on the corner anymore.

They were on me.

“She’s mad,” he said softly.

My blood turned to ice.

Babies don’t say sentences.

The lights flickered.

The air grew heavy.

The corner darkened, stretching unnaturally.

A whisper filled the room—not loud, but intimate.

You weren’t watching.

I held Aarav tighter.

“I am now,” I whispered. “Please.”

The darkness receded.

The room returned to normal.

Aarav fell asleep instantly.

The laughter never returned.

Aarav grew normally after that. Happy. Healthy.

We moved houses.

Years passed.

We never spoke about that time again.

Last night, I woke up at 3:00 a.m.

Our house was silent.

Too silent.

Then I heard it.

Laughter.

Not a baby’s.

A child’s.

Coming from the hallway corner.

And a familiar voice whispered— sgsgszghzhyrwwettE

He’s grown now.

— Written by Anees Ul Ameen

Author’s Note: sdgsdgsdfsdfgsgf Szhzdhtqqwdsgffghdzxbvgtywvb awSg

This story was written with the assistance of AI and carefully edited, revised, and finalized by Anees Ul Ameen.