E C H O

Rachel pressed the bottle cap down until it clicked, over and over, her thumb worrying at the torn edge of the label. Tom had fallen asleep beside her, one arm slung off the mattress like he’d been dropped there. The monitor on the nightstand crackled faintly.

White noise.

She liked it. Said it reminded her of her childhood.

They’d picked it up at a thrift shop a week before Lily was born. Analog. No Wi-Fi. Just a speaker, a dial, and a low hum. "No cameras watching her," Rachel said. "Just us."

The first night was perfect. Lily slept. The monitor whispered and popped like an old record.

Then, the crying started.

It wasn’t Lily. Rachel knew the sound of her daughter’s cry: the pitch, the stuttered rhythm. This was deeper. Desperate. A wet, choking sob.

She rushed to the nursery.

Lily slept, face turned toward the wall, breathing in slow puffs. The monitor still hissed behind her, innocent.

Tom said it was interference. A neighbor’s device. Static on a dying signal.

They lived a quarter mile from their nearest neighbor.

The next night, another cry. Different baby. Same monitor.

Then a night of gurgling.

Another night: soft whimpers ending in a violent snap.

Rachel started recording them on her phone. Cataloguing. Comparing. Listening on loop with earbuds, slow motioning the deaths. She began tracking the time codes, labeling them by cry style. Some were stuttered. Some breathless. One sounded like it came from under water.

Tom stopped sleeping. He said he dreamt about cribs filled with water. Floors that opened up. He saw Lily vanish into a dark square in the floor and woke screaming. He didn’t say the dreams were always in black and white. But every night, the dreams got longer. And every morning, he was quieter.

Rachel started wondering if the monitor was bleeding into her dreams too. She’d wake with her arms already reaching for it, or with the sound of breathing in her ear, too close and too wet. One morning she caught herself whispering “Shhh, it’s okay,” into her pillow before she was even fully awake.

Rachel tried to sleep with one hand on the monitor. One night she swore it was warm, like a hand had just pulled away from it.

One night, after the crying stopped, a whisper came through the monitor.

Liam.

Rachel froze. She replayed it. The whisper was real.

Next night: Sophia.

She searched the name. Found a local obituary. Infant. Crib death. The timestamp matched the day after she heard the whisper.

She didn’t show Tom. She didn’t want him to hear how calm the whispers were. Like announcements.

Two nights later, the monitor whispered: Lily.

Rachel couldn’t move. Her whole body rang like glass.

She lunged into the nursery. Lily was crying, arms flailing—but alive. Rachel wept like she hadn’t since giving birth. Tom sat in the hall, staring at nothing, repeating the name. “Lily. Lily. Lily.”

They unplugged the monitor. Tom smashed it in the garage, then dumped the remains in the trash bin. That night, they slept.

Silence.

And then

Crackling.

Rachel bolted upright. The monitor sat on the nightstand again.

Plugged in.

Tom stared at it like it had grown there. His hands trembling under the blanket.

From the speaker:

A baby gasping.

Strangled, panicked breathing.

Then a whisper:

Lily.

Then:

Now.

They ran. The nursery door was open. Curtains fluttered. Crib empty.

Rachel screamed so hard her throat tore. She grabbed the sides of the crib like she could shake Lily back into existence. Tom turned slowly, as if knowing what he’d see would break him forever.

From the monitor: thump.

Then: snap.

Then: static.

She grabbed Tom’s phone to call 911. His screen was blank. Only one file remained.

“LISTENING”

She tapped it.

The voice spoke, flat, dispatch-like:

> "Termination complete. Next: Nathaniel. 6:02 a.m."

Rachel didn’t speak. She turned to the window.

The nursery faced east.

Sunrise would be in twenty-three minutes.

Behind her, the monitor clicked. A new file appeared.

"Preparing next echo."

Rachel picked up the monitor. It felt warm. She held it to her ear.

Static.

Then a new sound, not a baby. A heartbeat.

Slow. Wet. Then another whisper: Rachel.

Her hand shook. Tom whispered behind her, "I think... I think it knows who's next."

She didn’t answer. The monitor clicked again. A new folder blinked onto the phone.

"RECORDING NOW."

Rachel placed the monitor back on the stand, turned toward the window, and closed her eyes.

Tomorrow had already been decided. She just hadn’t heard her name yet.

Behind her, the monitor whispered again, soft, steady, almost kind.

Recording now.

Rachel didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to.

Whatever was coming next had already started.