Aisha awoke to the sound of whispers. Not the soft murmurs of wind against the windows, nor the faint rustling of the trees outside, but something closer—something inside the room. Her heart pounded as she turned toward the crib where her daughter, Mira, lay sleeping. The whispers slithered through the darkness, surrounding her, taunting her.

She reached for the lamp beside her bed, but before she could turn it on, a cold hand brushed against her cheek. Aisha jerked away, gasping, her breath hitching in her throat. The room was empty.

He was here again.

It had started weeks ago—the feeling of being watched, the strange noises in the night, the unsettling dreams of a shadowed figure standing at the foot of her bed. At first, she told herself it was stress. Her husband, Ryan, had gone missing three months ago, and the police had no leads. Aisha had searched tirelessly, but all she had were unanswered questions and sleepless nights.

But then, Mira started crying at odd hours, her terrified wails piercing the silence. Objects moved on their own. Doors locked without explanation. And then, last night, Aisha had woken to Mira’s crib empty.

She had found her in the basement, curled in a corner, whispering to someone who wasn’t there.

Tonight was worse.

She felt the air shift, the temperature plummeting. The whispers grew louder, swirling around her like a vicious wind. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Leave us alone!" she whispered.

A deep, guttural chuckle echoed in response. And then—silence.

She forced herself to breathe, reaching for her phone. The screen flickered, and then a message appeared:

You’re running out of time.

Her blood turned to ice. A picture followed—a dark image, grainy, almost impossible to decipher. But she recognized it instantly. Ryan. He was bound, eyes wide with terror, his mouth open in a silent scream. Behind him, a figure loomed, its face a blur of shadows.

She covered her mouth to stifle the sob that rose in her throat. He was alive. But for how long?

The house groaned, the floorboards creaking under unseen footsteps. Aisha grabbed a knife from the bedside table. She would not be helpless. Not again. Taking a deep breath, she moved toward the door, careful not to wake Mira.

The hallway stretched before her, darker than usual, as if the shadows themselves had deepened, thickened. A low hum vibrated in the air. She stepped forward, feeling the weight of something unseen pressing against her chest.

The basement. That was where she had found Mira last time. That was where the presence felt strongest. Clutching the knife, she made her way down the stairs, each step groaning beneath her weight. As she reached the bottom, the single bulb above flickered, casting eerie, shifting shadows across the walls.

And then, she saw him.

Ryan was slumped in a chair, his wrists bound, his breathing shallow. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of her gasp. "Aisha—no. Run."

A hand shot out from the darkness, slamming the door shut behind her. The bulb above burst, plunging them into blackness. The whispering started again, closer this time, wrapping around her like an icy fog.

"You came for him," the voice murmured, its tone almost playful. "How touching. But do you really think you can take him back?"

Aisha swallowed the fear clawing at her throat. "What do you want?"

A low chuckle. "A trade. Him… for your daughter."

Rage burned through her. "Never."

The air trembled. Something cold brushed against her neck. "Then you’ll watch them both disappear."

Aisha’s mind raced. She had to think. This thing—it thrived on fear, on submission. She tightened her grip on the knife, forcing herself to steady her breathing. "You don’t want her. You want me."

A pause. The air thickened. "You would give yourself?"

"I would."

Ryan groaned. "No, Aisha, don’t—"

"Silence!" The voice roared, shaking the walls. A pair of eyes emerged from the darkness—hollow, endless voids. "Come then. Give yourself freely."

Aisha exhaled sharply. She had a plan. Slowly, she stepped forward, pretending to surrender. The shadows swirled around her, eager, hungry. And then—she struck. The knife plunged into the darkness, and the entity shrieked, recoiling. The room shuddered violently.

She lunged toward Ryan, slicing through the ropes. "Run!" she screamed.

The door burst open as they bolted up the stairs. Behind them, the basement howled like a wounded beast, the very walls trembling. They reached Mira’s room just in time. She was floating, her tiny body suspended mid-air, eyes closed.

"No!" Aisha grabbed her daughter, pulling her back to her chest.

A final, ear-splitting screech filled the house. The walls cracked. The presence howled, its fury ripping through the air.

And then, silence.

They were free.

Or so she thought.

Days later, Aisha sat in the hospital beside Ryan’s bed, watching him sleep, Mira curled in her arms. The nightmare was over. The entity was gone.

But that night, as she put Mira to bed, she noticed something. A shadow, flickering just beyond the crib. A whisper, curling around her ears like smoke.

You thought you won.

Aisha’s blood ran cold as the voice purred one final promise:

I never left.