A gentle home, so calm, so neat,
A nursery soft with pastel sheet.
A baby sleeping, calm and deep,
While parents watched through screens and sleep.
They’d set a monitor by his bed,
To hear his breaths, each coo, each thread.
At midnight’s peak, when all seemed right,
A whisper stirred the still of night.
The mother woke — she heard it plain,
A voice — though soft — it spoke her name.
“Come closer now,” it sweetly hummed,
“Your baby cries — the storm has come.”
Her heart turned ice, she looked, she froze,
The monitor’s screen in static glows.
But through that haze, she swore she saw,
A shadow move — a shape with jaw.
Not her child — too tall, too lean,
Its smile stretched wide, its eyes obscene.
She screamed for him, her husband ran,
But silence met the trembling man.
The crib was still, the baby fine,
No trace of voice, no hint, no sign.
They checked the feed, rewound the tape,
And saw that figure’s twisted shape.
It leaned and whispered to the child,
Its movements slow, unnervingly wild.
Then vanished when the mother came,
As if it knew — and spoke her name.
Next night they moved, they never stayed,
That cursed device was thrown away.
Yet sometimes now, when nights are long,
They swear they hear that same soft song:
“Come closer now, the storm has come…”
And all goes still — no sound, no hum.