Every Morning, My Eight-Year-Old Said Her Bed Felt “Too Small.” When I Checked the Camera One Night, I Finally Understood Why.

I don’t know what I expected to find.

Scratches. Stains. Something.

The mattress looked fine—until I lifted it.

Underneath, carved into the wooden slats of the bed frame, were shallow grooves.

Long, curved grooves.

Like finger marks.

Five of them.

On each side.

I dropped the mattress and staggered back.

That night, I moved Lily’s bed into my room.

She slept like a rock.

I slept with one eye open, watching the doorway.

Nothing happened.

For three nights.

By the fourth night, Lily asked if she could sleep in her room again.

“It’s not there when you are,” she said matter-of-factly.

That sent a fresh wave of cold through me.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She hesitated. “It only comes when I’m alone.”

I told her no. I said we’d figure something else out. I said she could sleep with me forever if she wanted.

She nodded—but she didn’t look relieved.

She looked worried.

For me.

On the fifth night, I woke up to a sound.

A soft creak.

Not from Lily’s room.

From mine.

I lay frozen, staring at the ceiling.

The mattress beside me dipped.

Slowly.

Carefully.

As if something was learning.

Learning how much space it needed.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t move.

I just listened.

To the sound of b