No one noticed the sound at first.
It always began the same way—
a soft, broken whimper, like someone trying not to cry.
At exactly 12:17 a.m.
Angelina pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, staring at the ceiling of her room. The fan above her creaked as it spun, pushing warm air around the dark. She told herself it was just the wind. Or a stray cat. Or her imagination doing what it always did at night.
But the sound came again.
"Mm… help…"
Her breath caught.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't close.
Yet it felt like it was inside the house.
Angelina slowly sat up, her heart thudding. The whimper drifted through the hallway—weak, trembling, and filled with fear. It sounded like a girl, no older than her.
She glanced at the clock on her bedside table.
12:17 a.m.
Her throat went dry.
That's when she remembered what her grandmother used to say:
"If you hear a girl crying after midnight…
don't answer her."
The whimper stopped.
The silence that followed was worse.
Then—
knock… knock…
Not on the door.
On her wardrobe.