She smiled so big her cheeks could break. Her little hands clasped around her baby sister like she practiced in her fantasies. The yellow blanket contrasted with her red suspenders, but she didn’t care.
I watched from the hospital bed, fatigued, stitched, hormone-high, and afraid. My firstborn, Lina, was an only child for four hectic years. Every night, she kissed my tummy. Every morning, she wondered, “Is she here yet?”
Now she was. I thought—we’re OK.
Lina then leaned in. Nearly brushing her sister’s nose. Near-whispered voice.
She responded, “Now I have someone to keep the secrets with.”
I blinked. “Secrets?”
She nods. Still beaming. “Like the ones I don’t tell Dad.”
Before I could inquire what she meant, she glanced up with her large brown eyes and said, “It’s okay. She won’t say either.”
Something tightened. I kind of laughed. “Well, babies can’t talk yet,” I answered carelessly. “But what kind of secrets?”
Her response was delayed. Hopped from the chair after kissing her sister’s forehead. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Can I have a cookie?”
Could have been nothing. A strange child thing. Lina was creative. She imagined a dragon called Toffee and thought clouds were God’s pillows. She stated it in a manner that raised questions in my mind.
I didn’t talk to James that night. His workload was already high with Lina, myself, and the baby. No need for odd child whispering.
Our daughter Elsie arrived two days later. Lina made the ideal older sister. She brought diapers, sung lullabies, and reprimanded her toy giraffe for being too noisy while the baby dozed.
However, she never referenced “secrets” again. No time soon.
Up to two months later. Lina played with her dollhouse in the living room on a wet Tuesday. While breastfeeding Elsie on the sofa, half-asleep, I heard her chatting.
No, we don’t tell Daddy. So goes the rule.”
Her back to me, dolls in each hand, she spoke firmly.
“Why not tell Daddy?” Sitting up, I asked.
She turned swiftly. Too quick. Like I caught her doing something wrong. “Nothing! Doll stuff.”
I said, “Hmm,” casually. “You have many doll rules.”
“They have to follow them,” she remarked, leaving for her chamber.
I told James that night after the girls were sleeping.
“She keeps saying about not telling you things,” I added, dropping my voice.
He frowned. “Like what?”
“No idea. ‘Secrets.’ And Elsie would keep them, she insisted. Today, she warned her dolls not to tell you.”
James laughed. The girl is four. She probably meant ‘I had an extra cookie’ or ‘I didn’t clean my teeth.’”
“Yes,” I answered. “Probably.”
It still seemed wrong.
A week later, I heard her talking to Elsie. They lay on a backyard blanket. Watering the hydrangeas. I approached, pretending to examine the plants, and she said, “Remember, if Daddy asks, we say the monster only comes when he’s not home.”
My heart stopped.
Walking over, I said, “Lina.” “What monster?”
She stared at me, surprised again. Just a pretense. For our game.”
“You said it only happens when Daddy’s away.”
“Yeah. Those are our heroic days. We fight.”
Sitting alongside her, I tried to be cool. “What does this monster look like?”
She shrugged. “Tall. Shadowy. No face. It sometimes bangs windows. Sometimes it hides in the kitchen.”
Forced a grin. “Quite an imagination.”
“Elsie sees it too,” she replied, caressing her sister’s belly.
I scarcely slept that night. James worked two evenings a week at a call center. Did for years. As I lay awake, I replayed every whisper Lina uttered.
I asked subtle inquiries. Not pushy. Just “Hey sweetie, do you ever hear weird noises when Daddy’s gone?” “What games do you and Elsie play when Mommy showers?”
She responded with stuff like talking lights and flying socks. Other times, she was silent. Or switch topics.
I installed a hallway baby monitor with night vision and motion sensors. James believed I was overprotective.
Maybe I was.
But three nights later, I saw something.
Around 11 p.m. She was fussing, so I watched the monitor for her to relax. The corridor was dark. All doors closed. I saw Lina.
She stood outside our bedroom. Wearing nightgown. Watching the door.
She didn’t knock. Stayed put.
Just stood. Nearly 10 minutes.
She turned around and returned to her room.
Next morning, I inquired whether she had a nasty dream.
“Nope,” she answered, eating cereal.
“Did you visit our room last night?”
Shaking her head. Stayed in bed.”
I knew what I saw.
Her room was examined that night. To feel in control. A folded paper was all I discovered beneath her pillow.
It was drawn. It was crude crayon lines, but I knew.
Black, tall. No face. Behind what looked like our kitchen table.
Next to it—two little people. Lina prefers red suspenders, one yellow.
Under, in weak letters: “Don’t let him take her.”
Blood chilled.
I showed James that night. His face paled. “This is messed up.”
“She calls it a game. This was drawn by her.”
He said, “We should talk to someone.” A child psychologist. She may be envious or stressed.”
I agreed. We scheduled a session next week.
We never arrived.
Because Lina vanished three days later.
It was Sunday morning. I made pancakes. Elsie’s diaper was changed by James. We had spotted Lina dancing with her stuffed duck in the corridor fifteen minutes earlier.
Then… quiet.
No steps. No buzzing. Voiceless.
The residence was searched. Every room. Every closet. Every crawlspace. Front door locked. Backyard gate closed.
Panic ensued.
Police were summoned.
The neighborhood was searched. Dogs, drones, etc.
Nothing.
James unlocked it four hours later, shortly before authorities came to demolish our garden shed.
There she was.
Sitting on the floor, hugging Elsie.
Elsie.
We didn’t notice she left.
Legs buckled. Crying, I fell onto the grass.
James rushed inside with both females.
I sat by Lina on her bed once she calmed down.
“Why, sweetheart?” I asked, holding still. What made you take Elsie? Why’d you hide?
She seemed serious at me. “The monster announced his arrival. I concealed her. He offered to take her if I didn’t.
My hands shook.
Did someone enter the house? I whispered.
Shaking her head. “He doesn’t need doors.”
I had no idea what to believe.
We took her to a specialist that week. A psychologist talked to her for two hours.
He sat us down and said, “She’s bright. Highly creative. But there are indicators of anxiousness, perhaps trauma.”
“Trauma?” James concurred. “From what?”
The therapist paused. Has anybody mistreated her? Or scared her? Anyone close to family?”
Both shook their heads.
“She’s fixated on this ‘monster,’” she said. “She thinks she’s protecting her sister. A youngster her age has a lot of responsibility.”
No sleep that night. Neither did James.
Lina and I drove the following morning. Her and me alone.
We got ice cream. Sat in park. Laughed. As she finished her cone, I whispered quietly, “Sweetheart, this monster…” anybody you know look like him?
She glanced down.
Is someone real?
A lengthy pause. She said, “He smells like Daddy.”
I blinked. “What?”
He looks unlike Dad. Sometimes he sounds like him. When Dad shouts at the TV or slams the door.”
Holding breath. Had Daddy ever terrified you?
She nods. “Only when you’re away.”
I challenged James that night.
He collapsed.
Explained everything.
He began drinking throughout my late pregnancy. One or two beers. But enough that he lost his fury when I was at my sister’s or slept early.
Yell at Lina. Attack her. He grasped her wrist too firmly when she spilled liquid on the carpet.
“She never told me,” he cried. “I doubted she remembered.”
She remembered. She recalled everything.
She transformed him into a monster with her afraid and confused thinking.
James left that night.
He began treatment. As did Lina.
Over time, things improved slowly and painfully.
Lina stopped whispering to Elsie. Done sketching faceless dudes. Laughed again.
Every Saturday, she and James have supervised visits. He’s clean six months.
Several months later, I tucked her in.
She glanced at me and said, “I don’t need to keep secrets anymore.”
At once, my heart shattered and mended.
Sometimes the monsters aren’t beneath the bed. We find them in loved ones.
People may change. Most of all, children need a household without secrets.
If this story moved you, share it. Someone may be hidden behind a child’s whisper.