This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/longnosedhare on 2024-10-25 09:10:04+00:00.
I’m not sure if I remember bringing Lily home anymore.
That first day was like a dream—a beautiful, blurry haze of exhaustion and love. I cradled her in my arms as Ben opened the front door, and we stepped into a life we had only imagined for so long. The house, which had always seemed a little too big, felt perfect now, like every corner had been waiting for her. We placed her in the crib we’d painted together, pale blue with little white clouds floating across the walls, and just stared. Our daughter. Our family.
But something wasn’t right, even then. I didn’t notice it at first, too lost in the chaos of diapers and sleepless nights, but looking back, the signs were there. Subtle, creeping in like shadows you don’t see until they’re right next to you. Sometimes the nursery felt... off. The crib wouldn’t be quite where I left it. The rocking chair would seem to have shifted a few inches from where it was the night before. I blamed it on exhaustion, on the constant fog of new parenthood.
Then Ben gets the call.
It’s late afternoon, the sky outside a soft gray, and Lily is asleep in my arms. Ben’s in the kitchen, talking to the hospital, his voice casual at first. Then it changes. Lowers. I hear him say, “That can’t be right.” My heart stutters, and I hold Lily closer, her little body warm and solid against me.
When he walks into the living room, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“They’re saying there’s no record of Lily’s birth,” he says, his voice shaky. “No birth certificate, no medical files... nothing.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me it’s a joke, but he doesn’t. The room feels colder, smaller, like the walls are closing in. I can still feel the pain of labor, still remember the bright lights of the hospital room, the nurses’ faces, the moment I first heard Lily’s cry. She’s here, isn’t she? I can feel her breathing against my chest, her tiny fist curled around the fabric of my shirt.
But there’s no record. No proof she was ever born.
We spend the next few days trying to make sense of it. I call the hospital, again and again, but the answer is always the same. “There’s no file for Emily Carter. No record of a birth. Are you sure you were at our facility?” They ask, as if it’s a mistake I’m making. As if I could forget giving birth.
And then the paperwork disappears. The discharge forms, the birth certificate application we had on the kitchen counter—all gone. Ben and I tear through the house, searching every drawer, every folder, but it’s like they were never there. The pieces of our reality—our life with Lily—are slipping away.
The nights are the worst. That’s when the whispers start. Soft at first, like a breeze rustling through the walls, but then louder, more insistent. I think I hear voices coming from the baby monitor, but when I check, there’s only static. Lily cries out in the middle of the night, but when I rush to her crib, she’s silent, her big eyes staring up at me as if I woke her instead of the other way around.
And then there are the strangers.
The first one appears at the edge of our driveway one morning, a tall man in a black coat, just standing there, staring. I watch him from the window, my heart pounding, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t approach. Just stands there, watching our house. I try to tell myself it’s nothing—just a passerby. But then, the next day, there’s another. This time, a woman. Same place. Same vacant stare.
It doesn’t stop. Every day, a new face at the edge of our property, watching, waiting. And then one of them knocks.
It’s a man this time, tall and thin, his skin almost gray in the early morning light. I open the door, my pulse racing. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t introduce himself, and his voice is low, mechanical.
“Where is the child?” he asks.
I blink, tightening my hold on the door handle. “Excuse me?”
“The child,” he repeats, his voice cold. “She doesn’t belong to you.”
I slam the door, heart pounding, locking every deadbolt as if that will keep him out. But he’s not the last. More come. Each one stranger than the last, their words more cryptic, their eyes more hollow. They all ask the same thing: “Where is the child?”
Ben wants to call the police, but what could we possibly tell them? That people are standing outside, demanding a baby they insist isn’t ours? We’re afraid they’d think we’re losing it. But maybe we are.
Because the worst part, the part I’m too terrified to admit out loud, is that I’m starting to wonder if they’re right.
Some nights, when I look at Lily, I feel this strange disconnect, like I’m looking at someone else’s child. Her birthmark, the one on her leg, fades and reappears like a trick of the light. And sometimes—just for a moment—I forget her face. The details blur, and I can’t remember the exact curve of her nose or the shade of her eyes. I’ll blink, and it all comes rushing back, but the fear lingers, gnawing at the edges of my sanity.
Tonight, I wake up to silence. The house is still, too still, and I realize with a jolt that I haven’t heard Lily cry in hours. I rush to her crib, my heart in my throat, but when I reach it, the crib is empty. My breath catches. Panic swells in my chest, and I call for Ben. He’s already up, searching the house, but there’s no sign of her. She’s gone.
Just as I’m about to break down, the doorbell rings. I freeze, my heart thudding in my ears. Ben moves to the door, opening it slowly. A figure stands in the doorway, cloaked in shadows, cradling something in their arms.
“She was never meant to be yours,” the figure says, their voice echoing in the stillness.
I reach out, desperate to take Lily back, but the figure steps away, disappearing into the night.
I have no clue what happened to my baby, or if she ever even existed at all. My memories of her are starting to fade. I can barely remember the sound of her cooing, or the color of her eyes. I need help, I need someone to help me figure out what's going on.