Thud.

Thud.

I wake up with a start. It takes a moment for the fog to clear my mind, and I stretch my legs, groaning, still feeling exhausted. I look over at the baby monitor, noticing that the steady static noise it normally made had stopped.

I reach for my glasses and put them on, and see the device is switched off. Shocked, I quickly grab it and switch it back on.

The static noise starts. The video feed shows my darling one-year-old daughter, fast asleep in her crib. I breathe a sigh of relief, settling back down in my bed, removing my glasses and placing them back on the side table.

Thud.

I startle again. The noise came clearly through the monitor. I grab it once again and bring it close to my face, watching the camera shake as once again I hear:

Thud.

I stand up as fast as I can, making my way to my daughter's room and opening the door in the span of a few seconds. I linger in the doorway. All seems well. There's nothing here. I creep over to my daughter's crib to make sure...

And I gasp as the horror washes over me.

The crib is empty.

I panic, moving blankets and stuffed animals around. Where is my daughter? Where is she? I'm breathing heavily now.

I turn and scan the room. I run to her closet, flinging the door open. I toss blankets, clothes, toys behind me frantically. She's not there.

I run back to my room to wake my husband. I grab his shoulder and shake violently, yelling his name.

"She's gone!" I yell, shaking him harder, "She's gone and I can't find her!"

Tired from work, it normally takes a great effort to wake him from his sleep. He eventually comes to.

"What... What is it?" he says, groaning, stretching. He turns over, "What's going on? What's wrong?" He looks annoyed.

I grab the baby monitor and thrust it toward his face. "My baby girl, our baby! She's gone!! I can't find her, help me, help me look!"

He blinks, taking the monitor from my hands and squints at it. He rubs his eyes and looks back at me. "You were having a bad dream," he says, handing the monitor back, "She's fine, just look."

I stare in disbelief at the monitor. There's my daughter, still safe in bed, sleeping tightly. I'm still in shock. I bring a hand to my face, wiping sweat from my forehead.

"It's okay," my husband says, "go back to sleep." He turns over, and begins to snore.

Catching my breath, I place the monitor back on the side table and pick up my glasses.

Thud.

The noise, louder this time, causes me to fumble and drop the glasses. I pick them back up and quickly make my way back to my daughter's room while putting them on my face.

In the doorway I can already hear her steady breathing, but after that panic, I have to see her, I have to touch her, feel her in my arms. So I quietly make my way over to her crib.

Standing over it, looking down, my blood turns cold.

The crib is empty.

The sound of her breathing grows faster, and I hear her begin to cry as something cold grips my ankle.