My husband worked far away.
My mother-in-law had passed away just two years earlier.
I had just given birth, my body sore, milk flowing at odd hours, my heart torn between happiness and fear.
Still, when everyone insisted that the best thing was for me to do my postpartum quarantine at my father-in-law’s house, I agreed.
—It’ll be easier —they said—. You’ll have help, rest, and space to recover.
At first, it seemed normal.
The first day passed in a blur of diapers, bottles, and short visits from relatives.
The quiet of the house was comforting, a stark contrast to the hospital chaos and my small apartment.
But soon, something changed.
Every night, as I settled in with the baby asleep, I heard footsteps on the stairs.
At first, I tried to ignore it.
—It must be the wind —I told myself—. Or maybe the floors creak.
But the footsteps repeated, firm and deliberate, descending slowly from the upper floor down the hallway toward my room.
Every time I heard them, a knot formed in my stomach.
—I have to leave —I whispered one night, holding my newborn—. Before it’s too late.
I tried to rationalize it. The baby needed quiet. I needed rest.
But the fear grew with each passing night.
Flashback: Pregnancy and the Quarantine Recommendation
During my pregnancy, my husband had insisted I stay at his father’s house for the quarantine.
—It’ll be easier —he said—. You’ll be under family care.
At first, I refused. My relationship with my father-in-law had always been tense, marked by long silences and severe looks.
—It’s only for a few weeks —he promised—. The important thing is for you to rest and have everything you need for the baby.
I thought I could handle it. I never imagined that each night would become a test of survival.
First Signs of Danger
One afternoon, while preparing a bottle, I heard the creak of the upstairs door.
My heart jumped.
—Who’s there? —I asked, even though I knew no one would answer.
The silence replied, heavy and expectant.
My instincts screamed that something was wrong.
I remembered stories neighbors had told about the old house: whispers, strange noises, movements at night that seemed human.
—I can’t stay here —I repeated—. I have to protect both of us.
Nighttime Fear Intensifies
Every night the footsteps returned. Closer, deliberate, shaking me awake with my heart racing.
I began sleeping with my phone fully charged in hand, a blanket around me, the baby in my arms.
—If anything happens, we have to run —I whispered—. Mommy will protect you.
