Her baby was asleep. Then a voice whispered:
He’s not okay.”
I froze. The house was dead silent, except for that crackling whisper through the monitor. My heart slammed against my ribs. I grabbed my phone with shaky hands and called my sister, Irina.
Before I could even finish telling her what I heard, she shouted, “Take my son and run to the car. Lock it and call 911!”
I didn’t ask questions. I yanked little Micah from his crib, still wrapped in his sleep sack, and ran downstairs barefoot. My mind was spinning — was someone in the house? Was it a prank? A glitch? Or something worse?
The cold night air hit my face as I sprinted to my car. I buckled Micah into his seat, locked the doors, and called 911, hands trembling.
“Ma’am, stay calm. Officers are on their way,” the dispatcher said
I stared at the house, every shadow looking like it might move. Minutes felt like hours. Finally, flashing red and blue lights filled the driveway. I saw two officers approach the house with their flashlights drawn. A third officer tapped on my window, making me jump.
“Are you okay? Anyone else inside?” he asked.
“No, just me and the baby,” I whispered.
He nodded and joined his partners inside.
After about ten minutes, one of the officers walked back to my car. “We didn’t find anyone. The doors and windows are locked from the inside. But we’re going to sweep it again.”
I nodded, still too shaken to speak.
Just then, Irina pulled into the driveway, face pale but eyes fierce. She jumped out and hugged Micah tight.
“We need to tell them,” she said, looking at me. “All of it.”
The officers gathered around as Irina explained, her voice trembling.
“A few months ago, my ex, Dorian, started stalking me. At first, it was calls, messages. Then he started showing up places. I filed for a restraining order. But last week, someone tried to break into the house. The police couldn’t find enough evidence to link it to him.”
The officers exchanged glances. “Any chance he had access to the baby monitor?”
Irina’s face went pale. “Oh my God… yes. He gifted it to us when Micah was born. I didn’t think—”
One of the officers pulled out his notepad. “We’ll confiscate it. He might’ve hacked into the monitor.”
A few hours later, after we gave our statements, the police left. But sleep was impossible.
By morning, detectives confirmed our worst fear: Dorian had installed remote access to the monitor’s camera and microphone. They traced his IP address. He was watching us.
