Whispers of the Unborn

It started two weeks ago—baby cries drifting from my backyard. At first, I ignored them,

but night after night, they grew louder, closer. I saw a silhouette

one stormy night, gripped my bat, and stepped into sheets of rain, shouting into darkness.

The figure stood still… then vanished. I thought it was over. I was wrong.

The crying returned—sharper, louder—pressing against my window. His face appeared: pale,

sunken eyes, a grin stretched too wide, wailing like a newborn. I scrambled for

my phone. Then, the closet. Muddy footprints led right there.

The cries came from inside. I opened it. A tiny, half-formed bird