She rushes to the crib where Ethan is sleeping peacefully. She lifts the sleeves of his pajamas, and there they are: five letters, perfectly imprinted on his delicate skin.

Her hands trembling, she leans closer to read them. What she sees makes her stumble backward until her back hits the wall. Ethan slowly opens his eyes and looks directly into hers. That gaze is not the gaze of a baby. What she discovers next will leave you speechless.

The letters on Ethan’s arm spell out one single word: “HELLO.”

Emily stares at it, mouth dry, the air in the nursery growing heavier by the second. “Hello?” she whispers aloud, trying to make sense of it. “Hello… who?”

The moment she says the word, Ethan’s lips curve into a smile—too symmetrical, too knowing. His eyes, wide and fixed on hers, hold a depth far beyond his age. She takes a step closer, heart pounding in her ears.

“Who are you?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

Ethan doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his tiny hand lifts—slowly, shakily—and points toward the baby monitor on the dresser.

Emily turns her head. The screen is off.

She approaches and presses the power button. The screen flashes to life, showing a grainy black-and-white view of the crib. Static crackles softly.

Then she sees it.

For a split second, not more than half a second, there’s a shadow behind Ethan in the footage—tall, human-like, looming, gone.

She blinks, unsure if it was a glitch. But her gut twists in the worst possible way. She picks Ethan up and clutches him close. His body is warm and soft like any baby’s, but he doesn’t rest his head on her shoulder. He holds his own posture, neck strong, chin tilted up, like he’s watching something behind her.

Emily turns around.

Nothing.

No movement. No sound. No presence.

But the room feels wrong now, like it’s no longer entirely hers.

She doesn’t know who to call. The parents? No. What would she say—that their baby is spelling words in bruises and smiling like a forty-year-old man?

She straps Ethan into his stroller and rushes out of the house. She walks for blocks without knowing where she’s going, until she ends up at the public library. It’s quiet, and the security of other people nearby calms her a little.

In the children’s section, she settles into a corner, rocking Ethan gently. He’s fallen asleep again, almost as if nothing happened. The marks are already fading.

Emily opens her phone, scrolling through the pictures of the bruises. She notices something else now—each day, a new letter had appeared. And when she strings them together, they spell out a sentence:

“I AM HERE.”

She zooms in on the last few pictures. The “H,” then “E,” then “L”… each letter perfectly spaced, like someone was writing deliberately across the baby’s skin.

Suddenly, she feels cold.

The air around her shifts slightly.

A librarian passes behind her and gives her a friendly smile. Emily nods, trying to steady her nerves, but her fingers tighten around the phone.

She googles “infant bruises forming words” and “paranormal signs on babies.” Most of the search results are garbage: urban legends, Reddit threads, clickbait stories. But one link stands out—it’s from an old medical journal, archived and barely formatted, about a 1974 case in upstate New York.

She clicks.

The summary reads: “Infant found with symmetrical markings believed to be dermographism, later ruled out due to symbolic patterns. No medical explanation. Case closed as psychosomatic on part of the caretaker, who later vanished.”

Emily stares at the last word.

Vanished.

She takes a screenshot and pockets her phone.

Ethan stirs. When she looks down, he’s awake again, staring straight ahead—past her.

Emily follows his gaze.

At the far end of the children’s section stands a tall man in a charcoal coat. Pale skin. Eyes too dark. He isn’t browsing. He’s standing still, watching them.

She feels her chest tighten. Her instincts scream at her to leave.

She rises, gripping the stroller’s handle. The man doesn’t move, but his eyes remain fixed.

She walks fast toward the exit. Her heart drums in her chest.

Outside, she ducks into a bus shelter and pulls out her phone again. She opens her camera and lifts Ethan’s sleeve.

A new bruise is forming.

It’s faint, but it’s a “D.”

“D?” she murmurs. “What now?”

Ethan gurgles, but it sounds off—like a laugh. She glances at him. His eyes sparkle with something she doesn’t like.

The letters now read: “I AM HERE D…”

“Here… Daddy?” she says, trying to guess. “Demon?”

She feels ridiculous, but nothing about this is normal.

She decides she needs help—not a doctor, not the parents. Someone who knows this stuff.

She remembers an old woman named Lorraine who used to live down the block from her grandmother. People said she was strange, but kind. Emily had once heard her speak of spirits and energies when she was a child. She never thought she’d need that kind of help.

She googles her name. Miraculously, Lorraine is still alive, still listed at the same address, just a 25-minute drive away.

She calls a cab.

By the time they arrive, Ethan is asleep again. Emily hesitates before knocking on the door of the modest brown house. Ivy creeps up the walls. A wind chime sings softly in the breeze.

Lorraine answers almost immediately, as if she were expecting her.

“You brought him,” the old woman says without greeting.

Emily flinches. “You… know?”

Lorraine steps aside, gesturing her in. “The veil’s thin around him. I felt it days ago.”

Inside, the house smells of herbs and dust. Lorraine leads them to a room filled with books, crystals, and faded photographs.

“Sit,” she says.

Emily sets the stroller beside her and lifts Ethan out. “He’s been getting these marks… they spell things.”

Lorraine nods. “They do more than that. They warn.”

She leans closer to the baby and gasps.

“What?” Emily asks.

“He’s marked by a soul that hasn’t passed,” Lorraine says. “It’s trying to anchor itself.”

Emily feels her skin crawl. “What does it want?”

“To return.”

Lorraine lifts Ethan’s arm gently and studies the fading letters. “It’s not hurting him—not yet. But it’s using him.”

“For what?”

“To speak. To come through.”

Emily swallows. “Can we stop it?”

Lorraine’s expression darkens. “Maybe. But you’ll need to know what it is. Who it is.”

Emily thinks. “He was adopted. The parents never talk about the birth mother.”

Lorraine’s eyes narrow. “Then that’s where to start. Get me something from the child’s room. Something old. Something untouched.”

Emily nods and calls another cab, promising to return soon. At the house, the parents are still gone. She rushes inside and grabs Ethan’s original baby blanket, still folded neatly in a drawer. It smells faintly of lavender and something else… something metallic.

Back at Lorraine’s, the old woman takes the blanket and places it on a table. She lights a candle and begins to chant in a language Emily doesn’t recognize.

The flame flickers wildly.

Then a low moan escapes Ethan’s mouth. Not a baby’s cry. A deep, guttural sound.

Emily freezes.

Lorraine grabs a vial of salt and circles the baby, muttering faster.

Ethan’s body begins to tremble. The bruise on his arm darkens visibly before their eyes. The “D” is followed by an “O.”

“I AM HERE DO…”

“Don’t let it finish,” Lorraine yells. “Keep him awake!”

Emily bounces him in her arms. “Stay with me, Ethan! Stay with me!”

The baby’s eyes roll back, and for a moment his mouth opens—and someone else’s voice comes out.

A man’s.

“I’m not done…”

Emily screams. Lorraine throws a handful of powder into the flame. It bursts green, and a wind rushes through the room, knocking over books and candles.

The candle goes out.

Silence.

Ethan blinks and starts to cry.

Emily holds him, crying too, trembling uncontrollably.

Lorraine collapses into her chair. “It’s gone… for now.”

Emily clutches Ethan to her chest. “What was that?”

Lorraine looks at her, weary. “The spirit of someone who died angry. Likely the baby’s biological father. Maybe someone who didn’t know he had a child. Spirits like that—unfulfilled, attached—they try to return through blood.”

Emily shakes her head. “But he didn’t hurt him.”

“Not yet. But he was using the baby to finish a name, a sentence, a message. If he had fully anchored, Ethan would have become a vessel.”

Emily feels sick.

Lorraine hands her a pouch. “Keep this with him. Under his crib. It’ll keep spirits out.”

Emily nods, clutching it like a lifeline.

That night, after she returns to the family’s house, she lays Ethan down and tucks the pouch beneath his mattress. She watches him sleep, peaceful now.

No bruises the next morning.

Nor the one after.

Days pass. Then weeks.

Ethan giggles like any baby, plays with his toys, and looks at her like a normal child again.

But Emily still watches him closely every morning. Every bath. Every change of clothes.

Because some nights, when the wind howls outside and the lights flicker for no reason…

She hears a faint voice whispering through the baby monitor.

“Don’t forget me.”

And she never does.