**Diary Entry, 12th October**
For the first three months, life in our little cottage in the Cotswolds was idyllic.
Henry and Emily Whitmore had just brought home their first childbaby Oliverto their quaint stone house nestled in the rolling hills. Wed spent months preparing: painted the nursery a soothing cream, devoured every parenting book we could find, and even took our loyal Border Collie, Winston, to a refresher course at the local obedience school.
Winston, a six-year-old rescue, had always been gentle and watchful. He rarely barked without cause and adored Emilytrailing her from the kitchen to the garden like a devoted shadow. Naturally, we assumed hed be the perfect companion for our newborn.
And during the day, he was.
Winston would settle beside Olivers crib, alert but calm. Hed nudge the babys tiny toes with his nose and whimper softly if Oliver fussed. But when night fell, something shifted.
The growling began.
It started on a Wednesday. Around half two in the morning, a low, rumbling growl crackled through the baby monitor. At first, I thought it was interference. But when I squinted at the screen, I saw Winston rigid by the crib, ears pinned back, teeth barednot at Oliver, but at the wall.
The far corner of the nursery.
I rushed in. The room was silent save for Olivers quiet breaths and Winstons steady growl.
Easy, lad, I murmured, easing him back. The growling stopped, but his eyes stayed fixed on that spot.
Emily dismissed it as a strange dream the next morning.
But it happened again the following night.
And again.
By the fifth night, Winstons growls grew fiercer. He even scraped at the wall with his paw.
He senses something, Emily said, her voice tight. Animals know things we dont.
I forced a laugh. Youre not suggesting its ghostly?
She didnt answer.
We tried everythingsleeping in the nursery, setting up a camera, even burning chamomile oil. But Winstons behaviour didnt waver. Hed sit quietly until half twothen growl, deep and menacing, always at the same corner.
And Oliver?
He started waking up screaming.
On the seventh night, Id had enough.
This is daft, I muttered, torch in hand. Probably just a draft or a rat in the wall.
Emily cradled Oliver, rocking him as he whimpered.
I tapped the wall where Winston had growled. It sounded hollow. Frowning, I fetched a screwdriver and pried off the vent cover. A musty gust wafted out.
Thats when I saw it.
A patch of plaster behind the vent had been crudely cut and reattached, barely held with cheap filler. A few tugs, and it came loose.
Behind it was a narrow gap between the beamsa space that shouldnt have been accessible.
Inside was a small tin.
I lifted it carefully.
What is it? Emily asked, clutching Oliver tighter.
I sat on the floor and opened it.
Inside were old letters. A tarnished locket. A faded photograph of a woman cradling an infant. And beneath it all
A diary.
Dated 1975. The first page read:
*No one believes me. But something comes through the wall. Every night. My baby cries, and no one else sees it. But the dog does. The dog always knows.*
My hands shook.
I skimmed the entries. The writing grew frantic. The woman described a shadow that appeared in the nursery after midnighta dark shape leaning over the crib, vanishing when the lights flicked on. Her husband thought she was exhausted. Doctors called it nerves.
Then the entries stopped abruptly.
The final line:
*If you find thiswatch the child. Listen to the dog.*
Emilys face paled.
Were not mad, she whispered. Something happened here before. In this very room.
And Winston had known. All along.
He hadnt growled at Oliver.
Hed growled to guard him.
Emily didnt sleep that night. Neither did Winston.
While I pored over the diary, she sat in the parlour, rocking Oliver, unable to return to the nursery. Winston stayed close, planted between her and the hallway, every muscle taut.
I always thought this house felt too still, she murmured. Now I know why.
I joined her, clutching the last pages. She wasnt mad, Em. Everything she wroteit matches what weve seen. Her baby waking screaming, the dog growling at the wall, the same corner.
Emily blinked. What became of them?
No record. No news clippings. No missing persons reports. Whoever lived here before they vanished.
The next day, I fetched Mrs. Higgins, the village historian. When shown the diary and photo, she gasped.
Thats Margaret Hartley, she said, wide-eyed. She lived here in the 70s. Her babyThomaswas barely three months old when she disappeared. Folk said shed run off. Left everything behind.
But the diary suggests otherwise, I said.
Mrs. Higgins nodded. This house changed hands often after. Some said it was haunted. Others just left without a word.
That night, we didnt use the nursery. We moved Olivers crib into our room. Winston curled beside it, ears pricked, eyes open.
But at 2:04, it happened again.
Winston jerked up with a snarl.
Emily sat bolt upright. Hear that?
It wasnt just Winston. The nursery monitor hissed with static. Thena whisper.
I grabbed it, straining to hear.
A creak. A slow drag. Then a soft, rhythmic tap.
Then a voice, barely audible:
*Thomas*
Emily gasped.
I dropped the monitor.
Winston growled louder, stalking to the doorway, teeth bared. He stared down the dark hall as if facing something unseen.
Then Oliver wailedsharp, terrified.
I lunged for the crib. The room had turned icy; my breath fogged in the air.
Somethings here, I muttered. We have to end this.
The next day, I called a builder and, out of sheer desperation, a local spiritualist. The builder confirmed an old crawlspace sealed behind the nursery wall, untouched for years. The spiritualist, a quiet woman named Agnes, stood in the room briefly before saying:
Theres sorrow here. A woman stuck in grief. She never left.
Emily held up the diary. Margaret.
Shes still trying to protect her child, Agnes said softly. But she doesnt realise hes gone. She watches yours, thinking hes hers. Thats why the dog senses her. Why the baby cries.
I swallowed. How do we help her move on?
Agnes knelt by the wall where Winston always growled. She pressed her palm to it.
Shes trapped. Tell her the truth. Let her know shes free.
That night, with candles lit in the nursery, Emily sat in the rocking chair with Oliver. I stood beside her. Winston lay at our feet.
Emilys voice trembled.
Margaret if youre here your baby, Thomas, is gone. Were so sorry. But you dont have to watch over ours anymore. Hes safe. You can rest now. You dont need to stay.
The air grew thick, as if listening.
Winston stood, ears sharp.
Then
A draught. Warm, though the windows were shut.
The candles fluttered. The scent of rosewaterMargarets perfume, still clinging to the lettersfilled the room.
Thensilence.
No growls. No static. No cries.
Just stillness.
Winston lay down, resting his head peacefully on his paws.
**Epilogue**
The growling never returned.
Oliver slept soundly from that night on. The cold spots vanished. The wall was properly sealed.
Emily kept the diary safe, alongside Margarets photo. Every year, she leaves a sprig of lavender on the nursery silljust in case.
Winston lived another twelve loyal years, never leaving Olivers side. He became the boys protector, playmate, and gentle shadow.
When Oliver was old enough, I told him the story. The diary. The growls. The spirit of a mother whod watched over him, long after her time.
Why didnt she leave? Oliver once asked.
Because, I said, tousling his hair, a mothers love doesnt fade. But thanks to Winston, we helped her find peace.
Oliver looked at the old dog beside him.
And whispered, Good boy.
