I’m 35F, American, single mom to my son, Edduin.
And yes, I terrified myself with a baby monitor.
A little over a year ago, my whole life fell apart.
I was seven months pregnant.
My husband, John, kissed me goodbye one morning, coffee in one hand, car keys in the other.
“I’ll be home early,” he said, patting my very pregnant belly. “You two better miss me.”
He never made it home.
Car accident. Wet road. Wrong time, wrong place. One of those phone calls you never forget, even when you want to.
I was seven months pregnant. The stress sent me into labor a few days later.
But I wanted him to know me.
I gave birth to Edduin small, early, and angry at the world. I was in a fog of grief and hospital disinfectant, staring at him through tears, thinking, “It’s just us now, kid.”
Raising him alone became my whole identity.
I work from home doing customer support. So my life was headset on, baby on my chest, one hand typing, one hand soothing.
People kept saying, “You should get help. A nanny. Move back with your parents.”
But I wanted him to know me. Not strangers. Me.
Then he started having trouble sleeping.
So I did everything. Bills, work, feeds, diapers, appointments, laundry, crying in the shower at 3 a.m.
Somehow, we found a rhythm.
By the time he was almost one, things were… okay.
He was bright, giggly, obsessed with dropping things off his high chair and making me pick them up. Classic baby chaos.
Then he started having trouble sleeping.
I took him to the pediatrician.
He’d bolt awake screaming, not his usual “I’m hungry” cry, but this panicked, from-the-guts scream.
I’d rush in, and he’d be standing in his crib, little fists white on the rail, staring at the same corner of the room every time.
During the day, he was exhausted and fussy, yawning constantly, eye-rubbing, wanting to be held more than usual.
I took him to the pediatrician.
“Babies go through phases,” she said. “Night terrors, teething, dreams. He looks healthy.”
I nodded, but my stomach knotted.
Ten minutes later, I heard it.
Because my gut was screaming something was off.
The first weird night, it was around 1 a.m.
I’d just put him down. I watched him fall asleep. I double-checked the windows, the outlet covers, everything.
I flopped on the couch with my laptop and the cheap audio baby monitor on the coffee table.
Ten minutes later, I heard it.
I paused Netflix and listened.
A soft rustling.
Then a tiny giggle.
Not the half-asleep baby sigh. A full little giggle, like someone had just played peekaboo.
I paused Netflix and listened.
Rustle. Thump. Another giggle.
Lying there, eyes open, staring at me.
My heart rate spiked.
I went down the hall, opened his door fast, ready to… I don’t even know what.
Nothing.
Just the nightlight glowing, shadows on the wall, the soft hum of the air vent.
And him.
Lying there, eyes open, staring at me.
The next night, same thing.
I checked the closet. The bathroom. Under the crib.
Nothing.
I told myself I was overtired, kissed his forehead, and went back to the couch.
The next night, same thing.
Rustle over the monitor. Soft baby giggle. A tiny thud.
By the third night, I was so wired I jumped at the fridge humming.
This time, I stood outside his door, listening.
I swear I felt the floor vibrating with my heartbeat.
I opened the door slowly.
Again, nothing.
Just my son, blinking at me in the dim light.
“Okay. Either I’m losing my mind or something is wrong with this monitor.”
By the third night, I was so wired I jumped at the fridge humming.
I opened the app on my phone.
That’s when I bought the Wi-Fi camera.
I’d avoided it before because they sort of creep me out, but at that point, I needed to see what was happening.
I mounted it in the corner of his room, angled at his crib. Checked the app from the kitchen. Clear picture. Night vision. Everything.
That night, I put him down, tucked his blanket in, turned on the nightlight, and went to the living room.
I opened the app on my phone.
About 10 minutes later, something moved on the screen.
There he was, on his side, tiny butt in the air, hands tucked under his cheek.
I finally let myself breathe.
“See?” I whispered. “He’s sleeping. You’re just exhausted.”
About 10 minutes later, something moved on the screen.
Not him.
Like he recognized whatever it was.
The far side of the room, where the wall meets the floor, darkened. Then a small shape slid across the frame.
A shadow. Low to the ground. Quick.
My mouth went dry.
On the screen, Edduin’s eyes fluttered open.
He smiled. Like he recognized whatever it was.
He giggled that little belly laugh. His arms reached toward the edge of the crib.
I threw the door open.
I stared at my phone, too scared to blink.
The shadow moved closer to the crib.
That was enough for me.
I bolted down the hallway, adrenaline drowning out every rational thought.
I threw the door open.
He jumped when I shouted.
“HEY!”
I yelled it before I even knew what I was seeing.
Because what I saw was… a dog.
Not a stranger. Not a ghost. Not some horror-movie nightmare.
A small, scruffy dog. Tan and white. Dirty fur, ribs a little visible, paws on the rug, head tilted toward the crib.
He jumped when I shouted, skidding back, ears flattened, tail tucked.
A memory hit me so fast I actually grabbed the doorframe.
Then he looked at the crib.
At my son.
And he scooted closer to the crib again, nose twitching, like he was checking the baby was okay.
“Momma,” Edduin babbled, standing up and grabbing the rail. “Dah!”
I recognized the way the dog moved, the way he sat, the cautious, hopeful look.
After John died, somewhere in the chaos, Doblo got out.
A memory hit me so fast I actually grabbed the doorframe.
We had a dog before. Doblo.
He’d been John’s dog. Scruffy mutt with big eyes and no sense of personal space.
When I got pregnant, we moved his bed out of the nursery. There was a dog door in that room that went to the backyard.
After John died, somewhere in the chaos, Doblo got out. A friend had left the gate open. By the time I noticed, he was gone.
I dropped to my knees.
I put up posters. Called shelters. Posted online.
Nothing.
Eventually, I told myself somebody else had taken him in. It was easier than thinking about losing one more thing that smelled like my husband.
I also, apparently, completely forgot to seal the old dog door.
He took one hesitant step, then another.
I dropped to my knees.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “Hey. It’s okay, boy.”
The dog watched me, trembling, tail giving tiny, hopeful flicks.
He looked older than I remembered. More gray around the muzzle. But the scar on his ear looked painfully familiar.
“Is that you?” I whispered. “Doblo?”
Behind us, Edduin was giggling.
He took one hesitant step, then another.
When he was close enough, he licked my hand, then shoved his head under it like he’d never left.
I burst into tears.
Great, ugly, relief-soaked tears.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I said, laughing and crying at the same time. “You ridiculous dog.”
Every part of my mom-brain went quiet.
Behind us, Edduin was giggling, slapping the crib rail with his palms.
“Doggy! Doggy!”
The dog turned, stood on his back legs, and put his front paws lightly on the rail so he could sniff the baby.
It should have scared me.
It didn’t.
Every time Edduin fussed, he lifted his head.
Every part of my mom-brain went quiet and just… knew he wasn’t a threat.
I scratched behind his ears.
“Okay,” I said, shaky. “Okay. You can stay. But we’re doing this properly.”
That night, I dragged an old blanket into the nursery and put it under the crib.
The dog curled up so close to the rails his nose touched the bars.
I bought food, bowls, shampoo, a collar, a tag.
Every time Edduin fussed, he lifted his head, checked on him, then laid back down.
I sat in the rocking chair, baby monitor in my hand, watching the same scene on my phone screen and in real life.
Instead of creepy shadows, it was a baby and his scruffy guard dog.
For the first time in weeks, my body actually relaxed.
The next morning, I went to the pet store.
We went home, I bathed him in the tub.
I bought food, bowls, shampoo, a collar, a tag.
I hesitated at the engraving machine, then wrote “Casper” on the tag.
Doblo had been John’s name for him.
Casper felt like ours.
And yeah, maybe naming him after a ghost was a little on-the-nose, considering the baby monitor situation.
He followed us everywhere.
But it fit.
We went home, I bathed him in the tub, watched muddy water swirl down the drain, and tried not to cry again.
Under the grime he was still that same dorky-looking dog with one white paw and big, earnest eyes.
“Welcome back,” I whispered, clipping the tag onto his collar. “You picked a hell of a time, dude.”
From then on, Casper was part of the team.
Some nights, I’d wake to see him standing there.
He followed us everywhere.
If I moved rooms, he moved rooms.
If Edduin crawled, he followed right behind, like a furry security guard.
If the baby got too close to something sketchy, like the stairs or a precarious table, Casper barked until I checked.
At night, he slept beside the crib.
But I could prove it.
Some nights, I’d wake to see him standing there, front paws on the rail, just watching the baby breathe.
The screaming night wakings stopped.
He still cried sometimes, sure, but not with that panicked, haunted sound.
Half the time he’d stir, see Casper, babble something that sounded suspiciously like “Cap,” and flop back down.
The pediatrician didn’t believe me when I told her his sleep improved after a dog moved in.
Guilt because I’d been so wrapped in grief and exhaustion I’d forgotten to close a door.
But I could prove it.
On the baby monitor recordings, you could literally see the difference.
Old nights: baby tossing, sitting up, crying.
New nights: baby wriggles, Casper lifts his head, baby scoots closer to the side where Casper is, then settles.
I’d sit on the couch, watching those clips, and feel this strange mix of guilt and gratitude.
When work calls got rough and customers yelled, he laid his head on my feet.
Guilt because I’d been so wrapped in grief and exhaustion I’d forgotten to close a door.
Gratitude because that same dumb mistake let a lonely dog back in, right when we needed him.
It wasn’t just about feeling safer.
Casper helped with my anxiety in a way nothing else had.
When work calls got rough and customers yelled, he laid his head on my feet.
But they didn’t see the nights leading up to that.
When I had quiet breakdowns in the kitchen after bedtime, he nudged my hand until I pet him.
Sometimes I’d catch him staring at the front door, tail twitching, like he was still waiting for John.
“Yeah,” I’d murmur, sitting beside him on the floor. “Me too.”
People laugh now when I tell them I went full horror-movie mode over a baby monitor and almost called the cops on my own dog.
But they didn’t see the nights leading up to that.
Instead, it was the universe shoving a small, scruffy reminder .
The bone-deep exhaustion.
The way grief makes every creak sound like danger.
The way being the only adult in the house amplifies every fear.
I thought the movement in the shadows meant I was about to lose something else.
Instead, it was the universe shoving a small, scruffy reminder through a forgotten door:
“You’re not alone.”
Now, our routine is simple.
There they are on the screen.
I work from the couch.
Edduin sleeps in his room.
Casper sleeps on the rug by the crib, one ear always slightly lifted.
Sometimes I still pull up the monitor before bed.
Just to look.
One scared little boy.
There they are on the screen: my son sprawled sideways, chubby leg hanging through the bars, and Casper curled up close, tail thumping once in his sleep.
Every time, I remember the night I saw that first shadow and my heart tried to escape my body.
I thought I was seeing the worst.
Turned out, I was seeing the best thing that had happened to us in a long time.
One scruffy ghost-dog come home.
One scared little boy.
One exhausted mom.
One scruffy ghost-dog come home.
And a Wi-Fi monitor that, instead of catching a nightmare, caught the exact moment our tiny, broken family started to feel whole again.
