Tomorrow, I Promise

The baby monitor crackled to life at 2:17 a.m.

Heidi had only fallen asleep an hour earlier.

She’d been at the kitchen table with her laptop, answering emails that could have waited, telling herself she’d stop after one more. She always said that. Her neck still ached from hunching over the screen.

At first, she thought it was static. The old house breathed at night. Pipes clicked. Floors sighed. She rolled over and pulled the blanket higher.

Then she heard it again.

“Mama?”

She sat up so fast the room spun. The monitor’s green light glowed on the nightstand. Her daughter’s voice came through thin and sleepy.

“Mama, I can’t see you.”

Heidi smiled despite herself, guilt threading through the relief. Night terrors had started last week. The pediatrician said it was normal. Still, she hated how often Emma needed her at night lately. Hated that part of her sometimes wished she’d sleep through it.

“I’m right here, honey,” she said, leaning toward the monitor. “You’re safe. I’m listening. Try to sleep, okay?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then the voice whispered, clearer now.

“Mama… you’re not here.”

Heidi swung her legs out of bed. The hallway was dark, the air cold against her skin. She moved quickly, barefoot on wood, already rehearsing how she’d soothe Emma back to sleep. How she’d promise pancakes in the morning. How she’d do better tomorrow.

Halfway down the hall, she stopped.

Emma’s bedroom door was open.

Her bed was empty.

The blankets lay folded, neat. Too neat.

Heidi’s heart hammered. “Emma?” she called.

From behind her, inches from her ear, a small voice answered softly.

“Mama?”

She turned.

Emma stood in the hallway, eyes wide, clutching her stuffed rabbit.

Relief crashed through Heidi so hard her knees nearly gave out. She dropped to her knees and pulled Emma into her arms.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You scared me. Why are you out of bed?”

Emma pressed her face into Heidi’s shoulder.

“I woke up,” she said. “Because someone was talking to me.”

Heidi froze.

“…Talking to you how?”

Emma pulled back and looked down the hallway toward her bedroom.

“From the monitor,” she said. “It sounded like you.”

The baby monitor crackled.

From Emma’s empty room, Heidi’s own voice whispered softly—

“I’m right here, honey. I’m listening. You don’t have to be brave.”

Heidi didn’t breathe.

The monitor hissed, like something amused with itself.

She backed away, clutching Emma. “That’s enough,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “We’re sleeping together tonight.”

They retreated to the bedroom. Heidi locked the door. Then, after a moment, shoved a chair under the handle. Her hands shook.

Emma curled against her chest. “Mama,” she whispered, “it’s still talking.”

The monitor sat on the nightstand. Silent.

Green light steady.

“It’s just feedback,” Heidi said. “Old electronics do weird things.”

She was trying to believe it. Trying not to think about all the times she’d ignored strange noises because she was too tired to care.

The monitor crackled.

“Heidi,” it said.

Her name.

Her voice.

“You’re so tired,” it continued gently.

“Everything feels bigger when you’re tired.”

Emma whimpered.

Heidi lunged and ripped the cord from the wall. The light died. Silence flooded the room.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Her heartbeat slowed. She kissed Emma’s hair. “See? It’s off. We’re okay.”

Emma didn’t relax.

She stared at the dark corner of the room.

“Mama,” she whispered, “it’s not coming from there anymore.”

A soft click sounded beneath the bed.

The green light flicked on.

From under the mattress, inches from Heidi’s face, her own voice whispered—

“I told you I was right here. I didn’t go anywhere. Not like before.”

Heidi screamed and rolled off the bed, dragging Emma with her.

They hit the floor hard. Heidi didn’t stop moving. She grabbed Emma and bolted for the door. The chair clattered away.

Behind them, the mattress sagged.

Something shifted.

“Heidi,” her voice called gently. “You forgot her rabbit. You’ve been forgetting little things lately.”

She didn’t look back.

They ran down the hallway, past Emma's room, past the stairs. The front door loomed ahead, pale with moonlight. Heidi fumbled with the lock, fingers slick with sweat.

Emma buried her face in Heidi's neck.

“Mama, it’s coming out.”

The floorboards behind them creaked.

Slow. Deliberate. Bare feet on wood.

“Heidi,” the voice said again, closer now, no longer coming from the monitor. “You always overreact,” the voice said gently. “You’re so tired. Everything feels bigger when you’re tired.”

The door finally opened. Cold night air rushed in.

Heidi burst onto the porch and slammed the door behind her, locking it with shaking hands. She backed away until her spine hit the railing.

Inside the house, something knocked once.

Soft. Polite.

Then Emma lifted her head.

“Mama,” she said, confused. “Why are you holding me?”

Heidi looked down.

Emma's eyes were calm. Clear. Awake in a way she hadn’t been all night.

“Because you were scared,” Heidi said.

Emma frowned. “No I wasn’t.”

The front door behind them clicked.

Unlocked.

From inside the house, Emma's sleepy voice drifted through the crack.

“Mama?”

Heidi's breath came apart in her chest.

She looked down at the child in her arms.

Same pajamas. Same rabbit-print cuffs.

Same faint scar on the chin from the coffee table last summer.

But the weight felt wrong. Too light.

The front door opened slowly.

Emma stood inside the house, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. The real kind. The kind Heidi knew. She rubbed one eye with her fist.

“Mama,” the girl in the doorway said. “Why are you outside?”

The thing in Heidi's arms sighed.

“Oh,” it said, still wearing Emma's face.

“You noticed.”

Its skin went slack, like a mask losing shape. Fingers lengthened, joints bending the wrong way. It smiled, and the smile kept stretching.

Heidi didn’t think.

She dropped it.

It hit the porch and didn’t cry. It just unfolded itself, rising smoothly, too smoothly, and turned back toward the open door.

“Wait,” it said, in Heidi's voice now. “You forgot me.”

Heidi slammed the door shut, scooped the real Emma into her arms, and ran into the night barefoot, not stopping until the house was a dark shape behind them.

They slept in the car until dawn.

In the morning, Heidi told herself it was over.

That was three weeks ago.

Tonight, Emma stirred in her sleep and murmured softly into the darkness-

“Mama?”

Heidi leaned close. “I’m here.”

Emma smiled with relief.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because she’s standing in the hallway again.”

Heidi didn’t turn around.

She kept her eyes on Emma's face, memorizing it like a lifeline. The soft curl of her hair. The uneven lashes. The tiny wrinkle between her brows when she was dreaming.

“I don’t see anyone,” Heidi said.

Emma's smile faltered. “She doesn’t like when you lie.”

A floorboard creaked.

Slow. Careful.

Heidi's hand slid under the pillow and closed around her phone. She didn’t look at the screen. She just pressed the emergency button and prayed the call went through.

Behind her, a shadow stretched across the wall.

Too tall. Too narrow.

“I tried so hard,” the voice said. Not Heidi's this time. Not Emma's either. Something strained and layered, like several people speaking through one mouth. “I learned your words. Your routines. The way you apologize when you’re too tired to play. The way you promise ‘tomorrow’ and mean it.”

“I learned how you love.”

Emma shifted in bed. “She practiced on me, Mama.”

Heidi squeezed Emma's hand. “Don’t listen. Close your eyes.”

“I can’t,” Emma whispered. “She’s wearing yours.”

The phone vibrated. Connected.

Heidi finally turned.

The thing in the doorway looked almost right. Her face, her body, her posture. But the eyes were wrong. Too still. Like glass that had never blinked.

It smiled sadly.

“There’s room for both of us,” it said.

“You’re so tired,” it said softly. “You fall asleep before she finishes talking. You miss things. You hate yourself for it.”

“Let me take over. I won’t miss anything.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

The smile twitched.

“Oh,” it murmured. “You told.”

Its shape began to blur, edges softening, as if it were being erased. The hallway light flickered. The air went cold.

Before it vanished completely, it leaned forward and whispered, gentle as a lullaby-

“She already knows who feels real,” it whispered. “Who listens. Who stays awake. Who doesn’t drift away.”

The light snapped back on.

The hallway was empty.

Police came. Lights. Questions. Blank stares when Heidi tried to explain. No signs of forced entry. No evidence. Nothing.

Eventually, the house was quiet again.

Later, after everyone left, Emma crawled into Heidi's bed and curled against her chest.

“Mama?” Emma said sleepily.

“Yes, baby.”

Emma yawned. “If she comes back… how will you know it’s you?”

Heidi opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

Emma smiled faintly, already drifting off.

“You didn’t answer,” she whispered.

From the dark corner of the room, someone else did.

“She won’t.”