The exhaustion was a constant hum beneath your skin, a low whisper of pure fatigue that shadowed her every thought. Your newborn son, Jose, was a miracle, a tiny, perfect bundle of joy who also required every ounce of her dwindling energy. It was why she’d hired Polly Murphy.

Polly had been impeccable. Her resume was a testament to a lifetime of quiet efficiency, her references glowing, her demeanor reassuringly calm. With sleek, dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that somehow only accentuated her sharp cheekbones and piercing grey eyes, Polly exuded an aura of competence that had instantly soothed your frazzled nerves. There was a brief, inexplicable flicker when they first met, a moment where Polly’s gaze had lingered just a beat too long, and you had felt a strange lurch in her stomach that she’d instantly dismissed as postpartum hormones.

But as the weeks wore on, the hum of exhaustion began to intertwine with a discordant note of suspicion. It started subtly. Polly was always there. Not just present, but observant. You would round a corner and find Polly watching you, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips that vanished as soon as she was noticed. Sometimes, you would wake in the dead of night, compelled by an invisible urge to check on Jose , only to find Polly already standing by the crib, motionless, silhouetted against the dim nightlight. She never seemed to sleep. Or if she did, it was on a schedule you couldn't fathom.

"She's too quiet," you tried to explain to Miguel one evening, picking at her dinner. "And she watches me. And Jose . I think she watches us sleep."

Miguel , bless his overworked heart, just sighed, his eyes already glazed over with the stress of his own demanding job. "Caitlyn, baby, you're just tired. It's the new mum jitters, PPD maybe. Polly's a professional. She's just doing her job." He’d said it with a gentle pat on her hand, a dismissive tone that grated on youe nerves. "You're going crazy, love. She’s wonderful with jose."

His lack of belief was a slow poison, isolating you . It made you question your own sanity, even as the cold tendrils of dread tightened around your heart. Were you imagining things? Was the sleep deprivation truly making you paranoid?

As you stepped into the entryway of the kitchen, you froze.

Polly Murphy was there.

She was sitting at the kitchen island, not facing the door, but towards the back wall, her elegant back ramrod straight. She wasn't doing anything, wasn't reading, wasn't on her phone. She was just sitting, perfectly still.

A chill that had nothing to do with the night air snaked up your spine. "Polly?" you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Polly turned her head.

The light from the living room caught her face, illuminating her features in stark relief. Her grey eyes, usually so composed, so professional, were fixed on you. They were wide, unblinking, and utterly devoid of warmth. There was no flicker of surprise, no polite smile of recognition, no apology for being up so late. Just that unwavering stare.

They were cold. Glacial. And soulless.

"Hello Miss Caitlyn" Polly said