“Every Night at Exactly 2:13, the Black Dog Growled at the Crib, Until the Father Finally Called the Police—What They Found Beneath the Bed Was So Disturbing That the Family Never Slept in That Room Again”

Story: The Growl Beneath

Samuel never trusted coincidences.
When his son was born, he noticed every detail, every breath, every stir. But it was Milo, their loyal black shepherd, who became the baby’s guardian. Milo stationed himself by the crib as if assigned duty. At first, Samuel thought it was sweet—an old dog protecting new life. Hannah, his wife, took comfort too, believing it a good omen.

For three nights, the house was peaceful. The baby slept quietly, Milo lay silently, and Samuel and Hannah allowed themselves the smallest sliver of rest.

On the fourth night, everything changed.

At 2:13 a.m., Samuel woke to the sound of Milo’s chest rumbling. It wasn’t barking. It wasn’t restless pacing. It was a low, warped growl—like a voice half-swallowed by something deeper.

Milo’s fur stood rigid. His paws were planted firmly, his eyes locked on the cradle.

The baby slept silently.

“Milo…” Samuel whispered, switching on the lamp.

The dog didn’t blink. He pressed his muzzle low, then crouched, sliding his head beneath the bed. From there came another moan—long, trembling, as though something had pressed its hand to Milo’s throat.

Samuel grabbed his phone, flashlight on. He knelt and peered under.

Boxes. Spare diapers. Dust.

And then—something else.

For a heartbeat, he saw it: a moving shadow, rippling like boiling water, as though darkness itself had been stirred. Then it was gone.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes. Empty.

“Mice,” he whispered, though even he didn’t believe it.

The fifth night, it returned.

At 2:13, Milo crept to the bed, stiff and trembling. The baby remained silent, lips twitching as if sucking. Milo moaned again, pushing his nose against the void beneath.

Samuel stayed awake after that, restless, glancing at the clock every few minutes.

The sixth night, Hannah was the one who woke. A sound scratched through the silence:

“Ret… ret… ret…”

It was deliberate, slow, almost thoughtful—like nails across wood.

“Maybe a rat,” Hannah whispered, though her voice broke halfway.

Samuel nodded, set traps in the corners, moved the crib closer to the closet. Yet Milo never shifted his gaze from beneath the bed. Every time the baby stirred, the growl came again.

The seventh night, Samuel decided not to sleep.

He sat in the dark, knife in one hand, phone in the other. Only the hallway’s dim stripe of yellow light stretched across the room.

At 1:58, a breeze slipped through the half-open window, carrying the smell of damp earth.

At 2:10, silence pressed down so thick Samuel could hear his own blood rushing.

At 2:13, Milo lifted his head.

But he didn’t growl immediately. First, he looked at Samuel, nudged his hand, whined—a plea for protection, or warning. Then, slowly, with the patience of a hunter, he bent toward the bed.

His muzzle touched the darkness beneath.

The growl that followed was like nothing Samuel had ever heard. Long. Drowning. As if something in the shadows was dragging the sound back inside.

Samuel’s hand shook as he thrust the phone under the bed.

The screen lit up boxes, dust—

—and eyes.

Two pale eyes glowed from the darkness. Watching. Waiting.

Then the light flickered out. His phone went dead.

Milo shrieked, stumbling back, teeth bared at nothing. The baby twitched, lips parting as if whispering.

Samuel’s heart hammered. He dropped the phone, reached under the bed blindly—then froze.

His fingers brushed something soft. Cold. Damp.

It was skin.

He yanked his arm back with a cry. The smell of wet soil thickened in the air.

Hannah screamed awake.

Morning came too slow.

Samuel tried to rationalize—exhaustion, tricks of the eye. But Milo refused to enter the bedroom again, growling from the doorway whenever Samuel stepped too close to the crib.

Hannah begged to leave. Samuel resisted. He needed proof.

The next night, Samuel set up a laptop, webcam pointed beneath the bed. Red light blinking. Recording.

At 2:13, Milo stirred again. This time, Samuel clutched the knife tightly, his other hand on the baby’s crib.

And then the camera caught it.

The shadow spilled out. Not flat. Not shapeless. A mass of liquid dark, sliding like a body that didn’t belong. A hand pushed forward—thin, fingers bending the wrong way. It groped toward the crib.

Milo lunged, snapping at air. His jaws clashed, teeth grinding against emptiness. Samuel swung the knife, slashing only dust.

The shape recoiled. It sank back into the bed, vanishing into the dark.

The baby didn’t cry. He only smiled faintly in his sleep.

At dawn, Samuel reviewed the footage.

The laptop played grainy shadows, but the image was clear enough:

At 2:13, something pulled itself halfway out.

Not a stranger. Not a monster.

The face on the screen was Samuel’s own—distorted, eyes hollow, mouth stretched into a grin.

His breath stopped. His reflection smiled wider on the playback, even though he himself had stood frozen that night.

“What is it?” Hannah whispered, peering over his shoulder.

He turned the screen to her.

Her scream tore the silence.

“It’s you…” she gasped.

“No,” Samuel whispered, staring into those hollow eyes. “It’s not me. It’s what waits for me.”

They called the police. Packed their things. Waited on the porch as Milo growled at the upstairs window.

The officers searched. They found nothing—boxes, diapers, dust.

But when Samuel handed them the footage, their expressions hardened. Without explanation, they left with the laptop, promising to “pass it to specialists.”

The family never slept in that room again. They moved within the week.

But Samuel never forgot.

Because sometimes, at night, when the house falls silent, the scratching returns:

“Ret… ret… ret…”

Always at 2:13.