It started three weeks ago.

Every night, like clockwork, he pushes his hand flat against the mesh side of the crib. Won’t close his eyes until he feels the tension. Like he’s holding something back. Or keeping something out.

At first, I thought it was a sensory thing. Or comfort. But then he started saying her name.

“Cammie.”

We don’t know anyone named Cammie.

He’ll whisper it over and over through the pacifier, “Cammie, no. Cammie, stay there. Cammie, I said no.”

Last night, I sat in the dark and watched.

At 3:17 a.m., he reached out like always. But this time, his hand didn’t press the mesh.

It hovered.

Like something was pushing back from the other side.

I leaned in—quiet, not wanting to disturb him. My breath caught in my throat. His tiny fingers, usually so eager to connect with something solid, remained suspended, trembling just inches from the mesh.

I was frozen. Something felt wrong. Something in the room shifted, like the air grew thicker. His little face twisted, eyes wide open but glazed over, looking past the mesh as if something beyond it was pulling him in.

“Cammie,” he muttered again. His voice was barely a whisper, fragile like a breeze, but I heard it clearly. He said it with such finality, like a command. “Stay there.”

I felt a cold shiver snake up my spine.

For a moment, I thought about waking him, taking him out of the crib and holding him close. But I couldn’t. Something inside me told me not to. To wait.

His hand was still hovering, and I could feel my heart beating faster, louder, drowning out all the sounds in the room. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Then, just as I was about to move, his hand dropped.

He sighed, a soft, satisfied sound. His fingers curled into the mesh, and his body relaxed. The tension disappeared from the air, and he finally, finally drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t close my eyes. I just kept staring at him, my mind racing, questions flooding my thoughts.

What had just happened? Was he dreaming? Was it just a phase?

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I wasn’t sure what it was, but deep down, I knew I had to find out.

I spent the next few days trying to ignore it. Trying to believe it was just a phase. But when the same thing happened again, I couldn’t pretend anymore. That night, I set up my phone’s camera to record. I needed to know. I needed to see what was happening.

The next night, I lay in bed, eyes wide open, the camera pointed at the crib. 3:17 a.m. came around, and just like clockwork, my son’s tiny hand stretched toward the mesh. But this time, something was different. I noticed it more clearly. His fingers didn’t just hover, they twitched. Almost as if they were communicating with something unseen, reaching for something just beyond his grasp.

Then, in the silence of the room, I heard it. A whisper. Soft and delicate, like the wind blowing through a crack in the window.

“Cammie,” my son said again, his voice a little louder this time. “No, Cammie. Stay there.”

It wasn’t just the sound of his voice. There was something… there. A presence. An energy that filled the room, unspoken but undeniable. I felt it, too. The room felt heavier, darker. Like something was watching us.

And then, for the first time, the mesh began to move. Just slightly. Like something was pressing against it from the other side.

I shot out of bed, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t know what to do. My mind was in chaos, unable to make sense of what I was seeing. My son, still asleep, had no idea what was happening. But I did.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t a phase. There was something here, something tied to him, something tied to Cammie. And it wasn’t friendly.

I decided to confront it. I needed answers. I couldn’t keep ignoring it, hoping it would go away. I needed to understand what was going on with my son.

The next morning, I went to see my sister, Rachel. She’d been through some strange experiences in her life, things she never quite explained. But she had an uncanny ability to make sense of things that didn’t make sense. If anyone could help me, it was her.

I told her everything. From the first night it started, to the strange behavior, to the way he whispered that name. Rachel listened carefully, her face growing serious.

“I think you need to find out who this Cammie is,” she said finally, her voice soft but firm. “Whatever’s happening, it’s tied to that name. You need to investigate.”

I agreed, but where to start? I didn’t know any Cammie. No one in our family, no friends, no neighbors. I felt like I was chasing a ghost.

“Maybe it’s something from his past life,” Rachel suggested gently. “Maybe Cammie is someone he knew before.”

Before?

I couldn’t stop the chills that ran down my spine. What did she mean by that?

But there was something in her tone, in her words, that made me think she knew more than she was letting on. I pressed her, but she just shook her head, saying that some things, some stories, needed to be discovered on their own.

That night, I didn’t sleep. Instead, I researched. I dug through old family records, through any little piece of history I could find. And there it was, buried in an old photo album from my grandmother’s collection.

A picture. A girl. Her name was Cammie.

She was smiling, standing next to a woman I didn’t recognize. But something about her eyes made my stomach drop. They were the same as my son’s.

I stared at that photo for hours, trying to make sense of it. Cammie. A girl I’d never heard of, never known, but someone who was somehow connected to my son. The more I looked at her picture, the more I understood that she wasn’t just someone from the past. She was real, in some way. And she was still here.

My heart raced as I picked up the phone and called my mother.

“Mom,” I said, my voice trembling, “Who is Cammie?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Where did you hear that name?” she asked, her voice suddenly tight, guarded.

“Mom, please. I need to know. Who is she?”

Another pause, and then my mother’s voice, barely a whisper, came through the line. “Cammie was your cousin. She disappeared when you were just a baby. No one ever found her. They said she ran away, but… I think something happened to her.”

The words hit me like a punch in the stomach.

“You never told me about her,” I said, voice shaking. “Why?”

My mother’s voice cracked. “I didn’t want you to know. It’s been too long. I thought it was better to leave the past buried.”

But the past wasn’t buried. Not for my son. Not for Cammie.

I sat there, stunned, holding the phone in my hands. My son’s connection to her wasn’t a coincidence. She wasn’t just a name. She was tied to him, to me, in a way I couldn’t explain.

Later that night, as I sat by his crib, watching him sleep, I finally understood what was happening. My son wasn’t just hearing Cammie’s name. He was reaching for her, reaching out to help her.

And she was reaching back. She wasn’t a ghost or a spirit. She was lost. And my son, with his innocent connection, was the key to finding her.

That night, I went to the crib one more time. This time, when my son reached out, I didn’t hesitate. I let him touch the mesh, let him reach for whatever was there. And for the first time, I felt it too—a warmth, a pull, like someone had finally found their way home.

As I looked at him, I realized that sometimes, we don’t get to choose our paths. Sometimes, the things we fear or don’t understand are there for a reason. And when we face them, when we finally see the truth, we find that the answers were there all along.

I smiled as my son’s hand relaxed, finally at peace. “Cammie,” I whispered softly. “You can stay.”

And for the first time in weeks, I finally fell asleep.

The truth was, sometimes the past can’t be left behind. Sometimes, it’s waiting for us to acknowledge it. But when we do, when we face it head-on, we can heal, we can move forward.

Maybe it was the past that needed closure. Maybe it was my son who brought it. But in the end, we all have our part to play.

And sometimes, the things we don’t understand are just waiting for us to accept them. To help. To love.