He checked the baby monitor even though he didn’t have a baby. The screen showed the upstairs nursery in pale green night vision. Empty crib. Rocking chair. Moon-pattern wallpaper. Still. Silent. Marcus lowered the monitor and rubbed his eyes. The rental listing had warned him not to remove anything from the nursery. He’d assumed it was some sentimental request from the owners. Now, at 2:13 a.m., he was beginning to think the room itself had rules. The first note had been taped to the refrigerator: If the monitor turns on by itself, check immediately. The second appeared hours later beneath the bathroom sink: If the crib is occupied, do not enter the room. Marcus had laughed nervously at first. Some kind of elaborate prank. Maybe an escape-room-style Airbnb gimmick. Then the rocking chair had started moving on its own. Slowly. Back and forth. He stared at the monitor again. The chair was still moving. His pulse quickened. Another note waited beside the monitor now. He hadn’t seen it before. If you hear crying, mute the volume immediately. As if on cue, a soft crackling sound emerged from the speaker. Then crying. Faint. Wet. Infant crying. Marcus slapped the mute button. The crying stopped instantly. Relief flooded him— Until he heard it again. Not through the monitor. From upstairs. Directly above him. A new note slid from beneath the nursery door upstairs with a soft whisper against the floorboards. Marcus climbed halfway up the stairs before forcing himself to read it. DO NOT TRUST THE OTHER NOTES. His stomach dropped. Because taped beside it was another message, written in different handwriting: That note is lying. More paper rustled beneath the door. More instructions. More contradictions. The crying resumed upstairs, louder now. Human. Hungry. Waiting. Marcus backed slowly down the stairs as fresh notes continued sliding into the hallway one after another. Until finally, a tiny hand appeared beneath the nursery door. That was the moment the instructions finally stopped contradicting each other.