November 18, 2025 – 10:00 PM CST

The cradle had been there longer than any living settler.

Woven from branches bleached pale by decades of sun and water, it sat nestled in the reeds by Dagger Creek, rocking gently with the current, though no wind stirred the trees. The first families thought it a memorial. The second generation assumed it was a warning. By the third, they simply stopped asking.

But every so often, especially come November, a baby’s cries would echo off the creek’s banks—thin, aching, and too far away to help.

People had tried.

An old trapper named Hulse tied himself to a tree and marched into the reeds one dusk, determined to prove the town was soft. They found the rope snapped clean. His boots were still beside the cradle, standing upright, laces neatly tied. He was never seen again.

After that, no one went down after sundown. They built a wooden fence fifty paces out, with a crude sign: NO FURTHER.

But teenagers test legends.

In 1911, Eliza May threw her locket into the cradle on a dare. She giggled. The creek didn’t. Her laugh echoed back in a crying wail—and two nights later, her baby sister was found in the crib, wailing for milk, though the family hadn’t even known her mother was expecting.

Eliza disappeared the next day.

Now, it’s just something they live with. At least during daylight, the cradle is quiet.
But after dark, the cries start again—too human to ignore.
Too inhuman to trust.