I watched the footage with a sense of dread, my heart thundering in my chest. The room was dimly lit, a soft nightlight casting gentle shadows across the walls. Emma lay in her bed, small and fragile, her chest rising and falling in the even rhythm of sleep. Everything seemed peaceful at first, but that tranquility was short-lived.

Evan entered the room quietly, just as he had on the night I’d found them together. He sat on the edge of Emma’s bed, brushing a gentle hand over her forehead. It seemed innocent, but then something shifted. Emma began to stir, her face contorting as if she were locked in a nightmare.

Evan’s proximity was supposed to soothe her, but as the minutes ticked by, Emma’s distress visibly mounted. She whimpered softly, her tiny hands reaching out as though grasping for something intangible. Evan remained by her side, his expression oddly detached, as if he were waiting for something.

And then… the unthinkable happened.

Emma sat bolt upright, eyes wide open but unfocused, staring into the dark corners of her room. Her mouth moved, forming words I couldn’t hear but could imagine. Evan leaned closer, whispering in response. It was like they were having a conversation, one where Emma was trapped in a battle only she could see.

I rewound the footage, hoping I’d misinterpreted what I saw. But every replay confirmed it: Evan was speaking to her, guiding her through these nocturnal episodes. His voice, calm and deliberate, was coaxing her deeper into whatever realm haunted her dreams.

My mind raced through a hundred possibilities, none of which made any sense. What was he doing? Why was Emma reacting this way? She seemed both terrified and entranced, caught in a state that was neither fully asleep nor awake.

I took a shaky breath, forcing myself to calm down. This wasn’t abuse in the physical sense, but it felt like a violation all the same. Evan had crossed a line, inserting himself into a part of Emma’s life that was meant to be private and sacred.

I confronted Evan the next day, my voice trembling as I demanded an explanation. He looked genuinely surprised, as if he hadn’t realized the implications of his actions. “Carrie, I was just trying to help,” he insisted, his eyes pleading for understanding. “She seemed so scared. Sometimes, she would say things that were… unsettling. I thought if I could understand, maybe I could help her.”

His explanation didn’t alleviate the fear gnawing at my insides. Instead, it deepened my resolve to protect Emma at all costs. Whatever was happening in those midnight hours was beyond my comprehension, but I knew it had to stop.

I told Evan things had to change. We would find another way to help Emma, one that didn’t involve these covert nocturnal visits. I reached out to a child psychologist the very next day, determined to get to the root of Emma’s sleep disturbances.

Evan moved to the guest room that night, a silent agreement that something had to change. I watched over Emma more closely, attuned to her needs, vigilant in my duties as a mother.