One evening, a woman arrived clutching a baby wrapped in an old blanket. She asked for a crib—we had none—then quietly requested privacy.
That night, a baby’s cries echoed from her room. On the cameras, she sat motionless, staring at the wall, the blanket sagging in her arms. When I knocked, the crying stopped instantly. She opened the door, eyes red, bundle limp. “Everything okay?” I asked. She nodded and shut the door.
The next morning, pale and sleepless, she said, “It’s just me and Daniel,” glancing at the blanket like a real child.
By the third night, I couldn’t ignore the wailing. When I entered her room, she knelt before the empty blanket. “He’s not breathing,” she whispered. “I just needed somewhere warm for him.”
Days later, she disappeared, leaving the bundle behind—just layers of worn fabric. Police told me her name: Maritza Duarte. Her baby had died in a house fire a year earlier. Since then, she’d wandered from place to place, always carrying that blanket. People often reported hearing a baby crying where she stayed.
A week later, she returned once more. I gave her a room for free. That night, no crying—only soft humming. By morning, she was gone, leaving a folded blanket and a tiny blue sock.
Months later, a woman with a real baby checked in. “My sister said this was a safe place,” she said. That night, she heard gentle humming too.
Sometimes grief lingers longer than ghosts.
