The Baby Monitor

My coffee cup rattled against the saucer. Dr. Thorne noticed. He didn't look away.

"Arthur has been... confused," I said, trying to steady my hands. "He talks about old debts. People who are gone."

"People who visit only at night?" Thorne countered. "People who spike his heart rate to a hundred and forty beats per minute?"

He swiped the screen of his tablet, bringing up another graph.

"This is audio data," he said. "The watch has a fall detection feature. It records snippets of sound when it detects sudden movement. Like someone thrashing in bed."

He pressed play.

A burst of static filled the quiet room. Then Arthur’s voice, thin and terrified.

*No. Please. I don't have it.*

Then another voice. Low. Guttural. Impossible to identify, but undeniably male.

*Then find it, old man. Or I burn the will.*

I stared at the tablet. My blood ran cold.

"That's not a memory, Mrs. Vance," Thorne said. "That's a conversation."

I looked at Arthur, sleeping peacefully under the heavy duvet. He wasn't just a prisoner of his mind. He was a hostage in his own home.

"Who has access to this room at night?" Thorne asked.

"Just the nurse. And... and my husband."

"And you?"

"And me."

Thorne studied me for a long moment. He was weighing me, measuring my fear against my complicity. He wasn't just a doctor anymore. He was a witness.

"I have a duty to report suspected elder abuse," he said softly. "Physical, emotional, or financial."

"Please," I whispered. "Don't. Not yet."

"Give me a reason not to."

"Because if you report it, they'll lock him away. And they'll lock me out. And then he'll be alone with them."

Thorne’s eyes narrowed. "With who, Helen?"

"The people who want him dead," I said. "I need proof. I need to know who that voice belongs to."

I looked at the baby monitor sitting unplugged on the dresser. It was too obvious. Too easy to spot.

"I need to hear him," I said. "Without them knowing I'm listening."

Thorne looked at the sleeping man, then back at me. He reached into his medical bag.

"This is a sleep apnea monitor," he said, pulling out a small, sleek device that looked like a smooth black stone. "It records breathing patterns. Snoring. And any other ambient noise in the room. It uploads directly to a cloud server. My server."

He placed it on the nightstand, tucking it behind the lamp.

"It has a twelve-hour battery life," he said. "And it's completely silent."

He handed me a card with a QR code on it.

"Scan this," he said. "It will give you remote access to the feed."

I took the card. My fingers brushed his. His hand was warm, steady.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"Because I took an oath to do no harm," he said. "And leaving him here alone feels like harm."

He packed up his bag, his movements efficient and professional. "I'll be back on Friday. If you haven't found your proof by then, Helen, I'm making the call."

I walked him to the door. As he left, he turned back.

"Be careful," he said. "Whoever that voice belongs to... he doesn't sound like he's bargaining. He sounds like he's collecting."

I went back upstairs. I scanned the code. The app downloaded in seconds.

I put in my earbuds. The feed was live. I could hear the rhythmic *whoosh-hiss* of Arthur’s oxygen machine. The rustle of sheets as he turned in his sleep.

I waited.

The day dragged on. Richard came home early, his mood foul. He paced the kitchen, talking on the phone in hushed, angry tones. Simon visited, leaving with a thick envelope of files.

Night fell.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, the single earbud in my left ear. Richard was asleep beside me, his breathing heavy and regular.

1:00 a.m. Silence.

1:45 a.m. Mrs. Higgins walked past Arthur's door. Her soft footsteps faded.

2:00 a.m.

A click.

The sound of a door handle turning. Not the hall door. The closet door.

My heart hammered against my ribs. The priest hole.

Footsteps. Heavy. Wet.

"Wake up, Arthur."

The voice was clear in my ear. It wasn't Richard. It wasn't Simon.

It was the voice from the watch recording. The voice of a dead man.

"I know you're awake," Julian said. "Stop pretending."

Arthur whimpered. "Please. I told you. Helen has the keys."

"Helen doesn't know anything," Julian sneered. "She's a housekeeper with a marriage license. You're the one with the codes."

"I forgot them," Arthur sobbed. "I forget everything."

"You better remember," Julian said. I heard the sound of a lighter flicking. *Click-hiss.* "Because I'm tired of living in the dark, old man. I want my life back."

"You can't have it," Arthur whispered. "You're dead."

"I'm only dead as long as you're alive," Julian said.

I sat up in bed, clutching the sheet.

"And you've lived long enough, haven't you?"

There was a sound of movement. A rustle of fabric. A gasp.

Then the red light on the app interface blinked.

*Audio Spike Detected.*

I threw the covers off. I didn't care if Richard woke up. I didn't care if Simon was watching.

I ran into the hallway.

The red light on the smoke detector blinked in the darkness.

Now I would hear what the night brought. And I would bring something back.