The Ashworth house sat at the end of Maple Grove Lane, a Victorian beauty with original hardwood floors, crown molding, and a wraparound porch that had sold Bethany and Chris Morrison the moment they saw it. At six months pregnant with their first child, Bethany had fallen in love with the nursery on the second floor—a corner room with two large windows, perfect natural light, and enough space for a crib, changing table, and the rocking chair Bethany’s grandmother had left her.
“This is it,” she’d said, her hand resting on her growing belly. “This is where our baby will sleep.”
The realtor, a cheerful woman named Patricia, had smiled but said nothing about the room’s history. She wasn’t legally required to disclose what had happened there thirty-seven years earlier. The previous owners had renovated extensively, and the Morrisons were getting the house for $340,000—a steal in the current market. Some secrets, Patricia reasoned, were better left buried with the past.
They closed on the house in early September 2025 and spent the next two months preparing for their daughter’s arrival. Chris painted the nursery a soft sage green while Bethany assembled the crib and organized tiny clothes in the dresser. Everything was perfect, everything was ready.
Everything except the corner.
The northeast corner of the nursery, where Bethany had planned to put the rocking chair, was inexplicably cold. Not just cool—freezing. While the rest of the room maintained a comfortable 72 degrees, that corner felt like it was barely above freezing, cold enough that Bethany could see her breath when she stood there.
“There must be a draft,” Chris said, checking the windows. But both were sealed tight, new double-pane glass installed during the previous owner’s renovation. He checked the walls for gaps, the floorboards for cracks, even went into the attic to inspect the insulation. Everything was fine.
The cold spot remained.
“We’ll just put the rocking chair on the other side,” Bethany decided, though the room’s layout didn’t work as well that way. The cold corner seemed to pull at her attention, demanding acknowledgment even as she tried to ignore it.
Their daughter, Lily Rose Morrison, was born on November 14th—a healthy eight pounds, two ounces, with a full head of dark hair and lungs that announced her arrival to the entire maternity ward. Bethany and Chris were exhausted, overwhelmed, and completely in love.
They brought Lily home three days later, settling into the chaotic rhythm of new parenthood—sleepless nights, endless diaper changes, learning to decode their daughter’s different cries. The nursery became their sanctuary and their prison, the place where they spent hours trying to soothe Lily to sleep, then tiptoeing out and praying she’d stay down for more than ninety minutes.
The lullaby started on Lily’s two-week birthday.
The First Song
It was 2:30 AM, and Bethany was walking the nursery floor with a fussy Lily, bouncing gently and humming tunelessly, when she heard it. A woman’s voice, soft and distant, singing a lullaby Bethany didn’t recognize. The melody was haunting, minor-key, something old-fashioned that might have been sung a century ago.
“Hush now, my darling, close your eyes tight,
Mama’s here with you all through the night,
Sleep now, my precious, let dreams carry you,
Morning will come and make all things new…”
Bethany froze mid-bounce, listening. The voice seemed to come from the cold corner, though she couldn’t be sure. It was so faint it might have been her exhausted imagination, or sound carrying from a neighbor’s house, or a radio left on somewhere.
But Lily had stopped crying. The baby’s eyes were wide, focused on the northeast corner as if she could see something there. Her tiny fist had uncurled, and she made a soft cooing sound.
“Chris?” Bethany called out, her voice uncertain. “Chris, are you awake?”
Her husband appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “What’s wrong? Is Lily okay?”
“Do you hear that? The singing?”
Chris stood still, listening. Bethany strained to hear the lullaby again, but it had stopped. The nursery was silent except for Lily’s breathing and the hum of the baby monitor.
“I don’t hear anything,” Chris said. “What did it sound like?”
“A woman singing. A lullaby. It was coming from that corner.” Bethany pointed to the cold spot, which seemed even colder now, the air around it shimmering slightly as if with frost.
Chris walked over to the corner, holding his hand out. “Jesus, it’s freezing here. How is it this cold?” He pulled out his phone and checked the temperature reading from their smart thermostat. “The room’s at 71 degrees according to this.”
But when he held the phone toward the corner, the built-in thermometer dropped rapidly. 45 degrees. 38 degrees. 32 degrees. Below freezing.
“That’s not possible,” Chris muttered. “That’s physically not possible without a massive draft or—”
The lullaby started again, louder this time. Both of them heard it clearly—a woman’s voice, achingly beautiful and infinitely sad, singing from the frozen corner.
“Hush now, my darling, don’t you cry,
Mama will sing you a sweet lullaby,
Close your little eyes and rest,
Safe and warm on Mama’s chest…”
Lily reached toward the corner, her small hand opening and closing as if trying to grasp something invisible. She wasn’t scared—if anything, she seemed comforted, her earlier fussiness completely gone.
The singing faded gradually, like someone walking away, until it disappeared entirely. The temperature in the corner remained freezing.
Chris and Bethany stood in the nursery, holding their daughter, staring at the empty corner where an invisible woman had just sung their baby to sleep.
“We need to call someone,” Bethany whispered. “A priest, or a medium, or—”
“Let’s not panic,” Chris said, though his voice shook. “There has to be a rational explanation. Sound carrying through pipes, or electrical interference, or—”
The lullaby returned, just two lines this time:
“Sleep, my angel, safe and sound,
Mama’s love will wrap around…”
Then silence. And in that silence, Lily fell asleep in Bethany’s arms, peaceful and content, as if she’d been sung to sleep by someone she trusted completely.
The Research
Bethany couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t alone in the nursery. Over the next week, the lullaby played every night—sometimes once, sometimes multiple times, always emanating from the freezing corner, always in that same haunting, maternal voice. And always, Lily responded with calm, with contentment, with the kind of deep peace that had eluded her during the day.
“It’s like she recognizes the voice,” Bethany told Chris one morning after another sleepless night punctuated by the mysterious singing. “Like whoever’s singing to her is someone she knows.”
Chris, ever the pragmatist, had tried everything to find a rational explanation. He’d checked for hidden speakers, investigated the house’s electrical system, even hired an HVAC specialist to examine the heating and cooling. Nothing explained the cold spot or the singing.
Finally, Bethany did what she’d been avoiding. She contacted Patricia, their realtor, and asked directly: “What happened in the nursery? What aren’t you telling us?”
Patricia was silent for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, she said, “I wasn’t legally required to disclose it. It was thirty-seven years ago, and the house has been completely renovated since then. I didn’t think—”
“Tell me,” Bethany insisted.
“A woman named Catherine Ashworth lived in that house in the 1980s. She had a baby—a little girl named Rose. Catherine suffered from severe postpartum depression, though back then they didn’t diagnose or treat it like they do now. One night in January 1988, during a terrible cold snap, Catherine…” Patricia paused, struggling with the words. “She did something terrible. The baby died. Catherine claimed it was an accident, that she’d opened the window to get fresh air and fell asleep, and by the time she woke up, Rose had frozen to death in her crib.”
Bethany felt sick. “In our nursery. In that room.”
“Yes. The northeast corner, where the crib was positioned. The police investigated but couldn’t prove it was intentional. Catherine was hospitalized for psychiatric care. She died by suicide three months later. The house was sold, renovated, passed through several owners. I truly didn’t think the history mattered anymore.”
“There’s a ghost in my baby’s room,” Bethany said flatly. “A woman who killed her own child is singing lullabies to my daughter.”
“I don’t know about that,” Patricia said carefully. “I don’t believe in ghosts. But if you’re experiencing something paranormal, you might want to contact someone who specializes in that kind of thing. I can give you a name—a woman who does house cleansings and spiritual work.”
Bethany took the number, thanked Patricia, and immediately called the woman, whose name was Eleanor Chen—the same Dr. Chen who’d helped another family with paranormal issues, known for her expertise in residual hauntings and spiritual phenomena.​
Dr. Chen agreed to visit that evening.
The Medium’s Visit
Eleanor Chen was a serious woman in her late sixties, with intelligent eyes and a calm demeanor that immediately put Bethany at ease. She walked through the house methodically, pausing in doorways, touching walls, standing in rooms with her eyes closed as if listening to something only she could hear.
When she reached the nursery, she stopped in the doorway.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the room.
“Of course,” Bethany said, holding Lily against her shoulder. The baby was awake and alert, watching Dr. Chen with curious eyes.
Dr. Chen entered slowly, her gaze immediately drawn to the northeast corner. She walked toward it, stopping a few feet away, and held out her hands as if warming them by a fire—except this was the opposite of fire.
“How long has it been cold?” she asked.
“Since before Lily was born. Since we moved in.”
Dr. Chen nodded, unsurprised. “And the singing?”
“Two weeks. Every night, sometimes multiple times. Always the same lullaby, always from that corner.”
“Has your daughter been harmed in any way? Scratches, bruises, sudden illnesses?”
“No,” Chris interjected. “If anything, she’s calmer when the singing happens. She sleeps better.”
Dr. Chen was quiet for a long moment, still focused on the corner. Then she said, “There is a presence here. A woman. She’s bound to this room, specifically to that corner where something terrible happened. She’s trapped in a moment of profound grief and regret.”
“Catherine Ashworth,” Bethany said. “She killed her baby in 1988. The realtor told me.”
“Did she?” Dr. Chen asked gently. “Or did something happen that she couldn’t control, and she’s been trapped in the guilt of it ever since?”
The temperature in the corner dropped even further. Frost began forming on the windowpane nearest to it, delicate patterns spreading across the glass.
And the lullaby began:
“Hush now, my darling, Mama’s here,
No need for crying, no need for fear,
I’ll keep you warm, I’ll keep you safe,
In my arms is your resting place…”
Dr. Chen tilted her head, listening. “She doesn’t mean harm. She’s trying to care for the baby. She’s trying to do what she failed to do before.”
“But she killed her baby,” Bethany said, her arms tightening protectively around Lily. “How do we know she won’t—”
“Because she’s learned,” Dr. Chen interrupted. “Spirits trapped in traumatic moments often replay those moments, but they can also evolve, can learn from their mistakes. Catherine Ashworth is trying to mother your daughter the way she couldn’t mother her own. She’s singing lullabies, providing comfort. The cold is unfortunate—it’s a side effect of her presence, her connection to the moment her daughter died. But she’s not trying to harm Lily. She’s trying to protect her.”
As if in response, the singing grew louder, more urgent:
“I’m so sorry, little one, so sorry I failed,
In the darkness and cold where my love derailed,
But I’m here now to watch and to guard,
To give you the care that I made so hard…”
The lyrics had changed. These weren’t the same words they’d heard before. Catherine was communicating, explaining, pleading for understanding.
Bethany felt tears on her cheeks. “She wants forgiveness.”
“She wants to make amends,” Dr. Chen corrected. “She wants to prove she can be the mother she wasn’t before. But Mrs. Morrison, this is your home, your daughter. You have to decide if you’re comfortable with this arrangement, or if you want me to help her move on.”
The Decision
Bethany and Chris stayed up all night discussing their options. They could ask Dr. Chen to perform a cleansing, to help Catherine’s spirit move on and leave the nursery quiet and empty. Or they could allow the presence to remain, accepting an invisible guardian who sang lullabies and kept watch over their daughter.
“It’s insane,” Chris kept saying. “We’re talking about letting a ghost live in our baby’s room. A ghost who killed her own child.”
“A ghost who’s been punishing herself for thirty-seven years,” Bethany countered. “Who’s so desperate to make things right that she’s bound herself to this room. Chris, Lily isn’t scared of her. The singing comforts her. And honestly…” She paused, struggling with her own complicated feelings. “Honestly, knowing someone’s watching over Lily when we’re exhausted and barely functioning—isn’t that a strange kind of blessing?”
“Or a curse,” Chris muttered. But he didn’t argue further.
They called Dr. Chen the next morning and told her they’d decided to let Catherine stay, at least for now. But they wanted to understand more, wanted to communicate with her if possible.
Dr. Chen returned that evening with recording equipment and a willingness to attempt a mediation session. They gathered in the nursery after putting Lily down for the night. The baby slept peacefully in her crib while the three adults sat in chairs facing the freezing corner.
“Catherine Ashworth,” Dr. Chen spoke into the quiet room. “We know you’re here. We know what happened to your daughter Rose. We want to understand. We want to help you.”
The temperature dropped sharply. Frost spread across more of the windows. And Catherine’s voice, no longer singing, spoke clearly:
“I didn’t mean to hurt her. I would never hurt her. I was so tired, so sick, so lost in darkness I couldn’t see any light. I thought if I could just get fresh air, just feel something cold and clean, I might remember who I was. I opened the window. I sat in the rocking chair. I fell asleep. And when I woke up…”
The voice broke into sobs. The corner seemed to shimmer with grief so profound it was almost visible.
“Rose was cold. So cold. I tried to warm her, tried to bring her back, but she was gone. My baby was gone. And it was my fault. My fault for being weak, for being sick, for falling asleep when I should have been watching her.”
Bethany wiped her eyes. She thought about her own exhaustion, her own moments of barely holding on, the way postpartum life had been so much harder than she’d expected. She thought about how easily something could go wrong, how thin the line was between coping and catastrophe.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Bethany said to the empty corner. “You were sick. You needed help. What happened was a tragedy, but it wasn’t murder. It was an accident born from illness and exhaustion and a system that failed you.”
“But Rose died,” Catherine’s voice whispered. “My daughter died.”
“And you’ve been punishing yourself ever since,” Dr. Chen said gently. “Catherine, Rose moved on long ago. She’s at peace. But you’re still here, still trapped in that moment, still trying to rewrite history. You can’t bring Rose back. But you can choose to move forward. You can choose to forgive yourself.”
“I can’t leave,” Catherine said. “Not while there’s a baby who needs protecting. Not while I can still sing, still watch, still be the mother I should have been.”
Bethany and Chris exchanged glances. Then Bethany said, “You can stay. For now, you can stay. You can sing to Lily, watch over her, help us when we’re too tired to hear her cry. But Catherine, you have to promise me—promise me you won’t hurt her. Promise me you’ll keep her warm, keep her safe.”
“I promise,” Catherine’s voice came, fervent and desperate. “I swear on Rose’s memory, I will keep your daughter safe. I will never let her be cold, never let her be alone. I will be the guardian I couldn’t be before.”
The frost on the windows began to recede. The temperature in the corner rose slightly—still cold, but not freezing. And Catherine’s lullaby returned, softer now, peaceful:
“Sleep now, little Lily Rose,
Safe and warm in your repose,
I’ll watch over you tonight,
Until the morning brings its light…”
Lily slept soundly through it all.
The Months That Followed
The arrangement was strange, but it worked. Catherine became a constant presence in the nursery, her cold corner a fixture they learned to work around. She sang every night, sometimes all night when Lily was particularly fussy. And somehow, impossibly, the baby always calmed to that ghostly voice.
Bethany and Chris found themselves grateful for the help, even as they struggled to explain it to friends and family. They didn’t, ultimately—how could they? They just said Lily was a good sleeper, that she responded well to music, that the nursery’s ambient sound machine did wonders.
But in private moments, Bethany would stand in the nursery and talk to Catherine. She’d tell her about Lily’s milestones—her first smile, her first laugh, the way she’d discovered her hands and spent hours staring at them in wonder. And Catherine would respond, sometimes with words, sometimes just with the lullaby, but always with a presence that felt maternal and protective.
“Thank you,” Bethany said one night, three months after Lily’s birth. “Thank you for watching over her. Thank you for being here when I’m so tired I can barely function.”
“Thank you for trusting me,” Catherine’s voice replied from the corner. “Thank you for giving me a chance to be the mother I couldn’t be before. Lily will never know me, but I’ll know her. And I’ll keep her safe. I promise.”
The cold remained. The lullabies continued. And Lily thrived, growing strong and healthy under the watchful care of her living parents and her ghostly guardian.
Five Years Later
Lily Morrison was five years old when she finally asked about the cold corner in what was now her bedroom. They’d transitioned her from crib to toddler bed to a big-girl twin bed, and she’d long since grown accustomed to the singing that helped her sleep each night.
“Mommy,” she said one evening at bedtime. “Who’s the lady in my room?”
Bethany’s heart skipped a beat. “What lady, sweetie?”
“The one in the corner. She’s always there. She sings to me. She’s nice, but she looks sad.”
Bethany sat on the edge of Lily’s bed, choosing her words carefully. “Her name is Catherine. She lived in this house a long time ago. She… she watches over you.”
“Is she a ghost?”
There was no point in lying. “Yes. She’s a ghost.”
Lily considered this with the pragmatism of a five-year-old. “Does she live here?”
“Sort of. She stays in your room because… because she wants to make sure you’re safe and happy.”
“Can I talk to her?”
Bethany glanced at the corner, where the familiar shimmer and cold indicated Catherine’s presence. “You can try. I think she’d like that.”
Lily sat up in bed and faced the corner. “Hi, Catherine. I’m Lily. Thank you for singing to me. You have a pretty voice.”
The temperature dropped slightly, and Catherine’s voice came, thick with emotion: “Hello, sweet Lily. You’re very welcome. It’s an honor to sing for you.”
“Why do you stay in my room?” Lily asked with childlike directness.
“Because I want to keep you safe. I want to be here for you in a way I couldn’t be for someone else, a long time ago.”
“Your own little girl?”
“Yes. My Rose.”
Lily thought about this. Then she said, “I’m sorry you’re sad. But I’m glad you’re here. You make the scary dreams go away.”
“I’ll always make the scary dreams go away,” Catherine promised. “I’ll always keep you safe, Lily Rose.”
And she did. Catherine remained in Lily’s room through childhood, through the teen years, through high school graduation. She was there for every nightmare, every fear, every moment when Lily needed comfort. She sang her lullabies when Lily was sick, whispered encouragement before big tests, stood guard through heartbreaks and disappointments.
She was the mother she’d failed to be for Rose, translated into eternal guardianship for a child who wasn’t hers by blood but became hers by choice and devotion.
When Lily finally left for college at eighteen, moving into a dorm room hours away, the cold corner in her childhood bedroom remained. Catherine stayed, waiting patiently for visits home, singing lullabies to an empty room, keeping her promise.
And someday, when Lily had children of her own, she would tell them about their grandmother Catherine—not by blood, but by love—who watched over them from a freezing corner, singing lullabies that transcended death itself, proof that redemption and second chances existed even for those who dwelled between worlds.
The haunting lullaby that had once frightened became a blessing, a reminder that love, regret, and the desire to protect could echo through time, turning tragedy into guardianship and creating family from the most unexpected places.
