The Lullaby Counter

I started counting my daughter's lullabies when she was three.

Not because I wanted to—but because Emily insisted. "Again, Daddy," she'd whisper in the dark, her small fingers gripping my shirt. "Sing it again." Some nights, I'd sing "You Are My Sunshine" thirty, forty times. My voice would grow hoarse, but still she'd beg for more.

The pediatrician said it was just a phase. "Some kids need routine," she explained. "She'll grow out of it."

But Emily didn't grow out of it. Instead, the counting became more specific. By four, she could tell me exactly how many times I'd sung each song the previous night. If I was off by even one repetition, she'd scream until her face turned purple.

That's when Sarah, my wife, started sleeping in the guest room. "I can't listen to it anymore," she said. "The same songs, over and over. It's not natural, Jack."

I knew it wasn't natural. But what could I do? The one night I refused to sing, Emily scratched her own face until it bled.

The specialists were useless. OCD, they said. Anxiety disorder. Autism spectrum. They prescribed medications that Emily refused to take, therapy sessions she wouldn't speak during. Nothing helped.

By five, she'd added new rules. The songs had to be sung in perfect pitch. She'd scream if I was even slightly off-key. I started recording myself to practice during my lunch breaks at work. My coworkers stopped inviting me to eat with them.

Then came the humming.

I first noticed it during breakfast. A soft, melodic sound coming from Emily's closed mouth as she arranged her cereal in perfect circles. The same sequence of notes, over and over. It wasn't any lullaby I recognized.

"What's that song, sweetie?" I asked.

She looked up at me with eyes that seemed too old for her face. "It's their song, Daddy. They taught it to me."

"Who taught it to you?"

"The other children. The ones in the walls. They count with me."

Sarah moved out that week. Left a note saying she'd file for divorce. I barely noticed. I was too busy counting.

Because now Emily insisted I learn "their" song too. She'd hum it, and I'd have to repeat it back. If I made a mistake, she'd stand perfectly still and stare at me for hours. Not blinking. Not moving. Just staring.

I lost my job. Stopped leaving the house. The walls of Emily's room became covered in tally marks—counts of songs, counts of notes, counts of breaths between verses. Emily would check them every morning, adding her own marks in crayon.

Last night, something changed. As I sang for the forty-third time, Emily suddenly said, "That's enough, Daddy. We have enough now."

"Enough what, sweetheart?"

"Enough songs. They say we've counted enough." She smiled—the first real smile I'd seen in years. "Now they can come out."

That's when I heard it. Behind the walls. In the ceiling. Under the floors. Humming. Dozens of children's voices, all humming that same strange melody. Getting louder. Getting closer.

Emily stood up in her bed, arms outstretched like a conductor. "They've been so patient, Daddy. Waiting all this time. Counting all the songs with me."

The humming grew louder still. The walls began to vibrate.

"I had to make sure you knew all the songs first," she said. "They made me promise. Because you'll need to sing to them too. Every night. Forever."

The first hand broke through the wall beside her bed. Small. Grey. Fingers too long and thin to be human.

"Don't worry, Daddy," Emily whispered as more started breaking through. "I've counted exactly how many there are. Seven hundred and forty-three. And they all want to hear their lullaby."

I'm writing this from the basement. The humming is everywhere now. Emily's voice rises above them all, conducting her choir of horrors. I can hear them moving through the house, searching.

I've counted the bullets in my gun. Six. Not nearly enough.

But maybe if I sing to them...

Maybe if I just keep counting...