Agatha Rose's childhood unfolded in the shadow of resentment. Her aunt, a woman whose heart had calcified long ago, viewed the orphaned child as nothing more than an unwelcome burden. Love and affection became an alien concept to young Agatha, the warmth of a mother's embrace was as mysterious as constellations in a midnight sky. Despite the emotional desert of her upbringing, a seed of hope took root in Agatha's soul. She clung to a dream, nurtured it through the years of neglect and cold indifference. After several years of trying, her most cherished wish became a reality. She was to become a mother. The months that followed pulsed with anticipation. Agatha's body transformed, her growing belly a testament to the miracle within. She reveled in each tiny movement, each flutter and kick, a secret communication between mother and child. In quiet moments, she would whisper to her unborn baby, weaving promises of love and protection. One day, as she put the finishing touches on the baby's room, a discordant note struck through her happiness. A wave of dizziness washed over her, followed by an unsettling flush of heat. Agatha lowered herself into the rocking chair, one hand pressed against her swollen belly. Something wasn't right. The realization dawned slowly, creeping through her consciousness like a toxic fog. The baby, usually so active at this time of day, had gone eerily still. Panic rose in Agatha's throat, threatening to choke her as she sat, frozen, in a room filled with unfulfilled promises. Her world shattered with a single, crimson drop. The pain in her abdomen twisted like a knife, and blood trickled down her leg, a gruesome harbinger of loss. Further tests revealed an even harsher truth—Agatha would never be able to conceive. Her dreams of motherhood evaporated, leaving behind a void as vast and empty as her womb. Anger bloomed in her chest, a dark flower fed by envy and pain. In the twisted garden of her mind, a terrible idea took root. If she couldn't have children, why should anyone else? She wanted parents to experience the agony of loss, to have their hearts ripped out as hers had been. One night, Agatha slipped into her neighbor's home, a shadow amongst shadows. She concealed herself in the closet of their young son's room, the closet door remained ajar by a sliver. Agatha waited for the boy to dream before she crept out of the closet. Her blade plunged into his chest, silencing a young heart forever. She vanished into the night, leaving behind a scene of horror. The pattern repeated, night after blood-soaked night. A community paralyzed by fear scrambled to protect their children from this unseen predator. Agatha reveled in their terror, each murder a perverse balm to her own pain, but even monsters can be caught. One father, driven by desperation, turned his son into bait. He crouched outside the boy's room, shotgun at the ready, praying he wasn't too late. Agatha emerged from her hiding place, knife raised high. Without warning, the door exploded inward. The father's finger tightened on the trigger as Agatha lunged for one final kill. The shotgun's roar drowned out her cry of rage. The blast threw her back into the closet, a fitting end for the monster who'd lurked there. As life ebbed from her body, Agatha's eyes blazed with unholy light. Her final words rasped out, a chilling prophecy: "I will return...to murder all the children." And so, the legend was born. A tale whispered in the dark, of a vengeful spirit who slain sleeping children in their beds. Agatha Rose, the childless mother, forever hunting those she could never have.