Have you ever heard a street sprinkler's song in the dead of night?
Not the faint tune drifting by during the day, mixed with traffic and chatter.
I mean at two in the morning, when the whole street is silent as a grave, and the song suddenly blares downstairs. It isn't loud, but at this hour, it feels like someone is humming right in your ear.
"Only Mom is Good in the World."
I live in an old neighborhood, on the sixth floor with no elevator. My window faces a narrow two-lane road. By day, it's horribly congested. By night, it turns into a parking lot, cars lined up on both sides, leaving just enough space for a sprinkler to squeeze through.
The sprinkler passes by every single night at 2:00 a.m.
I learned the time from insomnia, not boredom.
Last autumn, I stopped sleeping properly. I'd lie in bed tossing and turning, my mind bubbling like a boiling pot. The doctor said mild anxiety, prescribed pills, but they didn't help much. Eventually, I stopped forcing it. If I couldn't sleep, I'd scroll my phone until I passed out.
The first night I noticed something was wrong was November 17th.
I was scrolling short videos until around 1:50 a.m., ready to put my phone down, when music erupted downstairs.
"Only Mom is Good in the World."
I froze—not because of the song, but because it was too close.
Normally, when a sprinkler passes during the day, the melody drifts near, then fades away in a few seconds. But that night, the music didn't move. It just stayed in one place.
I walked to the window and looked down.
Streetlights bleached the road white. Cars were parked tightly on both sides.
The sprinkler was parked directly below my building, its warning light flashing on the roof. Water still sprayed from the back pipe, forming small puddles that reflected the lamplight.
There was no one inside.
I leaned on the windowsill, face pressed against the screen, staring clearly.
The driver's seat was empty. So was the passenger seat. On the driver's seat lay something white, like a piece of paper or cloth.
The music kept playing.
It was stuck on the second verse—the part that repeats "Mom is good, mom is good", over and over. It didn't loop back, didn't cut to the intro, just that one line.
I stood there for about a minute.
Then the music stopped.
Not fading out—cut off abruptly, like someone yanked the plug.
The sprinkler went silent, lights off. Water still gushed from the back, stronger than before, rushing across the ground.
I stared at it for a long time.
No one got out. No one got in. It just sat there, like a creature resting by the road.
Eventually, sleepiness hit. I went back to bed and passed out.
The next morning, the first thing I did was look out the window.
The road was clean. The puddles were gone. The sprinkler was nowhere to be seen.
I brushed it off.
Probably the driver stepped out for the bathroom. Maybe a wiring glitch. This old neighborhood didn't even have a proper management. Anything could happen.
But the next night, the same thing happened again.
2:00 a.m.
The sprinkler's music started downstairs on time.
"Only Mom is Good in the World."
I didn't hesitate. I went straight to the window.
Same spot. Same empty seats. Same white object on the chair.
The music stopped after less than twenty seconds.
Then the car inched forward—two or three meters—and stopped again.
The music blared once more, cut off the same way.
It was like it was looking for something.
Or looking for someone.
Within five minutes, it moved three times. Each time just a little. Each time stopping to play music, then cutting it short.
After the third move, it went completely quiet. Lights off. Water off.
Like a machine powered down.
But I noticed something.
Its direction had changed.
At first, the front faced east—the normal direction.
After three small shifts, it turned little by little, until it was parked diagonally.
Its front was facing my window.
As if it had finally found its target.
My heart skipped.
Not exactly fear—more like a sudden jolt, as if someone tapped my shoulder from behind.
You're home alone. You know no one else is there.
But someone touched you.
That night, I barely slept. My dreams were messy: sprinklers, music, an old woman sitting in the car smiling at me.
When she smiled, she had no teeth—just a dark hollow.
On the third night, I decided to figure it out.
I'm not brave. But I'm unbearably curious.
If something doesn't make sense, I fixate on it—while eating, walking, even using the bathroom.
It's gotten me into trouble. Like trying a terrible restaurant just to confirm how bad it is.
So that night, I set an alarm for 1:50 a.m.
Threw on a thick coat, grabbed my phone and keys, and went downstairs.
The building was silent. Some sensor lights worked, some didn't.
I used my phone's flashlight, footsteps echoing in the lobby.
Outside, the cold wind bit. I hid behind a rusted, abandoned mail box, out of sight. Phone on silent. I waited.
At exactly 2:00 a.m., the sprinkler arrived.
It came from the east, moving slowly—barely faster than a walking person.
No music. No headlights. Just gliding under the streetlights.
You wouldn't even think it was working.
As it passed me, I realized something was deeply wrong.
It wasn't spraying water.
The first two nights, from upstairs, I'd seen water coming out.
But standing on the ground, the pipe only dripped occasionally—like a leak.
So what had I seen spraying those nights?
The car rolled past me and stopped at the exact spot it had ended up the night before—directly facing my window.
Music started.
Only the first seven words:
"Only Mom is Good in the World."
Not the whole song. Just that line. Played once. Paused two seconds. Played again.
Like someone was confirming something, over and over.
I stared at the driver's seat. Empty.
Passenger seat. Empty.
But this close, I could see what the white object was.
It was a photograph.
About eight inches, laminated, reflecting light.
In it, an elderly woman held a small child.
She wore a dark padded jacket, hair white and messy, deep wrinkles, smiling widely, eyes squeezed shut.
The toddler, two or three years old, wore red. Also smiling.
But the child's eyes stared straight at the camera—black and white, unnaturally bright.
The old woman's mouth was open.
Not a smile. Like she was speaking or singing. Lips rounded. Dark inside.
I remembered the toothless woman from my dream.
Then the music stopped.
Not cut off—finished naturally.
Three or four seconds of silence.
Then a voice. Not music. A human voice.
Far away, yet so close, like someone singing under a thick quilt.
I listened closely.
The voice sang:
"Mom is good… mom is good…"
An old woman's voice, hoarse, as if she hadn't drunk water in days, or cried until her throat broke.
It came from the sprinkler.
But the car was empty.
She sang it three times. Then complete silence.
The streetlight hummed above. Cold wind banged the mail box.
My heart raced, but all I could think was:
Did I close my windows?
Then the sprinkler moved.
Not forward. It turned in place.
Its front now pointed directly at my building entrance.
Headlights flickered once, like a blink.
Music blared again—this time, the whole song.
I turned and ran.
Not fear. Instinct.
That thing—sprinkler or not—wasn't facing the door.
It was facing me.
Behind the door was the stairwell. Up to the sixth floor. To my room.
To my south-facing window, staring straight at this road.
I ran up in darkness, sensor lights dead. Phone swinging wildly.
On the sixth floor, my hands shook so hard I missed the keyhole three times.
Inside, I flipped on every light.
Living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, even the balcony.
Locked all windows. Checked twice. Drew curtains tight.
I sat on the sofa, turned on a variety show, volume loud.
People laughed and clapped. But all I heard was that voice.
"Mom is good… mom is good…"
Same tune as the sprinkler.
But the sprinkler played a children's choir version—high-pitched, childish, like a kindergarten performance.
The old woman sang it half speed, every word dragged out, heavy and wet, like a soaked rope dragging on the ground.
I stayed awake until dawn.
When I woke up, it was 11 a.m.
Three WeChat messages, two missed calls from colleagues asking where I was.
I called in sick.
Then I made a stupid decision, in hindsight:
I decided to investigate the sprinkler.
Not bravery. Too many oddities.
Why 2 a.m.? Why below my building?
Why the photo? Where did the voice come from?
I'd never figure it out sitting at home.
First, I asked the security guard.
Uncle Liu, in his fifties, night shift, sleeping by day.
I found him awake, making jasmine tea.
"Uncle Liu, a sprinkler comes down this road at 2 a.m. Do you know about it?"
He glanced at me. "Yeah. Around two every night."
"Have you seen it?"
"Of course. Passes the gate every day. Why? Disturbing you?"
"No. It just… seems strange."
He thought. "Strange? It's a sprinkler. Sprinklers spray water."
I couldn't explain. Saying a sprinkler was hunting me sounded insane.
"Which unit is it from? Sanitation? Contractor?"
"Should be the sanitation bureau. They manage this road." He pulled up a number. "Someone complained before about the early time. Here."
I called. Rang many times. No answer.
Called again. A rough, gravelly voice picked up.
"Hello?"
"I'm asking about the sprinkler on Garden Road. Is it yours?"
Pause. "Garden Road? Which part?"
"By Magnolia Garden neighborhood."
Another pause. "Magnolia Garden? That section isn't ours."
I froze. "Not yours?"
"From the intersection to the overpass, it was assigned to another company last September. We only go up to the intersection." He gave me another number.
I called that. A sleepy young woman answered.
She checked records.
"Magnolia Garden on Garden Road?
No sprinkler shifts have been scheduled there since last October."
"No shifts at all?"
"Right. Subway construction started. Barriers blocked the road. Sprinklers can't enter. Suspended until work finishes."
I stood outside the guard house. Afternoon sun warm.
But my back turned ice cold.
No sprinklers scheduled since October.
Today was November 17th.
For over a month, no sprinkler should have been on that road.
But I saw one three nights in a row.
Parking below my building.
Playing "Only Mom is Good in the World".
"Any private or unregistered vehicles?"
"Not possible. Sprinkling requires permits. And 2 a.m. is too late. We finish by 10 p.m."
"Before October? Any 2 a.m. shifts?"
She checked. "Before September, shifts were 2 p.m. and 8 p.m. No midnight runs."
I thanked her and hung up.
I felt like someone holding puzzle pieces that formed a nightmare.
I expected a normal answer: official vehicle, regular driver, routine break.
Instead, the evidence said this car should not exist.
Uncle Liu poked his head out. "Find anything?"
I hesitated. "Uncle Liu, how long have you worked here?"
"Over three years."
"Heard of any accidents around here? Involving a sprinkler?"
His hand froze around the teacup.
His gaze shifted—no longer casual, but sharp, assessing.
"What have you heard?"
"Nothing. Just… the car feels off."
He sipped tea, lowered his voice. "You live on the sixth floor?"
"Yeah."
South-facing room?"
"Yeah."
His expression twisted. Not quite fear, but like looking at someone marked for death.
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"Keep your windows locked tight tonight."
He turned back inside and shut the door.
I stood there. Then left.
Halfway, I glanced back. He was watching me through the half-drawn curtain, only half his face visible.
That look still haunts me.
Like he knew something, but dared not speak.
At home, I searched online.
Most results explained why sprinklers play that song—to warn pedestrians.
I searched "Garden Road accident". Old car crashes, thefts. Nothing relevant.
I searched "Magnolia Garden accident".
Second result: a three-year-old local news headline.
"Accident Outside Magnolia Garden: Elderly Woman and Child Hit by Sprinkler."
Short article: Around 2 p.m., a sprinkler struck an elderly woman and a toddler. Both hospitalized. No life-threatening injuries at press time.
No follow-up.
I stared. Three years ago. Magnolia Garden. Sprinkler. Old woman and child.
A voice screamed: stop searching. Close the phone. Pretend nothing happened.
I kept going.
I searched the hospital name, then "car crash elderly woman child".
Found an old local forum post.
"That Garden Road accident. The old woman didn't make it."
OP claimed to be a hospital worker.
The child survived. The old woman did not.
Before she died, she kept singing "Only Mom is Good in the World" to calm the crying toddler.
She sang until she passed away.
One reply chilled me.
"Night the old woman was taken away, a sprinkler parked below the hospital. Played that song all night."
Anonymous account, default avatar. No more info.
I put the phone down and walked to the window.
Dusk. Traffic jammed.
No sprinkler now. It only came at 2 a.m.
A realization hit me.
The accident was at 2 p.m.—the actual scheduled sprinkler time.
Victims lived in Magnolia Garden. So did I.
But I moved in last June. The accident was two years prior.
No one told me. Not the agent. Not the landlord. Not neighbors.
The agent said the south-facing unit was rare, good light, great price.
I thought I lucked out.
Now I understood: sixth floor, facing the road, facing the crash site.
That's why it was cheap.
That's why it had been empty.
That night, I barely slept.
Lights on full. TV blaring.
My ears pricked for any sound.
At 1:58 a.m., I heard it.
Not music.
Engine. Deep diesel rumble, approaching from the east.
Closer. Closer.
Stopped directly below my window.
Seconds of silence.
Music started.
"Only Mom is Good in the World."
Not from the beginning. Mid-verse, like resuming where it left off.
I sat frozen. Curtains drawn. Lights on.
I told myself: if I can't see it, it can't see me.
Childish logic. But I believed it.
Then the music stopped.
Then the voice.
Not from outside.
From inside my living room.
Right behind the sofa. So close I felt the breath.
"Child… can you hear Mom singing?"
Hoarse, dry, like dead leaves crunching underfoot.
But no malice. Not a vengeful ghost.
Just an extremely old woman, using her last strength to speak to a child.
I dared not turn. My back stiff. Neck locked.
I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my ears, chanted nonsense poems and multiplication tables.
The voice didn't return.
After an unknown time, the engine started again, fading into the night.
I opened my eyes.
Lights still on. TV still playing a shopping channel.
Everything normal. As if the last minute never happened.
But behind the sofa, something new had appeared.
I didn't dare look.
I turned my phone to selfie mode, held it up, and aimed behind me.
On the floor lay the photograph.
The same one from the sprinkler.
Old woman holding the child. Dark jacket. Red toddler coat.
The photo was wet, covered in droplets, as if pulled from water.
A small puddle seeped into the floor.
I stared five seconds.
Then turned off the phone, killed the lights, and buried myself under the covers.
The next morning, sunlight streamed in.
I forced myself to check.
The floor was dry.
No photo. No water. Nothing.
But the sofa was slightly turned.
I'd left it facing the TV. Now it was shifted, as if someone had stood behind it.
I moved out that same day.
Urgent. No gradual packing.
Booked a short-term apartment, threw essentials in a suitcase, grabbed a ride.
Texted the landlord: I'm moving out. Forfeit the deposit.
He asked why. I said nothing.
The new apartment was on the west side, ten kilometers away.
Window faced an inner yard, not the road. Quiet at night.
I thought distance would fix everything.
I was wrong.
Third night in the new place.
2:00 a.m. I woke up to a sound.
Not sprinkler music.
Water.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
Like someone pouring buckets on the floor.
It grew closer, down the hallway, toward my door.
Then music.
Seeping through the crack under the door.
Soft, but every note clear.
"Only Mom is Good in the World."
I sat up, staring at the door.
A sliver of light from the hallway.
But something dark moved in the light—water, slowly seeping under.
The water spread, covering the floor, touching my slippers, reaching the bed.
Unnaturally cold—like well water, freezing my toes.
Then I saw a reflection in the water.
Not mine.
An old woman stood behind me, bent over, holding a child.
Her mouth opened and closed, singing.
I spun around.
Nothing there.
But the reflection remained. The woman singing. The child smiling.
The child's eyes glowed brightly, staring straight at me.
As if saying:
You see me. Don't you?
I stepped barefoot through the cold water, yanked the door open.
Hallway empty. Lights humming. Floor dry.
I turned back. My room was also dry.
But the soles of my feet were soaking wet.
I stood there, staring at my wet feet, and finally understood.
The sprinkler wasn't looking for me.
The old woman was looking for her child.
She was confused.
Fatally injured, she sang to comfort the toddler.
She thought the child was still there.
But the child had been moved to another ward.
She died with her eyes closed, but her ears still open, waiting for a reply.
And she mistook me for the child.
The room I rented was the same one the pair had lived in.
After the accident, the child survived and moved away.
The house sat empty.
I was the first tenant after the tragedy.
I never went back for my remaining things.
The landlord called later, said she'd dispose of them. I agreed.
I changed my number. Moved to a different city.
Seventh floor, no elevator, window facing away from roads.
A month passed.
No sprinklers. No music. No old woman's voice.
I thought it was finally over.
But last night, I boiled water in the kitchen.
The kettle didn't whistle.
The lid rattled from steam:
Thump… thump-thump… thump.
I froze.
I recognized the rhythm.
Thump… thump-thump… thump.
"World… on-ly… Mom…"
The cup slipped from my hand and shattered.
I carried the kettle off the stove, turned off the gas.
Outside, another city's lights glowed peacefully.
No sprinklers. No songs. Nothing.
But the water inside the kettle kept making noise.
Not steam.
A voice, muffled, coming from deep inside the spout.
"Mom is good."