some bottomless pit or underground lake.
Sam fumbled a hand to his right, seeking a light switch. He met the smooth surface of bare wall at first, and then moved his hand lower until he found the switch. He flicked it up, and the room revealed itself, though it seemed hesitant to do so to Sam. The light was weak, not one of the newer ones that burned more brightly for longer, but the older, yellow-hued variety that never fully chased away the night.
The room was very obviously a girl’s room, but seemed suited to a female much younger than the one standing behind him. Posters littered the walls in lieu of papering, makeup was scattered over the surface of an old, abused dressed and on the floor, the blankets and sheets on the bed were a screaming mess of pink leopard print and bright neon green tiger stripes. It looked like the domain of a rebellious teen trying to convince herself and everyone else that her identity was the wild child.
Shoved into the back corner, almost as though it was trying to be forgotten, a mini-crib was set up. The colors of the crib set were androgynous, pale greens and yellows. A hanging mobile allowed butter yellow suns and pale blue moons with faces to smile down on the infant within. On a smaller dresser than the one Sam assumed was the young woman’s, there were tiny diapers and a compact changing station. The soft yellow color did not give a nod to gender either way, and as Sam approached the crib, he still didn’t know whether to expect the woman’s son or daughter to be looking up at him from it.
Sam moved in a way he thought was reserved for bad actors in cheesy horror films. His breath felt caught in his throat, and he was sure each step took him half a minute. He had his hands half-raised, as though to ward away blows from some invisible enemy.
“You can hear them,” the young woman said in a confessionary tone as Sam continued his snail-crawl pace approach toward the crib. “If you listen, they’ll speak to you, and they’ll tell you what you want to know. They’ll tell you secrets. Secrets about people, secrets about you.”
That whispery voice was beginning to stroke insidious, chilly fingers up and down Sam’s neck, raising the hairs in a way that made them resemble thousands of miniature, prickly warning flags. He wanted to look back at her, but his eyes were all for the tiny crib.
The baby was silent inside. He couldn’t see within until he leaned over, because of the way she had blankets draped over all of the sides. He didn’t want to look inside.
“They don’t have all of you, at first,” the woman continued. Her voice became more disturbing on each word, the pronunciation somehow wrong, the flow of her syllables somehow grating. “They’ll tell you that, if you listen. They told me after I saw what had happened. After I saw what I did…”
A hitch in her breathing almost made Sam spin back around. For a moment, he was crazily certain she was about to leap on his back, tearing into him with misshapen teeth or lupine claws.
“I didn’t want it,” the woman said, and her voice was softer than ever. “I didn’t want it!” The repetition of the statement was louder, almost a shriek, and the words crashed around Sam as he reached the crib.
Nothing had helped him determine the gender of the baby, and now Sam guessed he’d never know whether the tiny infant was a boy or girl. The shape in the crib was indefinable, unrecognizable for what it was unless you knew what it began as.
The bedding was red. The huddled ball in the middle of the soaked and stained blankets was torn and shredded to become something resembling nothing more than butcher’s meat. There were no features left, there was nothing left to identify the child for what it had been, and the quickly degrading part of Sam that was still sane was queerly grateful for that.
Sam fumbled a hand to his right, seeking a light switch. He met the smooth surface of bare wall at first, and then moved his hand lower until he found the switch. He flicked it up, and the room revealed itself, though it seemed hesitant to do so to Sam. The light was weak, not one of the newer ones that burned more brightly for longer, but the older, yellow-hued variety that never fully chased away the night.
The room was very obviously a girl’s room, but seemed suited to a female much younger than the one standing behind him. Posters littered the walls in lieu of papering, makeup was scattered over the surface of an old, abused dressed and on the floor, the blankets and sheets on the bed were a screaming mess of pink leopard print and bright neon green tiger stripes. It looked like the domain of a rebellious teen trying to convince herself and everyone else that her identity was the wild child.
Shoved into the back corner, almost as though it was trying to be forgotten, a mini-crib was set up. The colors of the crib set were androgynous, pale greens and yellows. A hanging mobile allowed butter yellow suns and pale blue moons with faces to smile down on the infant within. On a smaller dresser than the one Sam assumed was the young woman’s, there were tiny diapers and a compact changing station. The soft yellow color did not give a nod to gender either way, and as Sam approached the crib, he still didn’t know whether to expect the woman’s son or daughter to be looking up at him from it.
Sam moved in a way he thought was reserved for bad actors in cheesy horror films. His breath felt caught in his throat, and he was sure each step took him half a minute. He had his hands half-raised, as though to ward away blows from some invisible enemy.
“You can hear them,” the young woman said in a confessionary tone as Sam continued his snail-crawl pace approach toward the crib. “If you listen, they’ll speak to you, and they’ll tell you what you want to know. They’ll tell you secrets. Secrets about people, secrets about you.”
That whispery voice was beginning to stroke insidious, chilly fingers up and down Sam’s neck, raising the hairs in a way that made them resemble thousands of miniature, prickly warning flags. He wanted to look back at her, but his eyes were all for the tiny crib.
The baby was silent inside. He couldn’t see within until he leaned over, because of the way she had blankets draped over all of the sides. He didn’t want to look inside.
“They don’t have all of you, at first,” the woman continued. Her voice became more disturbing on each word, the pronunciation somehow wrong, the flow of her syllables somehow grating. “They’ll tell you that, if you listen. They told me after I saw what had happened. After I saw what I did…”
A hitch in her breathing almost made Sam spin back around. For a moment, he was crazily certain she was about to leap on his back, tearing into him with misshapen teeth or lupine claws.
“I didn’t want it,” the woman said, and her voice was softer than ever. “I didn’t want it!” The repetition of the statement was louder, almost a shriek, and the words crashed around Sam as he reached the crib.
Nothing had helped him determine the gender of the baby, and now Sam guessed he’d never know whether the tiny infant was a boy or girl. The shape in the crib was indefinable, unrecognizable for what it was unless you knew what it began as.
The bedding was red. The huddled ball in the middle of the soaked and stained blankets was torn and shredded to become something resembling nothing more than butcher’s meat. There were no features left, there was nothing left to identify the child for what it had been, and the quickly degrading part of Sam that was still sane was queerly grateful for that.
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