Building 8 “The Thing in the Crib”

“There is something terribly wrong with the way it moves. There is something wrong with the way it smells. It smells like formula and breast milk and something spoiled. But I know that it shouldn't smell like that.

Only my kid should smell like that. This thing isn't my kid, no matter how many times it calls out to me. No matter how many times...

I am looking again in the crib and that thing is looking back at me. I try not to vomit, and I search the house again for my son, as the eyes in the dark glow red.

My wife is screaming again. I tell her that she doesn't need to worry and that everything will be okay. She had breastfed it, not realizing in the dark the thing she held in her arms.

You would imagine that a mother would know the difference, but she didn't. The stuff it spit up when she went to burp it gave it away. It is what caused her to scream originally.

Water has helped a great deal, but she needs medical attention to treat the burns on her shoulder and back.

First, I need to find my child. I need to find my son.

I search again, checking the same places over and over, fear building up in me until I feel like I will explode. I am yelling his name, though he is too young to talk. I hear a knock at the door, and I rush to open it. I tear the door open and a stranger in a black suit and a broad smile says that there was a mix up at the hospital. In his arms is something wrapped in a blanket.

I go to grab my child, but the one with the eyes says that it must be an even exchange.

I nod, feeling my neck heat up. I go upstairs and grab the horror in the crib. It grips me tight as I lift it and bring it down the stairs.

The man and I exchange. I bring the thing wrapped in linens to my wife and go to call the hospital. My wife is still screaming. My son is screaming too. I hear the phone ring, and when I answer it, there is static on the other end of the line.”

More dreams. More nightmares. Even though my wife is healing still.

I feel selfish when she gets woken up in the middle of the night to comfort me. It's just a dream. The baby in the dream cried the way Noah did when he was little. I'm not really surprised at that. I haven't seen my kids in months now. I keep insisting that it is time for them to come out. Especially with Thanksgiving coming around, but my sister tells me that my daughter still doesn't want to see me.

My son is always sick this time of year.

I miss my children. It is probably for the best that I don’t see them. I really don't know how Margaret would react to having to chew her food.

The stitches have come out, but we need to be careful. The tongue, she needs to exercise it. I didn't realize how much the tongue was involved in eating until she told me she had to stop because she was tired.

I went to the store today. Some kids were screwing around in an empty aisle. I got what I needed and left. She has mostly been eating yogurt and mashed potatoes. A lot of nutrition between the two. Bunch of people were getting some last-minute turkeys. I bought one of those fake plastic ones. I figure it would make her laugh.

At least she can eat the rest of the food.

I am tired. This broken sleep isn't helping. But, this time of year has always had a negative impact on me. It is darker earlier, the temperature is dropping, and people are talking about their holiday plans.

Problem with working at a restaurant is that you hear bits and pieces of people's lives. People's “normal” lives. My life isn't normal. Never has been. I had hoped that moving to Wellington Street would have changed that.

That for Margaret I could somehow be normal...

I hate to admit it, but we are closer than we have ever been. We have started reading together again. We haven't done that for a while. She has started smiling more often, and though her face is different and her voice carries a slight lisp, her laugh is just as I remember it. The last few months have been hell. It has forced us both to be stronger for one another, especially me.

She needs me to be better than I was. And I know I can't go back.

My neighbor's house, the one positioned behind my backyard, is up for sale. There haven't been any takers. It is too soon I suppose.

The police finally reported their full findings. They think whatever happened to him, whatever dismembered my neighbor, wasn't an animal, but they haven't been able to find evidence to tie someone to it. The best they've got are impressions they found in the mud, but they said that the only thing that matched the indentation was from one of those display mannequins.

There has been no further news on The Surgeon. Since he...hurt...my wife, he has been silent. No further attacks.

Nothing.

The temperature plummeted the other night. I didn't grab the paper yesterday. When I went to grab it this morning, the plastic was torn through.

It had become fastened to the ground.