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My baby was replaced by a demon and I'm afraid of what may happen to my wife.
My daughter, Charlotte, was born via C-section.
It was a long labor. I pushed for three hours before they whisked me into the OR. All in all, the surgery was pretty quick. About a half hour of me apologizing profusely at Aaliyah for my perceived failure as she comforted me, told me I did nothing wrong.
Everything went away when Charlotte was born. She screamed almost as soon as she was freed, and the nurse held her up over the partition to show me and Aaliyah. Charlotte was a gorgeous baby girl, pink-tinted skin, a pinched face, and a tuft of blonde hair on her head.
They put Charlotte on my chest as the doctors stitched me up. I got my first close-up look at my girl, and noticed she had a small freckle near her ear. I smiled wider. Though she’s not Charlotte’s biological mother, Aaliyah has a similar freckle just below her ear, and I loved the idea of my wife and my baby sharing such a commonality. I pointed this out to Aaliyah as she smiled down at me. She snorted as she pushed my hair out of my face and joked that it’s probably the only visual similarity they’ll share.
The nurses took Charlotte away from me to determine her apgar score. I thought they were just going to go to the corner of the room, but to my horror, they left with my daughter. Aaliyah, an ER nurse, shushed me gently. “It’s because they don’t have a scale in here, baby. They’ll be right back.”
Sure enough, the nurses soon returned with my Charlotte, a 7 pound, 1 ounce, perfectly healthy baby girl. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The fact that I had a C-section, combined with my difficult labor, meant I couldn’t pick up Charlotte for a few days. Aaliyah, both a nurse and a chronic rule follower, took that as bible. For the first few days after Charlotte was born Aaliyah was my rock: changing Charlotte’s diaper, assisting in feeding her, dressing her. I don’t have any family left - many of them disowned me after finding out I was a lesbian - but Aaliyah comes from a big, supportive family with many nieces and nephews. I don’t know what I would have done without her.
Aaliyah left the house a week after Charlotte was born to get some groceries, leaving me along with my daughter for the first time. Of course, as soon as Aaliyah pulled out of the driveway, Charlotte began to cry. A quick whiff when I got to the nursery confirmed that Charlotte had pooped in her diaper.
No biggie. Without Aaliyah breathing down my neck about doctor’s orders, I put my daughter on the changing table and began the process of changing her diaper. I took in her face as I worked, still as cute and small as when she was born, but it wasn’t until I was taping the final side that I noticed it: the freckle under her ear was gone.
I leaned in closer to look at Charlotte’s face up close, and I even picked her up so I could scrutinize her. Sure enough, the birthmark that reminded me of my wife was gone. “How strange,” I remarked to the baby.
Aaliyah returned as I was scrutinizing my baby’s face, and her voice startled me from behind. I flinched, causing Charlotte to cry. “Val, you know you’re not supposed to be lifting the baby,” she scolded as she took Charlotte from my arms.
“I was looking at-” I started, but once Aaliyah got started on a rant, it was difficult to stop her.
“You could tear a stitch, and then you’d be back in the hospital, and then you’d have to wait even longer to hold Charlotte. C’mon, Val, I know you’re smarter than that.”
I love Aaliyah, but sometimes she feels more like my mother than my wife, especially when it comes to medical things. “I know, Lee.”
I dropped the freckle thing, and didn’t end up telling Aaliyah. Charlotte is my first daughter, after all, and despite the mountain of baby books Aaliyah had me read, I’m not an expert on human development. I’m a painter, for fucks sake. For all I know, Charlotte’s whole complexion could change. One little freckle didn’t seem like a big deal in the grand scheme of things.
That night, I woke up to Charlotte crying. I tried to grab Aaliyah’s shoulder to wake her, but, for a nurse and a chronic worrier, Aaliyah is an incredibly deep sleeper. I flicked on my phone for light. 3AM. Yeah, no way Aaliyah was waking up.
I dragged myself out of bed and to the nursery, where Charlotte was crying up a storm. I didn’t bother flicking on the light, instead letting the moonlight streaming in through the window and muscle memory lead the way.
I picked Charlotte up and she immediately began mouthing at the front of my tank top. She was hungry. Easy enough. I sat in the rocking chair we inherited from Aaliyah’s nana, pulled my tank top aside, and allowed my daughter to latch on for her late-night snack.
As Charlotte fed, I looked out the window. We live on a fairly busy block, so it was never really silent. Even then, I could hear cars whizzing past on the highway, cicadas buzzing, and the loud hum of the street lights that flickered outside my daughters window.
I jumped as a sharp gust of wind hit against the window. The jump caused Charlotte to startle, and her teeth dug sharply into my nipple.
“Ow, Char,” I quietly chided her. I rubbed the top of her head to comfort her, playing with her soft, newborn hairs, then I froze. My blood ran cold. I’d memorized every single part of my baby in the week since she’d been born, and I knew for a fact she didn’t have teeth. Especially not teeth sharp enough to dig into my nipple like that.
I slowly looked down at my daughter’s face in the moonlight and was horrified at what looked back at me. This was not my Charlotte. The baby, or whatever it was, looked back at me with focused, black eyes, and her lips curled up into a little smile, still attached to my breast. Blood dripped from her mouth down her little chin into her onesie. My blood.
I gasped, standing up as fast as I could and pulled the thing off my breast. I put her haphazardly down in her crib and looked down at myself. My skin looked raw, and I was slowly bleeding from two pin-prick marks just under my nipple.
I looked up to find the thing standing in my baby’s crib. No, not standing, *floating,* about two inches above the mattress. In my terror I fell to the ground, my shirt bloody. I scurried to the corner as I watched the thing slowly rise higher and higher, smirking down at me with jet black eyes, my blood still in its mouth.
I didn’t know what else to do. I closed my eyes and screamed at the top of my lungs for my wife.
After a few frantic screams, I heard footsteps running down the hall, and the light flickered on. “Val?” Aaliyah asked, her tone anxious. “Val, what’s happening?”
“That thing!” I yelled. I pointed in the direction of the crib and dared to open my eyes. I was shocked at what I saw: nothing. Charlotte was sleeping soundly in her crib, not floating above it, no blood on her mouth, nor on the floor, nor (I looked down) on my own shirt.
I looked over at Aaliyah, who looked deeply confused and concerned, and it all came spilling out. “It’s Charlotte!” I yelled, no longer caring about the sleeping baby. “She had black eyes and she fucking bit my nipple and was sucking my blood, and then she was levitating, and she was smirking at me and-and-and she’s missing the freckle, Aaliyah, your freckle!”
Aaliyah sighed deeply. “Val-”
“That is not our baby, Lee.”
Aaliyah’s brows furrowed. She looked a little pissed off. “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone careful.
“I think something has replaced our baby, Lee. I don’t know what it is, or where our real baby is, but I know that *thing* is not it.” Aaliyah still didn’t look convinced and I began to cry. “Lee, please. You have to believe me. Please.”
Aaliyah gathered me in her arms and I sobbed against her breasts as her hands combed through my hair. I was shaking, terrified of the thing behind my wife, terrified that it would kill us, terrified that my real baby was somewhere and I couldn’t save her. What had this thing done with my baby?
In the morning, Aaliyah clipped the thing in Charlotte’s carseat and drove me to the hospital. “I think we should have you committed,” she told me in the waiting room. She refused to look me in the eye as she spoke, instead staring straight ahead, the thing between us on the floor in Charlotte’s baby carrier. “Just for a bit. Just until you start to feel better.”
I looked at Aaliyah, dumbfounded. “I’m not fucking crazy, Lee.”
Aaliyah’s jawline hardened. She turned to face me, her expression serious and maternal. “I think you may be suffering with postpartum psychosis, Valerie, and I will not have you hurt yourself or our baby.” I was about to argue, but Aaliyah spoke again, her tone softer this time. “Please, Val. Because I don’t think I can stand to be around you if you don’t.”
So that’s where I am now: in the psych ward in the hospital, frantically writing out this message on a cellphone my roommate had her partner sneak in for me. I don’t know when I’ll get out, or how, but I’m terrified of what may happen if I don’t.
I know Aaliyah thinks I’m insane. I know she thinks I’m evil for insisting our baby isn’t our baby. Hell, maybe I am crazy. But I know my real baby is out there somewhere, scared, alone, crying out for her mommy, while my wife, the love of my life, lives in a danger she doesn’t even recognize. Trapped, on her own, with the very thing that stole my daughter.
#entertainment
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My daughter, Charlotte, was born via C-section.
It was a long labor. I pushed for three hours before they whisked me into the OR. All in all, the surgery was pretty quick. About a half hour of me apologizing profusely at Aaliyah for my perceived failure as she comforted me, told me I did nothing wrong.
Everything went away when Charlotte was born. She screamed almost as soon as she was freed, and the nurse held her up over the partition to show me and Aaliyah. Charlotte was a gorgeous baby girl, pink-tinted skin, a pinched face, and a tuft of blonde hair on her head.
They put Charlotte on my chest as the doctors stitched me up. I got my first close-up look at my girl, and noticed she had a small freckle near her ear. I smiled wider. Though she’s not Charlotte’s biological mother, Aaliyah has a similar freckle just below her ear, and I loved the idea of my wife and my baby sharing such a commonality. I pointed this out to Aaliyah as she smiled down at me. She snorted as she pushed my hair out of my face and joked that it’s probably the only visual similarity they’ll share.
The nurses took Charlotte away from me to determine her apgar score. I thought they were just going to go to the corner of the room, but to my horror, they left with my daughter. Aaliyah, an ER nurse, shushed me gently. “It’s because they don’t have a scale in here, baby. They’ll be right back.”
Sure enough, the nurses soon returned with my Charlotte, a 7 pound, 1 ounce, perfectly healthy baby girl. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The fact that I had a C-section, combined with my difficult labor, meant I couldn’t pick up Charlotte for a few days. Aaliyah, both a nurse and a chronic rule follower, took that as bible. For the first few days after Charlotte was born Aaliyah was my rock: changing Charlotte’s diaper, assisting in feeding her, dressing her. I don’t have any family left - many of them disowned me after finding out I was a lesbian - but Aaliyah comes from a big, supportive family with many nieces and nephews. I don’t know what I would have done without her.
Aaliyah left the house a week after Charlotte was born to get some groceries, leaving me along with my daughter for the first time. Of course, as soon as Aaliyah pulled out of the driveway, Charlotte began to cry. A quick whiff when I got to the nursery confirmed that Charlotte had pooped in her diaper.
No biggie. Without Aaliyah breathing down my neck about doctor’s orders, I put my daughter on the changing table and began the process of changing her diaper. I took in her face as I worked, still as cute and small as when she was born, but it wasn’t until I was taping the final side that I noticed it: the freckle under her ear was gone.
I leaned in closer to look at Charlotte’s face up close, and I even picked her up so I could scrutinize her. Sure enough, the birthmark that reminded me of my wife was gone. “How strange,” I remarked to the baby.
Aaliyah returned as I was scrutinizing my baby’s face, and her voice startled me from behind. I flinched, causing Charlotte to cry. “Val, you know you’re not supposed to be lifting the baby,” she scolded as she took Charlotte from my arms.
“I was looking at-” I started, but once Aaliyah got started on a rant, it was difficult to stop her.
“You could tear a stitch, and then you’d be back in the hospital, and then you’d have to wait even longer to hold Charlotte. C’mon, Val, I know you’re smarter than that.”
I love Aaliyah, but sometimes she feels more like my mother than my wife, especially when it comes to medical things. “I know, Lee.”
I dropped the freckle thing, and didn’t end up telling Aaliyah. Charlotte is my first daughter, after all, and despite the mountain of baby books Aaliyah had me read, I’m not an expert on human development. I’m a painter, for fucks sake. For all I know, Charlotte’s whole complexion could change. One little freckle didn’t seem like a big deal in the grand scheme of things.
That night, I woke up to Charlotte crying. I tried to grab Aaliyah’s shoulder to wake her, but, for a nurse and a chronic worrier, Aaliyah is an incredibly deep sleeper. I flicked on my phone for light. 3AM. Yeah, no way Aaliyah was waking up.
I dragged myself out of bed and to the nursery, where Charlotte was crying up a storm. I didn’t bother flicking on the light, instead letting the moonlight streaming in through the window and muscle memory lead the way.
I picked Charlotte up and she immediately began mouthing at the front of my tank top. She was hungry. Easy enough. I sat in the rocking chair we inherited from Aaliyah’s nana, pulled my tank top aside, and allowed my daughter to latch on for her late-night snack.
As Charlotte fed, I looked out the window. We live on a fairly busy block, so it was never really silent. Even then, I could hear cars whizzing past on the highway, cicadas buzzing, and the loud hum of the street lights that flickered outside my daughters window.
I jumped as a sharp gust of wind hit against the window. The jump caused Charlotte to startle, and her teeth dug sharply into my nipple.
“Ow, Char,” I quietly chided her. I rubbed the top of her head to comfort her, playing with her soft, newborn hairs, then I froze. My blood ran cold. I’d memorized every single part of my baby in the week since she’d been born, and I knew for a fact she didn’t have teeth. Especially not teeth sharp enough to dig into my nipple like that.
I slowly looked down at my daughter’s face in the moonlight and was horrified at what looked back at me. This was not my Charlotte. The baby, or whatever it was, looked back at me with focused, black eyes, and her lips curled up into a little smile, still attached to my breast. Blood dripped from her mouth down her little chin into her onesie. My blood.
I gasped, standing up as fast as I could and pulled the thing off my breast. I put her haphazardly down in her crib and looked down at myself. My skin looked raw, and I was slowly bleeding from two pin-prick marks just under my nipple.
I looked up to find the thing standing in my baby’s crib. No, not standing, *floating,* about two inches above the mattress. In my terror I fell to the ground, my shirt bloody. I scurried to the corner as I watched the thing slowly rise higher and higher, smirking down at me with jet black eyes, my blood still in its mouth.
I didn’t know what else to do. I closed my eyes and screamed at the top of my lungs for my wife.
After a few frantic screams, I heard footsteps running down the hall, and the light flickered on. “Val?” Aaliyah asked, her tone anxious. “Val, what’s happening?”
“That thing!” I yelled. I pointed in the direction of the crib and dared to open my eyes. I was shocked at what I saw: nothing. Charlotte was sleeping soundly in her crib, not floating above it, no blood on her mouth, nor on the floor, nor (I looked down) on my own shirt.
I looked over at Aaliyah, who looked deeply confused and concerned, and it all came spilling out. “It’s Charlotte!” I yelled, no longer caring about the sleeping baby. “She had black eyes and she fucking bit my nipple and was sucking my blood, and then she was levitating, and she was smirking at me and-and-and she’s missing the freckle, Aaliyah, your freckle!”
Aaliyah sighed deeply. “Val-”
“That is not our baby, Lee.”
Aaliyah’s brows furrowed. She looked a little pissed off. “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone careful.
“I think something has replaced our baby, Lee. I don’t know what it is, or where our real baby is, but I know that *thing* is not it.” Aaliyah still didn’t look convinced and I began to cry. “Lee, please. You have to believe me. Please.”
Aaliyah gathered me in her arms and I sobbed against her breasts as her hands combed through my hair. I was shaking, terrified of the thing behind my wife, terrified that it would kill us, terrified that my real baby was somewhere and I couldn’t save her. What had this thing done with my baby?
In the morning, Aaliyah clipped the thing in Charlotte’s carseat and drove me to the hospital. “I think we should have you committed,” she told me in the waiting room. She refused to look me in the eye as she spoke, instead staring straight ahead, the thing between us on the floor in Charlotte’s baby carrier. “Just for a bit. Just until you start to feel better.”
I looked at Aaliyah, dumbfounded. “I’m not fucking crazy, Lee.”
Aaliyah’s jawline hardened. She turned to face me, her expression serious and maternal. “I think you may be suffering with postpartum psychosis, Valerie, and I will not have you hurt yourself or our baby.” I was about to argue, but Aaliyah spoke again, her tone softer this time. “Please, Val. Because I don’t think I can stand to be around you if you don’t.”
So that’s where I am now: in the psych ward in the hospital, frantically writing out this message on a cellphone my roommate had her partner sneak in for me. I don’t know when I’ll get out, or how, but I’m terrified of what may happen if I don’t.
I know Aaliyah thinks I’m insane. I know she thinks I’m evil for insisting our baby isn’t our baby. Hell, maybe I am crazy. But I know my real baby is out there somewhere, scared, alone, crying out for her mommy, while my wife, the love of my life, lives in a danger she doesn’t even recognize. Trapped, on her own, with the very thing that stole my daughter.
#entertainment
source
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