Such was the case with poor Janice Weathmeyer, a young pretty woman, twenty-six years old, with wavy locks of brunette hair and large moist-brown eyes, pregnant with her first born child. All was well through the first 6 months, but then a striking abberration appeared in the 7th month. In fact she had to be revived after fainting in the ultrasound room upon getting word of this chilling development. The child was gone. Not dead, not awaiting some sad and tight-lipped stillbirth. But genuinely gone. As in: the womb was empty, sans child.
Her obstetrician, Deborah Mintgale, was more than astonished, to say the least. For the fact was, this was no routine pseudocyesis, no, no where near. There seemed to be no evidence of vaginal dilation, or other tell-tale signs, which would signal the woman had given birth to a stillborn in her home and was now only lying about her condition. She had painstakingly recorded the development, via ultrasonography, since Mrs. Weathmeyer came to her one bright afternoon with that smile and hopefulness of a woman who'd just had a positive result on a pregnancy test. All in all the fetus had appeared healthy for the first 6 months. Had her body somehow consumed it as a foodsource? She'd never heard of anything remotely like this. The girl would become world famous for this case, but she was also certain that this would be no consolation to her.
When Janice was released from the hospital, with a month's supply of tranquilizers and no real explanation for why her child was no more, she went home with her husband of only a year and a half and sat mostly in silence by her apartment window. She had picked this particular apartment at Havelock Acres partly, among other things, for its view facing Flagg Mountain, a rather flat forested mesa typical of this part of world. But now the view had an opposite effect on her; it made her feel closed in. Whereas before she had felt as if the window opened out onto a beautiful invigorating vista, now it only re-emphasized her feeling of being trapped. Her husband Jeff brought her cups of green tea and tried to rub her back, but Janice was, he found, quite cruelly unreceptive to any of his soothing advances or remarks.
Eventually, after days of this, and her intense bouts of crying, (which made the silence afterwards even more potent and chilling, and caused their small housedog, Flip, to hide underneath the bed)-- after trying as hard as he could to help his wife through this awful experience, Jeff finally gave up and returned to his job as manager for a Hardware Store. It was one of those medium-sized chains still clinging to life, but year by year, more choked to submission and death by the larger chains. Within two weeks of losing his son, Jeff Weathmeyer was drinking again, harder than ever, and staying out late many nights a week at various Chattanooga bars, soaking in the smokescent (to cover the sweet and sour scent of the string of anonymous hotties gladly accepting all the free shots and pints Jeff Weathmeyer was worth).
But there were moments, in a drunken stupor, he'd shuffle to the bathroom, noticing his wife missing from their bed, and he'd think-- good god, i'll kill my liver before I go mad!-- he heard the coos and occassional cries of an infant, somewhere deep within the apartment. There but not really there. Deeply embedded in another dimension that coincided somehow with their quiet suburban apartment. He would just ignore it and shuffle back to bed, and sink back into that shallow and dream-laden sleep of the alcoholic and the spirit-shattered. Life went on and the cries faded, stopped.
The Quickening
Two months later, late in October-- near the time of her once expected due date-- Janice began to experience a new anxiety. One not of piercing, body-shaking loss but of secretive, growing presence. And it wasn't just her. She noticed a difference in Flip as well. The dog was constantly shaking, terrified, and it was no longer because of her moods. By now Janice had ended most of the worst of her crying jags, and her melancholy had become lighter, more transparent, more like a film over her vision that had the possibility of being wiped away.
For the first month, she had become a bit of a local and internet sensation. Researchers in parapsychology as well as traditional medical researchers were constantly emailling her, wanting her to come to their laboratories (on their expense) to be studied. Thankfully her cell number was private, or she was sure she would have had to change her number. Honestly, she just wanted to move on; and even though she was perplexed herself and knew at some point in her life she'd want an explanation, right now she just wanted to get on with life, try to dust off the cobwebs of her marriage, and possibly, yes, quite possibly, even try to have another child.
But with the coming of the first cold front of the season, Janice began to sense it. It..? At first she thought she had simply caught a stomach bug. She was finally getting her appetite back, and had recently gained 5 pounds. Then one night, alone in the house yet again, a sharp pang-- was that a kick?-- hit her gut. Then several more. She was certain, she felt movement there. She noticed that Flip would not join her on the couch in front of the tv, as usual, to curl up next her feet, or in her lap. And when she tried to pick Flip up, he would growl. She'd drop the dog and he would tear off to hide under some piece of furniture where he whimpered and shuddered for hours.
When the pressure and pain got worse she went to see Doctor Mintgale, deciding as well not to mention any of this to Jeff. The doctor shifted some of her appointments so that she could see Janice. The case still loomed heavy in her mind, like some doomed zeppelin, but she had a practice to run so, she too, got on with life.
"Hello, Janice, good to see you," the doctor said, a strained smile on her face. She noticed Janice was wearing a maternity blouse. Uh, oh, I knew it, poor girl has gone bonkers from grief. Her husband was a psychiatrist, so she could possibly keep the case of Janice Weathmeyer in the family.
"I think," Janice hesitated, "Oh god, you're gonna think Im crazy. I think Im still pregnant." Before she could stop herself, she was crying.
Some tests were run and sure enough, Janice's womb was devoid of fetus. Doctor Mintgale tried to console the girl, and suggested it was time for her to see that dreaded someone. But Janice became enraged, was intractably tied to the idea that her womb was not barren. As she left the office, her eyes wild and bloodshot, she said, "It's his ghost then. My son's ghost is in me." This would prove to be the last time she ever saw Janice Weathmeyer.
****
Jeff Weathmeyer was downing his fourth jagermeister shot, and washing out its licoricey venom with a Michelob Lite, when he got a text message on his phone from his wife. All it said was, "Plz Come Home."
"Hey, is that your wife!" the twenty-threeish brunette with a rose tattoo on her left partially exposed breast said. She was so drunk she blurted out, "wife" and was heard above the blaring jukebox now playing, "Werewolves of London." They must play this song 10 times a day. It was a poolhall, after all, and what was a poolhall without the well-played cd soundtrack to "The Color of Money."
The girl was leaning into him, her tobacco breath heavy between them, trying to read his text message. He couldnt decide just then if he would rather reach out and plop the rest of that tattooed dirigible from its haltered moorings or throw a lit butt deep into her cleavage. He chuckled morosely. "Babe, this is private." He was going to follow her to her apartment, which she shared with a stripper who was currently hard at work, and see what happened from there. But his wife never texted him anymore. This was odd. Odd indeed.
"Gotta go." She clinged onto him as he tried to get up and leave. He untangled himself from her as if from a desperate monkey. "Hey Dorene, something's up. Ill catch you later."
The girl slumped back in her seat, and wrenched her lips subtly,"Whatever, John. Thanks for the drinks."
The bartender sighed and smirked; he knew he was in for another long and predictable night.
My Son, My Love, Wherever Did You Go?
On his way home from Delk Monty's Billiards, he tried to call his wife, but recieved no answer. The streets glowed with rain-reflected streetlamps, green to orange. He zoomed through the mostly empty streets, vaguely aware-- as his usual drunk brain was accustomed-- that any quiet, poorly lit lot might harbor a cruiser car, with only it's hushed-orange idle lights on. If he was pulled over, maybe the cop would know of him and his story, and cut him a break.
But he didnt get pulled over, and made it home alright. Havelock Acres was washed in a sick scattered yellow light, surrounded by deep furrows of black. Nothing scared him these days, but he used to experience a brief shudder sometimes coming home late. Because beyond this complex, nestled at the foot of Flagg Mountain, were steep, undeveloped woods all the way to the top. And out there, who knows what lurked.
His apartment was on the third floor and when he got out of his car, he thought he saw the face and upper body of Janice but in a blink nothing remained but the dark shut curtains. No lights were on in the apartment. Had she been she holding something?
When he entered the apartment-- blackness and seething silence like an electric force-- he smelled the stench of rot, rot and blood, with an undernote of milk. Urine-colored light filtered in through the window. He saw her sitting in the dark, on the rocking chair that was her mother's, and her mother's before her. She was rocking slightly. Only slightly.
"Janice, you okay?" He reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. Up down up... same result.
"What happened to the lights? Is the power out? Janice?" She was definitely holding something, perhaps a doll wrapped in a baby's blanket. His son's baby blanket, blue of course, never to be used, or so he thought. --Way to go, asshole, Jeff thought, you've neglected your wife in her time of need, and now she's lost her mind. He then realized it was late in October. He would have been due. --Oh god.. His son would have been born right about now.
His eyes having adjusted to the darkened room, he could just make out Janice's face and saw that she was naked from the neck to her waist, her breasts ballooning, as if.. --Oh God... she had just recently begun to lactate. Just then she raised the bundle to her chest, and he thought he heard a suckling sound. "He's hungry, Jeffrey. Our son is hungry. Would you like to meet him?" The words came as if from deep space, from everywhere around him rather than the mouth of his wife. His heart was racing now, he could feel it stutter in his throat. "What..." but that was all he could say.
He could definitely hear the suckling sound now. It was a beastly thirst, not human. The smell was of corpses soaked in curdled milk.
"He wants to meet you, Jeffrey. Come hold your son, honey." She rose and was gliding toward him, her arms extended and offering the bundle to him. He could see its eyes. His son's eyes, lambent butterscotch yellow. They were not human eyes.
He turned and sprinted to the front door. As he was turning the knob he felt it. Something heavy landed on his back, attacking, gnawing at his neck. The pain hit him like a board to the head. In between eager gristle-chewing sounds, a maniacal shrieking filled his ears. He fell to his knees, trying to clutch at and remove that feasting, frenzied parasite set upon him by his demented wife. --See, he loves you...
That was when he felt it, that final thing, like a gooey, spongey rope, around his neck. It tightened, and all went yellow to black; the insubstantial, the negation, became real.
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