The Darkness of the Womb

by Knight, Richard

  Chapter Four

  Marigold Haunt wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she lifted her face from the toilet. Damn morning sickness. She flushed and closed the lid. Her head pounded and her heart ached. Her breathing was a dry wheeze. She wished her husband, Jeff, was here.

  This was her third time vomiting this morning and it sucked, but it wasn’t the worst of her problems.

  Ever since she became pregnant, Marigold had been hearing voices. She hadn’t told Jeff yet and planned to tell him last night, but she just didn’t have the heart. He looked so tired.

  All she wanted to do was make him feel at home when he walked through the door. Last night when he had slumped into his favorite chair, she had kissed him above his right eyebrow, which he loved. She wished there was something else in the house besides macaroni and hot dogs, but they were beyond broke. After ten years at the greeting card company, the owner had decided he wanted to focus on going digital and let half of thestaff go, without so much as a severance package or a thank you.

  Jeff didn’t complain that there was nothing in the house to eat, though. He never complained anymore. He was sweet to her and called her pet names like “sweetheart” and “Snufflelovetokiss.” He still called her beautiful, too, even though she knew she was anything but. Her once chestnut hair was now streaked with white strands by her ears. Her cheeks had given up to gravity and were slowly transforming into jowls. The wrinkles around her mouth were…troubling. Make-up didn’t seem to erase them. Even before she became pregnant, she sported a slab of belly fat. Her breasts sagged and looked sloppy. She certainly looked her age.

  But Jeff didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he said he even liked her extra curves. “More to grab,” he always said, squeezing her breasts from behind. A few months ago, when she still had a job and they shared a dual income, he sometimes brought home lilies, her favorites. Whenever “Strange Magic” played on the radio, he would pull her from the sofa to dance around the room. It was their song.

  His kisses were always genuine and gentle. When he said, “I love you,” every morning before work, he meant it. His green eyes couldn’t lie to her. And when they could, he always had to look away. In the 28 years they’ve been married, he never looked away when he said, “I love you.” That’s how she knew it was real.

  She felt like she could tell him anything; except that she was hearing voices. It was mostly because she wasn’t sure she could fully believe it herself, but then there was Jeff’s mother’s history with schizophrenia. The last thing she wanted was to evoke the kind of panic she saw in him after he told her about how his mother died. That would be unbearable.

  Besides, it was only the one voice anyway, and it hadn’t bothered her all morning, which was a blessing.

  In the first couple of weeks the voice started off as a whisper, like a best friend telling her a secret. But by the second month, it grew louder and deeper. It called her “Goldie” and laughed. The sadistic chuckle was now so close to her ear it gave her goosebumps. She didn’t tell her doctor about it, either. She was afraid he would suggest medication and she didn’t want to do that. Not with the baby.

  But the voice kept her up at night.

  Whenever she tried to sleep, she imagined the voice smiling. Its gapped teeth looked like baby fingers. She hadn’t slept a full night in months.

  And then, there was the vomiting.

  Speaking of which.

  Her stomach churned and she opened the lid again. Her cheeks swelled and her neck bobbed. She heaved into the toilet. Her heart raced as the orange vomit splashed the water. It looked like veal parmesan. As she stared at it, she wondered when the last time she had parmesan anything was. God, having cravings when you’re poor sucks. Marigold rubbed her eyes. Her fingers and hair smelled of sick.

  After a moment’s respite, she pressed against the wood paneling on the sink for leverage and stood up.

  Her extended belly poked out from her Garfield pajama top. Thick stretch marks curved around her stomach like bruised veins. Since losing her job a few weeks ago she hadn’t worn anything but pajamas. Why get dressed if there was nowhere to go but back to bed?

  As she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw what all the people at the hospital must have seen—A woman who looked too old to be having a baby. But she didn’t care what they thought. She—

  A sharp twist hit her in the stomach again, and forced her back to her knees. Marigold heaved into the toilet and got vomit all over the seat and some of it on the floor this time. The vomit exploded out of her. A lot of it got in her ponytail and some of it on her hands. Her heart raced. Her eyes bulged. She had trouble breathing.

  She rubbed her baby bump, and even heard her child groan. Or maybe that was just her stomach. It had all been too much. Five times in one morning was a record. She closed the lid and laid her face against the cool, comforting toilet seat. In a few moments, she dozed off.

  Her lips twitched in her sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Marigold stood in the near darkness. Faint light shone from lanterns that dangled from the end of tree branches above her head. The lights pulsated in rhythmic patterns and looked like yellow orbs. The stiff air stood cold and quiet.

  Towering trees climbed so high that they blocked out the sun.

  She tilted her head back and her eyes trailed up a large tree. At its apex, she saw a cradle. It teetered on a crooked branch, and the breeze rocked it precariously.

  She couldn’t see what was inside the cradle, but she knew that it was the baby inside her womb. His name was Aiden. She didn’t know how she knew that but she did. It was the most beautiful name in the world.

  The wind picked up and wobbled the cradle on the branch. Her stomach plummeted.

  Something was very wrong.

  Her attention shifted to the creature on the tip of the branch. It was a gigantic stork with a long beak and skinny legs. Its wings were black like Satan’s wings, its beak curved like a scythe. The bird sauntered across the unsteady branch and looked into the cradle. Then, it looked down at her. Its eyes were as black as midnight, and its intentions were as clear as day.

  It wanted to take her baby.

  “Stay away from him!”

  The stork looked down at her baby again. In one swift motion, the cradle overturned and her baby fell out, hurtling to his death.

  She watched on, paralyzed. His naked body plummeted toward her until the stork swooped down, grabbed him, and shot up again.

  And they were gone.

  ***

  She awoke from her dream shrieking Aiden’s name and grasping the toilet seat.

  Chapter Six

  Marigold woke up, her face stuck to the top of the toilet seat with a combination of drool and vomit. The darkness of the dream was gone but she could still see the cradle and the horrible bird as clear as day in her mind.

  That’s like one of the cards you sent to your editor, the voice whispered in her head. The voice had returned. But it was right. The images from her nightmare were not new. She had written about them only a couple of months ago.

  Marigold got up and staggered out of the bathroom. Her slippers flopped on the carpet in the hallway. To keep herself balanced, she rested a hand against the yellow wallpaper beneath the wedding photo and took a right into the bedroom. She rushed past the bed and plopped down on the green carpet. She opened the bottom drawer to the cabinet and pulled out the emails that her editor from the Sunny Side Greeting Card Company had returned to her.

  Over the years, she had written hundreds of messages for the company, from get well soon cards, to happy birthday messages, to in loving memory cards. But the messages in her shaking hands right now were the ones that had gotten her fired. It was not how she had written them, but what she had written that made her editor forward them back to her and advise that she get some help.

  She didn’t remember writing any of them and that’s what scared her the most. The voice must have made her do it.

  She imagi
ned her eyes rolling back in her head as she unconsciously typed the messages. The thought of it gave her goosebumps.

  She found the message she wrote on September 15.

  (Front Cover) Because you mean everything to me.

  Dear Mom:

  I love you for always being more than just a mom and being a mother to me. Somebody who will always be by my side to share in my victories and hold me in my defeats.

  (Inside card) The child will be nestled in his cradle at the top of the tree. The stork with black wings will be waiting for him, and watching.

  She put the paper down and stared at it until her eyes crossed. As she thought about it, a smile flashed in front of her eyes.

  “Maaaarrriiiigggoooooold,” a voice crooned from the hallway, “Mararrriiiiiigggooooolllllldddddd.”

  She shoved the papers back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

  “That’s not going to help you, Marigold,” the voice gloated. “You know I’d never leave you for too long, baby. Did you miss me?”

  Marigold picked up a small bronze statue of boots off her dresser and hurled it across the room. It bounced off the door.

  “What’s the matter, Marigold?” the voice said from the hallway. “We should be friends. I reminded you about those letters, didn’t I? And besides, everybody needs some friends. Especially you, baby. I can be your friend. Your best fucking friend in the whole fucking world!”

  She held her belly and rushed over to the door. She swung it open and yelled into the hallway, “Leave me alone!”

  There was nothing there but a smoke detector and her wedding picture.

  Crazed laughter exploded from the bedroom. She sprinted out, slammed the door and darted to the kitchen. A voice emanated from the refrigerator.

  Marigold opened the refrigerator door and slammed it shut. She opened it and slammed it again. A magnet fell off the door, dropping a picture of her and Jeff with Mickey Mouse. Something in the way that Mickey looked at her...She bent to pick it up. The refrigerator yelled:—

  “MARIGOOOLD!!!”

  She fell to her butt and kicked herself away from the white door. The back of her head banged against the leg of the kitchen table. The voice had never been that close before.

  “Don’t listen to him!” another voice bellowed. It was a new one. It sounded like her high school guidance councilor, Mr. Chomicki. She could never forget that whiny Brooklyn voice. “He wants your baby. He’s trying to get him.”

  “No!” Marigold screamed as tears streamed down her face. “He can’t have him!”

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” the first voice said. Now it came from the ceiling fan. The voice clung to the blades of the propeller. “You can’t have this one. You gave up your first.”

  “But that was years ago,” Mr. Chomicki said. “Should she be punished for what her mother made her do?”

  “Perhaps not,” the sticky voice said, licking her ear lobe. “But so what?”

  “God has mercy,” Mr. Chomicki commanded.

  “But I don’t,” the other voice barked. Then it purred and she felt something sticky touch her privates. When she got up, she vomited on the floor.

  “Stop it, please!”

  “Your baby’s going to burn,” the evil voice snarled. He now lurked inside her womb.

  “No!” Marigold shouted, clawing her stomach. “Get away from him!”

  Marigold stumbled over to her couch to keep her balance.

  For a moment there was silence and her eyes surveyed the possessions that she and her husband had accumulated over the years—the black love seat, the matching ottoman, the coffee table, the flat screen TV. She looked at these until she saw two, smiling silver eyes looking at her from the lampshade. She picked up a fine, silken pillow and tossed it at the eyes.

  “You throw like a girl!” The evil voice screamed, and she felt his claws cupping her baby’s head and grinning.

  “You must save your son,” Mr. Chomicki commanded.

  “But how?” Marigold saw herself in the TV. In the reflection she saw Mr. Chomicki, with his wild, gray hair behind her. A blue aura encircled his small stature.

  “Sacrifice yourself and come get him,” Mr. Chomicki ordered. She turned and saw nothing but the basement door. No guidance councilor stood behind her.

  She rushed to the door and opened it, hoping to find an answer. All she saw was the basement’s darkness instead.

  Behind her, a window shattered. A thickly glowing red man with ram horns stared at her from the couch. He reeked of curdled milk and menstrual blood. When he smiled, he had tiny, baby fingers in his mouth instead of teeth. They wiggled back and forth like scampering legs. They looked like they wanted to escape.

  Marigold spun so fast from the image that she tripped over her own slippers.

  She fell face first through the open basement door. Before she hit the steps, her hands covered her stomach instead of her face. Her scream gurgled in her throat as her forehead met with the edge of a step halfway down. Colors exploded behind her eyes before everything went black.

  Chapter Seven

  Haunt stood at the top of the stairs and kissed the tattered picture of his wife a second time. Why didn’t he jump in and stop the fight when he had the chance? It was all because of his stupid glasses. Just thinking about it made him want to snap them in half.

  He looked at the picture of his wife again and kissed her on the forehead. The picture had a special power over him and he needed that power right now. She made him feel like he could do anything. Even talk his way out of losing his job. He put the picture in his breast pocket, next to his heart, and took his first step down to the main office.

  When he reached the bottom floor, he walked past the metal detector. A black security guard at the front desk looked up at him and scowled. Haunt lowered his gaze and kept walking.

  He took a right and then walked into the main office. When he entered, two kids sat by the entrance with their heads down. They wore hoodies and both of them had their hoods covering their faces. Haunt felt hot just looking at them.

  The secretary, Michelle, sat at her desk. Her blond hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail. It didn’t suit her at all. It revealed the splotchy birthmarks on her neck and collarbone and made her look ten years older. She motioned for him to come closer. When she leaned forward, her massive cleavage spilled out of her tan blouse. She didn’t seem to care that he looked. Putting her hand beside her mouth, she whispered only five words to him that set his blood on ice.

  “Ms. Davis is in there.”

  Haunt grit his teeth and mouthed the word, “Really?”

  “Really.”

  This…was a problem. Mr. Jaffe, he could deal with, as at least the man had a heart. But Ms. Davis, he wasn’t so sure. The woman rarely said a word, but when she did, she crushed spirits.

  Whenever Haunt saw her in the hallway, which was rare since she barely left her office, he would find the nearest stairwell to duck into. Being within five steps of her was the last thing he wanted in life. And now, he had no choice but to be right next to her. Could this day get any worse?

  Yes, a voice in his head whispered. It didn’t sound like his own.

  He walked into the principal’s office. The walls were bright blue and gold—UCLA colors. Vice-principal Davis sat across from the principal with a desk between them. She crossed her skinny legs with a yellow legal pad on her lap. Hatred was bunched up in her small face, but that was nothing new, as she always looked like that. She was the antithesis of Mr. Jaffe who looked more like a violent force of nature with his rolling hill of a belly and fat arms.

  Mr. Jaffe leaned back in his swivel chair with his arms crossed as if he didn’t like that description of himself at all. He pouted and his small, curved lips dragged down his entire face, which made his buzzcut look comical. He appeared to have three chins.

  “Come in,” Mr. Jaffe barked. He looked up with fiery blue eyes. “And close the door.”

  The pimples o
n Ms. Davis’ forehead gleamed in the room’s harsh lights. Her caramel countenance was usually clean and smooth, but today it looked greasy and rough as if she had smeared lard on it all night. Her blue eyeliner, which matched her outfit, was stenciled around her hazel eyes like war paint. She couldn’t have weighed more than 105 pounds, but he still feared her. Everybody did.

  “Take a seat,” Mr. Jaffe said. Haunt nearly collapsed into it.

  He wanted to take out the picture by his heart one last time and kiss it. Instead, he rubbed his breast pocket. It would have to do.

  Chapter Eight

  Haunt sat in the chair closest to the window. He left a space between him and Ms. Davis. A bobblehead football player that matched the room’s collegiate theme stood on the corner of the principal’s desk. Haunt watched as the helmet bobbed up and down every time the principal adjusted his considerable weight. Mounted on the wall behind Jaffe’s head was a flag that read “Fiat Lux,” in large, squiggly letters. It meant “Let there be light” in Latin. Haunt only knew that because he looked it up the last time he was in this office.

  Jaffe leaned forward in his chair and formed a steeple with his fingers. He glared at Haunt. Those didn’t look like the reasonable eyes that he had become accustomed to over the past year. Those looked more like Ms. Davis’ piercing and unflinching eyes, the eyes of disappointment.

  “You know I like ya, Jeff. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

  Haunt thought about the picture in his breast pocket before he answered. “Yes, Mr. Jaffe, I know. You’ve really made me feel like a part of the Springfield Avenue family. I feel like I belong here.”

  “Yes, well,” Jaffe said, and he looked down at his hands.