Marigolds

The marigolds reached up around me, golden and glowing, as I stood beneath the night sky. The moon stared back—bright, full, and impossibly close. Stars flickered behind it like forgotten memories. I exhaled slowly. I smiled without thinking. The air smelled sweet, the warmth of the flowers wrapping around me like a blanket.

A black silhouette floated toward me, backlit by the moon, turning it into a tear in reality. As it drew closer, tentacles unfurled from its head, drifting behind it like ink bleeding through water.

Its limbs were thin and wrong, arms sagging with torn flesh that swayed behind like tattered cloth. Its torso stretched too long, its legs stunted and jerking like broken marionettes. Bone—porcelain-white and gleaming—jutted through the gaps in its rib cage.

Its skin was leathery and grey, impossibly dry yet glistening in the light. Beneath it, bulging veins slithered along its form, twitching as though alive—like leeches trapped just under the surface.

It reached out for me. Behind it, the tentacles pulsed and writhed, stretching high above, swaying like weeds in deep water. I followed them upward. At first, I couldn’t tell what I was seeing. A shape, suspended in the dark—white, trembling— Then I realized. Daria.

The tentacles—God—were coming from her. They spilled out from between her legs, twisting, pulsing, impossibly alive. Her pregnant belly had been split wide, dried blood crusted at the edges. Her skin was stark white, veined and brittle. Her once-red hair had gone ghostly pale, clinging to her face in damp strands.

Her eyes drooped, her mouth hung half open—like she'd screamed herself hoarse and then simply stopped.

Her skin cracked like dry porcelain, flaking at the edges. She looked ancient. Drained. Dead.

But she was still looking at me.

My scream echoed in my ears as I sat bolt upright. The marigolds were gone—but the image of her white hair still clung to the inside of my skull. The silence pressed in. No moon. No marigolds. Just the hum of the box fan and Daria’s gentle breathing—soft, steady, normal. I was back.

Sweat clung to my skin, soaking the sheets beneath me. I shivered, despite the boiling room, our AC had broken. I turned to look at Daria. The memory of her—twisted, hollowed out, fused with that creature—flashed behind my eyes. But she lay beside me, untouched. Her hair fell across her face like a curtain. I could just make out her closed eyelids, her parted lips, the soft snore rising and falling every few seconds. One hand rested protectively over her belly; the other stretched beneath her pillow and dangled off the edge of the mattress. It would be numb when she woke. Daria looked like she was having the best sleep of her life.

I’ve been having these nightmares ever since Daria got pregnant. They’ve gradually been getting worse. Each time, the thing comes a little closer. But this was the first time she was present.

That changed everything.

Cold dread pooled in my gut. In the dream, I knew that it came from her. Somehow. I felt sick. Her face had been so pale, her eyes hollow, her hair thin and stringy like old threads. Her body cracked and frail. Drained.

Just a dream, I told myself. Just a nightmare. But it didn’t feel like one

I slipped out of bed as carefully as I could, trying not to wake Daria, and shuffled into the bathroom.

In the mirror, my brown eyes stared back—wide, sunken, bloodshot. My skin looked pale, almost sickly. I splashed cold water on my face. A little color came back, I looked just a bit better.

That’s when I saw it. A single grey hair, curled against the brown. I reached to smooth it into the rest—and came away with a small tuft.

I froze.

My heart thudded in my chest, just a beat faster than before. Just stress. It has to be.

3:12 a.m. The dim glow of the bathroom clock blinked above the mirror.

I wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep.

I paused at the door and glanced back. Daria had rolled over, facing the wall now, hair spilling across her shoulder like it always did. We’d only been married a year, but it already felt impossible to remember life before her. Our anniversary was coming up. I still had no idea what to get her.

I stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light.

Something moved—fast. A dark shape.

A tentacle slithered into the shadows of the living room.

My breath caught. I rushed forward, flipped on the living room light.

Nothing. 

I stood there for a long second, staring at the empty floor. I’m just tired.

I went back to the stove, turned on the burner, and tossed some bacon into the pan.

Daria’s dead eyes flashed across my mind—staring, white, empty.

My grip slipped, I fumbled with the carton, nearly dropping the eggs. As I tried to steady myself my hip knocked into the fridge door.. The door bounced off the counter with a loud thud.

I froze, heart in my throat, listening for any sign that Daria had woken up.

Silence.

I put the eggs back and closed the fridge softly this time.

I gripped the counter, breathing slow.

I need to get a handle on this.

I’ve got bills to pay. A real estate deal to close. Groceries to buy. Two car payments. Medication insurance won’t cover. And Daria—Daria’s pregnant. The baby’s coming soon.

I absolutely can’t afford to fall apart now.

Thank God my dad gave us this house. If we had rent or mortgage payments on top of everything else… I don’t know how we’d manage.

I stared at the sizzling bacon.

Daria won’t be up for another hour.

Why the hell am I making breakfast?

Daria shuffled into the kitchen at exactly 5:05, clutching her arm like it had betrayed her. Breakfast was ready—eggs steaming, bacon crackling faintly in the cooling pan. The room still held a trace of the peppery grease smell, mixing with the soft hum of the fridge.

She dragged her feet toward me, half-asleep, and leaned her forehead into my chest with a dramatic sigh.

“James, my arm’s asleep again,” she groaned. Her red hair was a tangle of wild strands, sticking out like she'd been electrocuted in her sleep. I always wondered how she managed to wrestle it straight by morning.

She tilted her chin up, green eyes locking onto mine like it took effort to keep them open. “What’d you make?”

“Bacon and eggs,” I said.

She rolled her eyes and let out a mock whine. “You always make that. Lucky for you it’s my favorite.”

I turned toward the living room, grabbing my keys from the hook.

“You’re not eating with me?” she asked, faking a wounded tone.

“Daria, I keep telling you—if you want to eat with me, you’ve gotta be up by 4:30.”

She slumped into the chair and laid her head on the table, cheek to the wood. “I got a baby in me. I need, like, sixteen hours of sleep now. It’s only fair. And it’s not my fault you work stupid early.”

I shrugged, rinsing out my coffee mug. “McDonald’s pays just enough to keep the lights on. And somebody doesn’t have a job.”

She stabbed her fork in my direction, mock-offended. “Don’t be throwing around the J-word in my kitchen. You told me to quit, remember?”

“At Subway,” I said, sighing with exaggerated suffering. “And I’m not making my pregnant wife work, Daria. If you do get a job, I might quit mine and start drinking beer for breakfast. Maybe gamble. Maybe start throwing the bottles.”

She giggled, eyes crinkling. “Don’t wanna risk it, do we, James.”

I walked over and kissed her on the forehead. “Hey. Dad’s talking about handing me the Agency. Mom’s been on his case to retire early.”

She arched an eyebrow. “So… does that mean you can finally stop flipping burgers?”

“Not a chance. I’m going to be a real estate broker and a fry cook. Dreams do come true.”

Outside, the summer morning air was cool against my skin. The sky was soft and pale—no stars left, just the early wash of blue and the faint outline of the moon, already fading.

I got into the car and backed out slowly, gravel crunching under the tires. As I shifted into drive, something made me pause.

I glanced up at the bedroom window.

A figure stood behind the curtain—still, silent, framed in the pale light. Watching.

I swallowed. Probably Daria.

My shift at McDonald’s dragged. A man threw a tantrum over his pancakes being “too fluffy.” I stared at him blankly and wondered if I was still dreaming.

At 9:30, I drove across town to my dad’s real estate firm, my second job.

I finally closed a deal—small house, barely held together, but the couple was desperate. Their little boy had wandered through the empty rooms like he was discovering treasure. Probably three years old, maybe four. I really hope my kid can grow up with the same wonder.

The house sold for $100,000. A 3% commission meant $3,000 in my pocket. Enough to breathe for a month.

After the paperwork, I sat back in my chair and stared at the ceiling, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. Then Dad walked in.

His hair was starting to grey at the temples, but his grin was as smug as ever. “James,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, “how’s the babymaker?”

“It’s Daria.” I muttered. “She’s okay. We’re okay.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re cranky. That means she’s healthy.”

“We got the house sold.” I pushed the paperwork toward him. “You want your half of the commission?”

He shook his head. “Hell no. You need it more than I do. If I don’t retire soon, I’m never going to.”

I forced a smile. “That’s the plan. I need the agency. I need out of McDonald’s.”

“The housing market’s garbage, James.” He sighed. “If I’d known, I would’ve gone into rentals.”

“Sold a one-bed, one-bath shack today for six figures. We live in a world of miracles.” I stated.

He laughed, rubbing his chin. “That house I gave you—I paid the same back in… Um… I believe it was 1990, my first house. I lived in it with my 1st Wife before… well, you know.” His face fell for a second then he slapped the door frame, his face lighting up again “You know that house has a balcony? You and Daria should use it more. I want to see pictures.”

There was an awkward pause

He shuffled in place, turned to leave, stopped and then finally turned back. “Your mom told me that you’ve been having nightmares.”

I went still.

“If you ever need to talk,” he said, quieter now, “you know I’m here, right?”

I nodded. “It’s just stress…” 

He looked at me concerned 

“I even found a grey hair this morning.” I added trying to end the subject.

His face tightened. Then he nodded and left.

—

At 2:30 I left to go back and finish my day working at McDonalds.

My shift finally ended at 6 p.m.

Daria called as I pulled out of the parking lot.

Her voice was bright with excitement. “Jamie! I got us a pizza.”

I frowned, gripping the wheel. “Yeah? What kind?”

“Supreme.”

I paused. “…Seriously?”

“Jamie?”

I sighed. “Daria, one day I really am gonna start throwing beer bottles at you.”

She laughed, the sound soft and familiar in my ear. “You love me.”

“Sure. But not more than I hate olives.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “But you better guard that cheese pizza you’re about to buy. I might eat it while you’re asleep.”

I could still hear her giggling as she hung up.

I pictured her sprawled out on the couch, a pizza box balanced on her belly, hair sticking up like wild red grass.

Warmth settled over me. I felt a stupid grin spread across my face.

Then the image of that thing flickered through my mind.

The smile vanished.

Fifteen minutes later, I walked through the door, pizza box in hand. Daria was exactly where I’d imagined her: slouched on the couch, belly pushing up against the stretched fabric of her nightgown, her wild red hair pointing in every direction like she’d been struck by lightning.

“Hey James, welcome home,” she said with a lazy wave.

The slight smell of bleach lingered in the air.

“Daria… did you clean?”

She sheepishly slid her pizza slice back into the box. “I—uhh… yeah?”

I sighed and opened my own box. “Daria… you know I don’t want you doing that stuff right now.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“It doesn’t get done, James. You work like  twelve hours a day,” she said, voice tight with concern.

I sat down next to her, leaning back into the couch cushions.

I glanced at Daria expecting more, but she was transfixed on the TV.

She was watching that one SpongeBob episode—Rock-a-Bye Bivalve, where they raise a baby clam.

We ate in silence, Daria, focused on Spongebob, and I, happy to be home.

“Daria,” I said softly.

“Yup?”

“You know the beer bottle thing… it’s a joke. I’d never actually do that.”

She paused, looked over, her left eyebrow raised.

“James, I may not have had the best grades, but I know when you’re joking.”

She slid the half-empty pizza box onto the table, scooted toward me awkwardly, and laid her head on my shoulder. Her hand found the top of mine.

“But seriously… thanks, Jamie.”

“For what?”

She shrugged, “Just in case.”

I lay there, eyes wired shut, heart tight in my chest like a fist refusing to unclench. The air felt wrong—thick, heavy—and cold dread trickled down my spine like melting ice.

I didn’t know why. But I felt it. Something was going to happen.

Daria had fallen asleep before I even switched off the light. Her breathing was slow, steady, and soft. For a moment, that rhythm eased something in me.

Then— a sound.

Wet. Slithering.

My eyes snapped open.

It was in the corner.

Still. Towering. Watching.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains, glinting off its leathery, grey skin. Tentacles unraveled from its head—rising like smoke, then slipping across the ceiling with a silent, serpentine grace.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Not out of fear— out of instinct. Like moving would make it real.

It wasn’t looking at me. Its head was tilted toward Daria.

I followed its gaze.

The tentacles crept toward her—slow, pulsing cords that writhed across the ceiling, veined like they carried some thick, black blood.

Adrenaline snapped through me.

I lunged from the bed, slapped the light switch.

A harsh flicker. Light flooded the room.

Daria stirred, eyes barely open. “James… wha—are you okay?”

I turned.

The tentacles snapped back into the dark, as if burned by the light. But the thing was still there—bones gleaming through shredded flesh, like broken porcelain crammed into meat. Its skin hung in ragged strips, trailing across the floor like unraveling bandages.

“I… I’m okay,” I croaked, throat raw and dry.

She squinted at me. “You sure?”

I nodded too fast and turned the light off.

But I didn’t lie down.

I sat on the edge of the bed. Watching.

It didn’t leave.

The slithering returned—low and wet, like something breathing through water. The thing didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But it watched me. Patient. Present. A hunter with all the time in the world.

Daria’s breathing evened out again—soft and rhythmic. Comforting. Human.

But the thing stayed. All night.

Headlights passed outside, sweeping over the room, but never reached the corner. The fan hummed faintly behind me. And the creature stood, silent, absolute.

I stayed frozen—muscles locked, nerves frayed.

It didn’t need to move.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, my alarm shrieked.

4:30 a.m.

I didn’t flinch. Neither did it.

I stared ahead, breath caught in my throat. Then blinked.

The corner was empty.

Daria stirred behind me. “What is he doing…” she mumbled.

The alarm stopped. I felt her hand on my shoulder—gentle, grounding.

She pulled me down beside her, wrapping an arm across my chest.

I turned toward her.

Her eyes met mine. Sharp. Awake. Concerned.

“You didn’t move,” she said softly. “You were in that same spot when I fell asleep.” She glanced at the clock. “You’re never here at 4:30.”

I pulled her close and buried my face in her hair. It smelled like lavender and skin.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I whispered.

A lie.

She cupped my cheek, her thumb brushing beneath my eye.

Warmth bled into me. Before I could drift off, she tugged me gently to her chest. One hand rubbed slow circles into my back; the other combed through my hair.

“Okay,” she whispered again, more firmly now. “But James… don’t sit there like that again. And hit your alarm when it rings. Please.”

I got up before I could fall asleep in her arms.

In the kitchen, I cooked in silence. Left the house before she could even come downstairs.

As I pulled out of the driveway, the living room light flicked on. The curtains shifted.

Daria’s face appeared in the window.

I couldn’t make out her expression.

—

The day was torturous. The first half of my McDonald’s shift crawled by. Fifteen customers would order, I’d serve them, then check the clock—only five minutes had passed.

At 9:45, I stumbled out and into my car. Fighting sleep, I turned the key and shifted into reverse.

At the intersection, I thought the light was green. Blinked. It was red.

I was halfway through before I realized. Cars slammed their brakes. Even over the music blaring to keep me awake, I heard the screech of tires.

Thank God no one got hit.

Still, I could already feel the ticket draining my checking account.

At 10:00 I walked into the wrong building—a hair salon next to the agency.

Mary looked up from her desk when I finally made it into the agency door. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah…” I mumbled, heading straight for the coffee pot.

Luckily, she’d just made a fresh batch. McDonald’s coffee just wasn’t cutting it.

I poured a cup, didn’t wait for it to cool. I downed it in one go. It burned my mouth, throat, stomach.

But I was awake.

“James! I just made that! Are you okay?” Mary’s hand flew to her chin.

I coughed. “Yeah... just had a rough night.”

Her face softened. “Is it about Daria? Is everything okay?”

She touched my arm—gentle, maternal concern.

“Yeah... pregnancy stuff. I don’t know how you guys do it.” I took the easy excuse.

She nodded, distracted, then perked up. “Oh! Mr. Carter said to give you this.” She handed me a sheet of paper with a sticky note attached.

“Let’s see what Dad’s got for me today…”

The note read:

“James, I’m busy today. Can you go set up this house for sale? Just needs to be listed and stuff. I’ll make it worth your time—$500.”

So... not my listing.

I sighed and skimmed the sheet. Address, square footage, photos. All there.

I slumped into the chair, cursing my economic reality. I’d been hoping to nap in my office chair.

“I can do it for you if you want,” Mary said, reading over my shoulder.

I shrugged. “Nah. I got it.”

I grabbed a second coffee and headed back out.

—

The house was overgrown. The listing photo made it look like a magazine cover. Now, weeds climbed up the porch rail.

I sighed and started calling landscaping companies. First call: busy. Second call: voicemail. Third: booked until next week.

Of course. It’s Friday.

I texted my dad:

“Do they have a mower here?”

His reply was immediate:

“Yes. Shed key under front mat w/ door key. Thanks. Also a weed eater in there.”

The push mower was a beast—thank God. It cut through the high grass like butter.

The weed eater, on the other hand, was a disaster. I had to reset the string three times.

But eventually, I got it done. Swept the sidewalk, staked the “For Sale” sign into the dirt, took a few pictures, and listed the place back at the office.

I was late to my second McDonald’s shift. I was scared I Was going to get reprimanded. I walked in the door. The manager just laughed and told me to stay to make up the difference.

My manager’s cool about the weird hours, thank God.

I pulled into our driveway at 8:30.

The sun was already dipping, staining the sky with orange and pink streaks.

My body felt hollow. I almost fell asleep leaning against the front door. It was only the jingle of my keys that kept me upright.

I stepped inside.

The house was dark and quiet—but warm. Still welcoming.

I headed to the kitchen, set my stuff down.

Two empty pizza boxes sat on the table. I felt a pang of disappointment. I was looking forward to having some. Yesterday’s dinner. Both boxes cleaned out by her.

I guess it’s peanut butter sandwiches for me.

I fixed the plate and walked into the bedroom—expecting to find her curled up in bed.

The bed was untouched, unmade. Quilt still balled from this morning.

I turned, ready to search—then saw her.

Through the window.

Out on the balcony.

I opened the door and stepped outside, plate in hand.

Daria was sitting in one of the chairs I’d bought this spring—two big ones and a little one.

She had her headphones on, nodding along to a rhythm only she could hear.

Her hair was straight now, the usual wildness tamed, at least for the moment.

She tapped her foot to the beat, drumming softly on a pillow in her lap like it was a snare. She was singing under her breath, just loud enough to move her lips—too soft for me to make out the words.

The setting sun caught her hair, setting it aglow. Her pale, freckled skin shimmered in the orange light, so radiant it almost looked painted.

She looked so alive. So beautiful. So her.

I glanced down at her phone on the table beside her.

She still hadn’t noticed me.

She was listening to Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer. I’d never heard it before.

She looked over and saw me. Her face lit up.

“Hey!” she shouted, waving furiously.

She pulled off her headphones, set them beside her phone, and hopped up. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me, then leaned over my shoulder in a tight hug.

I noticed a heating pad on the chair where she’d been sitting.

She let go and stepped back. “Welcome home, James.”

She glanced at her phone. “You’re later than usual.”

“Yeah, sorry. Had to work late.” I sank into one of the chairs.

She plopped down on my lap, studying me.

“James, you don’t look so good.”

She touched my cheek. “Oh my God, you’re so pale.”

“Didn’t sleep well last night.”

She frowned. “James… you didn’t sleep at all.”

She sighed. “Well, you better sleep tonight. I’ll wake you up at 4:30.”

“I don’t need to be at work till nine. But I won’t be back home till seven.”

She smiled and looked up at the darkening sky. “It’s going to be a full moon tonight.”

I chuckled. “Don’t know if I’ll make it that long.”

There was a long silence.

She leaned her head against my shoulder, eyes misty.

“I’m so excited,” she whispered. “We’re going to be mom and dad.”

She ran her hand through my hair.

“First day of preschool… first day of school… graduation… we’ll see him off to college.”

She smiled. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Daria,” I murmured, struggling to keep my eyes open.

She giggled. “James, let’s get you to bed.”

I shivered as she stood.

She pulled me to my feet. I could barely keep my balance—I was that tired.

She led me inside, sat me on the bed, and undressed me like a child.

I felt warm all over as she laid me down and pulled the covers over me.

“Nighty night, Jamie.”

I felt her crawl into bed behind me. Her arms wrapped around my chest.

And I was out. —

I felt icy.

I was in the field again.

The full moon loomed overhead—impossibly large, so close I could see its scars. A cold breeze slid down my spine like a whisper.

The marigolds were brighter than ever, glowing like lanterns. Petals blanketed the ground, hiding the grass beneath, which had turned from green to a brittle, corpse-grey.

I was terrified—but I didn’t move. I stared toward the spot where the thing always entered.

I blinked.

And there it was.

The tentacles unfurled first, curling like smoke through the air. Daria was part of them now—impaled and suspended, a marionette strung by meat.

This time, the tentacles didn’t just emerge from her. They ran through her—threaded under her skin like pulsating veins, bulging and twitching. A bundle of them spilled from her mouth in a wet, choking tangle, still moving.

Her belly was gone. Flattened. The skin around her torso drifted like fabric underwater—thin, weightless, empty.

Then the moon changed.

Its white glow deepened into blue. The surface shimmered—rippled, fluid. Landmasses began to rise: first Eurasia, then the Americas.

It wasn’t the moon.

It was Earth.

Whole. Radiant. Perfect.

I looked back to the marigolds. They were so bright now they burned. My eyes watered.

Then the Earth cracked—like an egg.

A jagged line split the globe in half. The continents fractured. The oceans boiled into steam.

Fire gushed from the core. Not lava—light. Blinding, holy, wrong.

Cities folded in on themselves, sucked into spirals. Skyscrapers bent like wet paper. Forests went up in columns of ash.

People screamed—not just dying, but unraveling. I saw flesh peeling from bone, souls turned inside out. I saw families hugging as they dissolved, praying to gods that didn’t come. I saw Daria, duplicated a thousand times—each version split, split, and split again, until she was just fragments of skin in the fire.

I saw me—dozens of versions. Crawling. Burning. Watching.

Then, at the shattered core of the world, something emerged.

It had no form I could understand—just light and motion and vast, unknowable hunger.

I tried to look at it.

I couldn’t.

It radiated light, but I saw nothing. My brain refused to shape it.

Then tentacles erupted outward—towering, endless. They wrapped around the edges of the universe, pulling everything in.

They reached for me.

A scream ripped from my chest—

Mine.

I woke up.

I was sitting straight up in bed. Daria snored softly beside me.

In a daze, I slid out from under the covers and stumbled into the bathroom. My eyes flicked up to the clock above the mirror.

3:12 a.m.

I sighed—but the breath caught in my throat.

It was behind me.

In the mirror, I saw it standing there. Its reflection loomed over my shoulder, silent and watching.

I spun around—nothing.

I turned back.

It was still in the mirror. Closer now. One of its tentacles reached toward me.

Before I could react, something thick and rotten flooded my mouth. I gagged on the slime, the taste of decay choking me. I couldn’t breathe. My throat sealed shut.

I looked in the mirror again.

It was gone.

But I still couldn’t breathe.

My knees hit the tile. I clawed at the countertop, vision swimming. The pressure behind my eyes was unbearable.

I looked up—just in time to see my own eyes being forced out of my head in the mirror.

Then everything went black.

—

I jerked awake.

Daria flinched beside me, pulling back quickly.

“James! Oh my God, don’t scare me like that.” She gave a nervous laugh, brushing the hair from her face.

The clock read 7:30.

Daria climbed on top of me with a grin. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” she giggled. “You wake up like someone being resuscitated.”

“Baby Archibald’s kicking,” she said, rubbing her belly with a smile.

“Really?” I placed my hand gently on her stomach. The kick came—sudden and sharp, like a muscle twitch just beneath warm skin. I half expected to see a tiny footprint stretch the fabric.

I paused. “We’re not naming our baby Archibald.”

She chuckled. “Well, then you better help me pick something, or I’m going with a long, boring name. He won’t get any ladies that way—and we don’t want that.”

In the shower, I let the hot water run over my shoulders and tried to stop thinking about the dream. But it clung to me like steam.

What does it even mean? Is this just sleep deprivation and nerves? Or is our baby going to... end the world?

I rubbed my eyes and glanced out through the fogged shower door. My reflection stared back in the mirror. My eyes looked normal. Clear.

But something was off.

I was thinner than usual. Hollow, maybe. Just stress, I told myself. Probably skipped too many meals this week. I turned away before I could think too hard about it.

Daria had made breakfast.

The smell of chocolate chip pancakes hit me first—her second favorite. Scrambled eggs were still sizzling on the burner, nearly forgotten.

She stood over the griddle in an apron that didn’t quite fit anymore, her full belly pulling the fabric taut. She was laser-focused on the pancakes, flipping them with mechanical precision.

She didn’t notice the eggs burning.

I walked over, turned off the burner, cut them up with a spatula, and slid them into a bowl.

“Thanks, James. I didn’t even realize,” she said softly.

I glanced up.

She was looking at me, her pancakes forgotten. 

“uh, your pancakes are done,” I muttered,

“Oh!” She spun around fumbling for the burner knob.

Breakfast was good. I prefer normal pancakes, but it was worth it just to see Daria happy. She closed her eyes on the first bite, smiling like it was the best thing she’d tasted in years.

Then—

Daria was replaced with the thing, it’s tentacles flew toward me.

I blinked. Back to normal.

Daria was pointing her fork at me, a bit of pancake dangling from the tines.

“So what are we going to tell him, James?”

I stared at her.

“Sorry—what?”

She sighed, exaggerated and playful. “The baby. What do we tell him when he asks why the grass is green?” She stabbed another bite, eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. “When he can talk, obviously.”

“Oh. Uh... chlorophyll,” I said. “It absorbs everything but green light.”

She raised an eyebrow.

I stumbled. “We’ll dumb it down. Make it cute. So he understands.”

She nodded, already moving on.

“What about the sky? Why’s it—”

Her phone chimed from the pocket of her apron. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

Her face lit up.

“They’re doing the growth scan on Monday,” she said brightly. Then, softer: “Will you be able to come this time?”

I hesitated, running through my mental schedule.

“What time?”

“One o’clock.”

“I’ll talk to Dad. I’m sure he’ll let me go if I bring him pictures.” I smirked. “But I have to be at McDonald’s by two.”

She nodded, tucking her phone away.

My day at work was utterly mind-numbing. No real estate shift today—just a long McDonald’s stretch from 9:00 a.m. to 6:30 p.m.

It was Saturday. I watched happy parents shuffle in with their kids. Some hid behind their parents as they ordered Happy Meals in hushed voices. Others shouted their orders with big smiles, always slightly mispronounced.

It felt like I was supposed to be reminded of something.

Most days, it's just tired people wanting something cheap and greasy. But today? Today it was all kids.

And the whole shift, I couldn’t stop thinking.

About the nightmares. The hallucinations. The pressure. Two jobs. Daria’s student loans. The baby arriving next month. Groceries. Insurance. The damn AC unit that probably won’t survive the summer.

I kept punching the wrong buttons on the register. Every time, I cursed under my breath. The manager noticed. He shook his head and walked off.

If I get fired… I don’t know what I’ll do. McDonald’s is the closest job I have. Losing it would mean more gas, more time, more strain.

Those thoughts played on repeat in my mind while I waited at Little Caesars. I ordered a half-supreme, half-cheese pizza and stood there watching the rain as the worker boxed it.

Then my phone rang.

I fumbled the pizza onto the dash and snatched the phone up.

Daria’s voice came through, quiet and broken. “I… James…”

My stomach tightened. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

There was a second of silence. Then a sharp pop of static. “James,” she said again, voice cracking, “I need you here. I had an accident…”

I froze.

“What happened?” I asked, panicked. My voice sounded hoarse, too loud.

“Don’t freak out… just please come. Come home.”

I drove faster than I should’ve. Rain poured hard, turning the road into a misty blur. My wipers were useless at full speed. I tapped the wheel nervously at red lights, blasted through yellow ones.

I felt the car straining as I pulled into the driveway. Tires squealed. I slammed the brakes.

I ran through the rain, fumbled the keys at the door, swore under my breath. My hands were shaking.

I burst inside, soaked through.

And there she was—leaning against the kitchen table. Eyes red and puffy. But she was okay. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I stepped into the kitchen. A small plastic bucket lay tipped over, water spreading across the tile and soaking into the hardwood.

I walked up to Daria, still dizzy with relief, and pulled her into a tight hug. I kissed the top of her head.

Then I stepped away, bent down, and picked up the bucket. That’s when I noticed the wet stain running down her nightgown.

“James…” she started, her voice trembling. “I was just washing the dishes, when… it happened.” She tried to swallow the words. “I didn’t mean to—I tried to clean it, but I knocked over the bucket.”

She covered her face with both hands. “I can’t even bend down to dry it up.”

I didn’t say anything. I just walked into the bathroom, grabbed some towels, and returned. I dropped them on the floor and slowly began soaking up the water, one towel at a time.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked quietly, tears hitting the tile.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I just…” Her voice cracked. “I feel so useless. You do everything, and I just… I don’t even know why I’m here.” 

I put the bucket and mop back in the closet. The sound of the door clicking shut echoed a little too loud in the quiet house.

I walked over to Daria and put my arm around her. She leaned into me, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s alright, Daria. It happens,” I said softly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Hey.” I cupped her cheek, gently turning her toward me. Her eyes were wet, glassy. I kissed her forehead. “You don’t have to be sorry. You’re growing a person. That’s more than enough.”

She gave a shaky breath, trying to smile but failing.

“Ok, let’s get you cleaned up,” I said. “Bath or shower?”

“Bath,” she murmured.

I ran the water, adjusting the temperature with practiced care. I added the lavender stuff she likes—bought on a whim during one of our grocery runs last month.

While the tub filled, I helped her peel off her soaked nightgown and eased her into the warm water. She sighed as she sank in.

I sat beside the tub on the floor, one arm resting on the edge.

“You know,” she said after a while, eyes half-closed, “I thought I’d be good at this. Motherhood. But I just feel like... a burden.”

I didn’t have a perfect answer. Just reached in and brushed my fingers over her arm beneath the water.

“You’re not,” I said. 

She sniffled

“Thanks for coming home James.”

“Just call when you need me.” 

She closed her eyes again.

The faucet dripped. The house was quiet. Just the hum of the AC.

I felt at peace. 

I hope all this stress doesn’t affect the baby.

The hum of the AC was steady. But for a second, I swore I heard something slithering in the ductwork. Just water, I told myself. Just the pipes.

Sleep came hard that night. Daria was already out, curled beneath the quilt. The AC had cut off hours ago. For once, the house was cold.

Outside, cars hissed along the wet asphalt, their headlights sweeping across the ceiling like ghosts. Nothing else moved. Just the soft hum of silence. Then— A faint slither. Maybe a pipe. Maybe the house settling. Probably.

My eyelids grew heavy. The room pulsed dim. Just as I slipped beneath the surface of sleep— The bathroom light snapped on. And something stood in the doorway.

Monday morning was quiet. Peaceful, even.

I woke up at 4:00 a.m. sharp—no nightmare, no sweat-drenched sheets, no lingering screams clawing their way out of my throat.

Just... silence.

The shower felt warmer than usual, like it was trying to lull me back to sleep. I stood there longer than I meant to, letting it run over my face. Steam clung to the mirror, but I wiped it away out of habit.

I looked okay. Normal, maybe. My skin wasn’t as pale. I couldn’t find the grey hair anymore—just soft brown. My eyes looked tired, sure, but less... exhausted. Like someone had rewound me a few days.

I actually felt hungry. I wanted to make breakfast.

I headed downstairs, a little unsteady, but upright. Head high.

The light switch clicked under my fingers. The kitchen blinked to life.

And there they were.

Tentacles.

They slithered in through the living room like they’d always been there—slow and deliberate, crawling across the floor in perfect silence.

My blood turned to ice. My skin prickled all over.

I just... watched.

Then I moved.

The living room was dim. I didn’t remember turning off that lamp in the corner, but it was dark now. The thing stood just beside the front door. Its tentacles coiled around its body, spiraling down to the floor, threading through the carpet fibers like roots.

It didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch.

But I could feel it watching me, it’s hateful gaze piercing my soul, though it had no eyes.

I walked back into the kitchen. My hands went on autopilot: eggs, pan, salt. My heartbeat thudded behind my teeth the whole time. I kept catching glimpses of it in my peripheral vision—never direct, never center frame. Just shadows at the edge of thought.

I plated the eggs. They looked fine. Like any other Monday.

At 5:07, I heard her.

“Hey James,” Daria mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

I turned slightly, keeping the thing just out of view. Daria wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her face between my shoulder blades.

“James, I slept horribly,” she groaned, half-pouting.

I turned to her, leaving the bowl on the counter. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes were puffy. She looked soft, human. Warm.

“Are you okay?” I asked, folding her into a hug. I kissed the crown of her head.

She nodded her head lazily.

“I love you, Daria,” I whispered.

She murmured something into my back—something like “love you more.”

I didn’t look at the thing again.

I left through the back door.

At 12:30 I got the call I’ve been waiting for. Daria’s voice radiated from the phone, she sounded so excited, so happy.

“Ok James, you better get your things in order, I’m leaving for the clinic ok.” She giggled “Don’t you flake on me this time.” Then her voice softened a bit “Please come this time.”

Dad, just like I thought, let me go. He put his hands on my shoulders firmly, giving me this fake serious expression.

“Son, I’m going to fire you if you don’t bring me pictures, last time I had to beg Daria for them.”

I pulled into the parking lot at 12:50. The clinic was empty; the only cars that were there were staff.

I walked through the door, a chime accompanying my entrance. I stated my name and who I was here for. A nurse—I think—ushered me in.

The ultrasound room was colder than I expected—small, windowless, lit only by the dull glow of a computer screen. A plastic bottle of clear gel sat next to the keyboard like a condiment on a diner table. The exam bed was draped in thin, crinkly paper that rustled every time Daria moved.

She lay back slowly, belly exposed, the rest of her half-covered with a hospital sheet that barely reached her knees. The technician—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and no visible interest in small talk—squeezed the gel onto Daria’s stomach. It glistened under the soft overhead light.

Then came the wand. She pressed it down—not painfully, but firm. Still Daria flinched.

The screen flickered—grey static, then shadows swimming.

A curve. A twitch. A ripple of movement.

“There’s the heartbeat,” the tech said gently.

Then the sound filled the room. Fast. Watery. Mechanical. Like a horse galloping underwater. It made my skin crawl.

Daria squeezed my hand. “You hear that, James?” she whispered, smiling.

But I wasn’t looking at her.

The image was wrong.

At first, it looked like a baby’s head—but then the skull bulged outward, pulsing as if something inside was pushing to get out.

From the spine, long black cords extended—slick, rope-like, moving. Not waving. Reaching. One uncoiled and brushed the edge of the screen.

Another pulsed from the abdomen—thicker than the legs, like a root burrowing into the flesh from the inside.

My body locked. I couldn’t breathe. My hand twitched in Daria’s, but she didn’t look at me.

“He’s really growing,” she giggled. “He’ll be as big as us someday.”

I stared at the screen, bile rising in my throat.

Then—blink.

The image was normal again.

A baby. Just a baby. Soft skull. Normal limbs. Perfect little heartbeat.

Then the tech hit a button. The image vanished.

Daria beamed. “That was amazing.”

I just nodded, still gripping her hand, my palm ice-cold.

Ever since that morning, the thing hasn’t stopped watching.

At night, it waits in the bedroom corner.

During the day, it stands beside the front door—silent, still, always there.

I pass it every time I come home. I don’t look at it anymore. I hear it whispering when I close my eyes—sharp, venomous syllables in a language I can’t begin to understand. They rattle in my skull like static.

Sleep is a joke now. Work’s worse than ever. I’ve been moved to the prep station just to keep up with the flood of orders. Bills are stacking, and the real estate deal I need to close keeps slipping further away. I’ve even thought about asking Dad for help. But all of that… faded when I opened the front door that night. It was the Monday after Daria’s ultrasound.

The box with the crib was sitting in the nursery. Daria was painting clouds on the baby-blue walls, her brush moving slow and steady.

She turned as I stepped in. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d be home so early.”

I held up the pizza box. “It’s six o’clock. Figured I’d pick up dinner.”

She smiled. “That actually sounds amazing right now.”

I pointed at one of the clouds. “That one does not look anything like a cloud.”

It looked more like a blob than a nice soft cloud.

She pouted. “I’ve never been an artist, and it’s not like the baby’ll care.”

Dinner was quiet in the best kind of way. The thing didn’t appear. The kitchen felt warm again—like it used to. I honestly couldn’t even taste the pizza.

Daria sat across from me, still in her paint-streaked clothes, eyes soft and glowing in the evening light. The sunlight poured through the window, catching her hair—it looked like fire paused mid-flicker.

She caught me staring. “Jamie,” she said, tilting her head.

“Yeah?”

“What are you looking forward to most?” She rested her chin in her hand. “About the baby, I mean.”

I thought for a second. “Family dinners,” I said finally. “Us at the table. All of us. Just... eating together. When he’s older, of course.”

She smiled like she was already there, watching it happen.

“I’m looking forward to taking care of him,” she said softly. “The house is so quiet sometimes. I can’t wait for it to be messy and loud and alive. I want to hear little feet on the floor.” She placed her hand on her belly and laughed gently. “He’s kicking again. I think he knows we’re talking about him.”

I stood and moved around the table, crouching beside her. “Really?”

She took my hand and guided it to her stomach. A few seconds passed—and then I felt it: a firm, tiny nudge beneath the skin. Like a heartbeat you could touch.

My lips curled into a smile I didn’t have to think about. “Still feels like a muscle twitch to me.”

She laughed. “Don’t ruin the magic, James.”

I kissed the side of her belly. “Okay. That one was a ninja kick.”

She beamed, running her fingers through my hair. “We still need a name.”

I nodded. “I know. Feels like we’re behind.”

She looked off, thoughtful. Then her eyes found mine again. “Honestly? I like James Jr.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded. “I like the way it sounds. And it means I get to call him Junior. That just feels right, you know?”

She grinned. “Can’t wait to chase him around the house yelling it.”

I laughed with her. I really did. For a moment, it was like none of it mattered—not the exhaustion, not the dreams, not the bills. Just me, her, and the baby we were waiting on. But the moment didn’t last. It never can.

The thing won’t leave me alone anymore.

It follows me now. Not just at home. Not just in dreams.

At work, it stands in the back corner of the freezer—just far enough into the shadows that the frost doesn’t touch it. I see it when I turn around, after grabbing a box of sausage patties or hash browns. Just… standing there. Watching.

It never moves. But every time I turn my back, I swear I feel it leaning forward. Like it’s considering something.

At the firm, it’s stationed beside the coffee machine. Mary thinks I’m lazy. She keeps giving me this puzzled look every time I ask her to pour my cup. I can’t explain it to her. 

It’s back by the front door at home, too. Same place as always. Still as furniture. Just part of the layout now.

I’ve stopped reacting. If I don’t acknowledge it, maybe it won’t do anything. Maybe it just wants to be seen. Maybe it already knows everything.

I’m not sleeping. Not really. I rest in fragments now. Fifteen minutes here. Maybe an hour on the couch if I’m lucky. I’ve been getting up earlier just to get ahead of it. 4:30 a.m., every morning. McDonalds opens at five. I try to be there before it notices I’m gone.

I’m starting to feel like a robot. Just going through the same motions every day. I can’t tell if I’m even exhausted.

The only upside is the money. With how much I’ve been working, I’ve finally pulled ahead. Two real estate deals closed last week—$7,000 sitting in my account. It’s the most I’ve had in years. Enough to cover the hospital. Enough for the next two months of bills. Enough to maybe even buy Daria something nice.

But none of it feels real. It’s just numbers.

Daria’s due soon.

Sunday, I took an extra shift at McDonald’s. Daria looked disappointed when I told her.

Still, I managed to finish the crib. Daria got the nursery painted.

It’s strange, standing in that room now — soft blue walls, clouds near the middle, faintly cartoonish. It feels so… nice, in there. I even helped with the ceiling — stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to it, so when it's bedtime, it looks like a night sky frozen in time.

This morning, I caught Daria just standing there — arms crossed, hands on her hips, scanning the room like a commander surveying a battlefield. Every now and then, she’d adjust something. A stuffed animal. A mobile. A blanket corner. Then step back. Then forward again.

She’s adorable when she’s like that.

But the moment I got to work, the feeling curdled.

The thing had moved.

It stood dead center in the lobby — out in the open now, waiting for me behind the register.

It stared through me.

Its tentacles stretched slowly outward, crawling up the walls, spilling across the ceiling like roots. The air felt thick — humid, oppressive. Like standing in a jungle that had long since rotted.

The smell hit next: mold and something older, something wet and dead.

And still, no one noticed.

Customers stepped on the tendrils, slick and pulsing. I heard them squish underfoot. A kid leaned against the wall, I watched a strand of black slime fall down and soak into his hair — thick and glistening.

He didn’t flinch.

His parents kept eating.

I made it through the shift. Barely. By the end, I couldn’t feel my fingers. My legs moved without me.

I almost ran out the door.

My phone rang as I reached the car.

I climbed inside, hands shaking, and answered.

“James?” Daria’s voice crackled through the phone, slightly alarmed.

“Yes?” I responded.

“Your parents are coming over. They just called and said they’d be over in 30 minutes.” She explained.

“What!” I half yelled into my phone. “No notice, no nothing?”

“I know, I was just about to get in the bath.” She continued. “Do you want me to just order some pizza? I mean that’s what we always have, I don’t have time to cook them lunch.”

I sighed. “Yeah, that’d be fine. Order the bigger, more expensive pizzas. I'll bill it to Dad. Dad likes Meat Lovers, and Mom likes pineapple, uhh, nevermind — get her cheese and we’ll keep it.”

She giggled. “Alright, at least we’ll get something out of it.”

I hung up, still staring at the empty passenger seat.

Traffic was worse than I expected. It took me thirty-five minutes to get home.

Dad’s big, showy SUV was parked crooked in the driveway, taking up most of it and leaving Daria’s car awkwardly squeezed in. I had to reverse back out and park on the street just to avoid boxing them in.

When I walked inside, my parents and Daria were already gathered at the table, chatting. Four oversized pizza boxes sat stacked in the middle like a makeshift centerpiece. She’d really ordered the expensive ones — probably twelve bucks each.

“Well, look who finally showed up,” Dad bellowed from across the room.

I scanned the house. No sign of the thing.

“James, why haven’t you called your mother?” Mom was already up, arms open, pulling me into a hug.

She smelled like expensive lotion and wine. Her long blond hair hadn’t grayed yet — always perfectly brushed. In her mid-fifties, but she still dressed like she was on her way to a charity gala. And that expression — vaguely disappointed, like she was reviewing a hotel room she didn’t book.

Over her shoulder, Daria caught my eye. We shared the same look: Really?

“You look exhausted,” Mom said, brushing her fingers across my cheek. “Are you even sleeping?”

I pulled back, gently. “Been working a lot.”

Her silence demanded more.

“My insurance isn’t great. I want to have enough saved for the birth,” I added.

She gave a tight nod, but her eyes kept scanning my face like she was still looking for something to fix.

“So,” Dad said, rising with a grunt and wiping his hands on a napkin, “where’s my grandson going to be staying? I’m not paying for this pizza until I see it.”

I pointed upstairs, but he was already moving. Daria followed, probably to keep him from poking into the wrong room.

Before I could follow, Mom placed a manicured hand on my shoulder.

“You could’ve done better than pizza, James,” she said, voice clipped.

I turned. “You gave us thirty minutes’ notice. What did you expect, a five-course meal?”

“Pizza just… doesn’t reflect status,” she replied, as if that explained anything. Then she swept past me and headed upstairs.

That’s always been Mom. More concerned with appearances than effort. She’s never worked a day in her life, but you’d think she ran a Fortune 500 company the way she talked about “presenting well.”

I followed them upstairs.

The nursery door was open.

And there it was. The thing stood at the end of the hallway, etched in shadow. Its tentacles hung like vines — draping from the ceiling, crawling along the floor, weaving across the walls. But they all stopped just short of the nursery doorway.

I stepped into the nursery, calm on the outside, skin crawling beneath.

“Whoa,” Dad said, craning his neck to look up. “You even did the stars on the ceiling. Do they glow?”

“They do,” Daria said proudly. “James put them up.” She looked down at her belly and added with a laugh, “I’m… not tall enough.”

Mom stood near the bookshelf, smiling with polite approval. “You’ve really created a lovely space for Junior.”

Daria beamed. “I know, right? We worked so hard on this. James built the furniture, and I painted and decorated. It took forever. I wish we’d done it earlier — before I got so… round.”

She walked them through every piece of it — the crib, the clouds, the night-sky ceiling. Her voice was light, full of pride and love. For a moment, it felt like all the bad things were far away.

I stood by the door, nodding occasionally, eyes flicking back to the hallway.

The thing didn’t move.

Eventually, we filtered back downstairs.

The living room lights were too bright. The air felt too still. And the pizza smelled off — greasy and sharp, like cardboard soaked in salt. I chewed through a slice without tasting it, nodding along to whatever conversation my parents were having. But my mind was still upstairs.

Would the thing turn our house into another jungle, like it did McDonald’s? Would the walls start sweating, the floors pulse underfoot, the air grow thick and wet and moldy?

I flinched at the thought.

“James?” My mother’s voice cut through the fog.

I blinked. Everyone was staring. Even Daria.

“James, yoo-hoo. Earth to James,” Dad said, waving a hand in front of my face with a chuckle.

“Sorry.” I shifted in my chair. “Spaced out.”

Daria gave me a concerned glance.

“Well,” Mom said, brushing a napkin across her lips, “we’re heading to Florida next week. A little early spring break. You two should come.”

Dad jumped in. “We’ll cover it — the flights, hotel. Everything.”

He meant he would. My mother had never paid for anything but Botox and judgment.

Daria hesitated. “Elizabeth, I’d love to, but… I don’t think I can. The baby could come any time now. The doctor said we should be on alert.”

“You’re at 32 weeks, right?” Dad asked, squinting.

“Thirty-six,” she corrected, more gently than I would’ve.

I cleared my throat. “And with hospital bills, I need to pick up more hours.”

Mom let out a tight, irritated sigh — the kind that could cut drywall.

“I suppose that’s a no, then,” she said, her tone flat but pointed.

I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just bad timing.”

Dad draped an arm around her shoulder. “Hey, it’s fine. No pressure. Next time.”

There was an awkward silence after that. Just the sound of crust crunching and someone’s chewing. I glanced over at Daria — she looked a little stunned, but she shrugged and leaned forward to grab another slice.

Eventually, they stood to leave. Mom offered a stiff goodbye hug. Dad slapped my back and told me to “keep grinding.” They left the leftover pizza.

I stood in the doorway watching their SUV pull away, the tail lights glowing red in the dimming sky.

Daria joined me, folding her arms across her chest.

“I’m starting to get sick of pizza,” I muttered.

She laughed softly. “I’m not. Still my favorite.”

We stood there a while, not saying anything. Just the hum of the fridge and the ticking clock.

Daria was still standing in the entryway, arms crossed. Her hair was caught in the overhead light, glowing faintly orange. She shifted, hesitating.

“James… does your mom dislike me?” she asked, softly.

I turned to her. She wasn’t angry. Just small. Like the question had been sitting in her chest all night and finally found its way out.

“No,” I said quickly. “Daria, she just… you know how she is. My mom’s too concerned with how things look. That’s her whole deal. Don’t take it personally.”

She nodded, but didn’t look relieved.

“I just…” She rubbed one arm with the other. “I want both to like me. My parents don’t even want to see me.”

She looked down. Her voice dropped a bit. “I called them a couple days ago. Told them they’d have a grandchild soon.”

I stayed quiet.

“They wanted me to go to college,” she continued. “And as they put it, ‘do something with your life.’ Like creating a new one doesn’t count.”

Her shoulders slumped, Her expression falling.

“Is that normal?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“No,” I said, stepping closer. “That’s not normal at all. It’s cruel. They’re losing the best part of their lives.”

She nodded again, but slower this time.

I tried to soften the air. “Don’t worry about my parents, okay? They like you. You should’ve seen my mom when I told her you were pregnant—it actually knocked her out of her ‘ice queen’ routine. She and Dad were literally jumping for joy. I’ve never seen them do that. Ever.”

That earned a small smile. Just a twitch at the corners of her mouth, but it was enough.

I flopped onto the couch with a sigh and grabbed the remote. The living room was dim except for the amber spill of light from the kitchen and the pale blue flicker of the TV screen coming to life.

Daria eased down beside me. Her hands rested on her stomach.

“I mean, I have you,” she said, gently. “So it’s all good.”

She laughed—not forced. Just tired and soft. “I can’t wait for the baby.”

I turned on some dumb Hallmark movie.

“Oh I bet, he’s pretty heavy,” I joked.

She looked jokingly taken aback then poked my cheek. “You know, James, most people are more excited about the birth of their child than just its physical weight.”

I shrugged, smiling. “Yeah, though he’s probably heavy. Especially today. Almost seems like he’s lower down.”

She nodded, rubbing her stomach slowly. “He’s going to be a big guy. I can feel it.”

She leaned her head onto my shoulder, a content little breath slipping out of her.

“Probably gonna outgrow his dad,” I said. “Definitely his grandpa. He’s short.”

Daria giggled. “You’re not exactly a giant, James.”

“No,” I said, mock-sulking. “But I’m medium tall.”

We sat like that for a while—her head on my shoulder. The glow from the TV painted shifting light across the room.

Daria pointed at the screen. “I didn’t know we got these silly movies.”

She turned her head, squinting up at me. “You’re not paying for these, are you?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t even have time to sit down and watch anything.”

She nodded, then grew quiet—her eyes tracking something across the carpet.

“Hey, James?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think Junior’s favorite color will be?”

She looked down as she asked it, hands smoothing her belly like she was already trying to comfort him.

“Blue,” I said.

Daria furrowed her brow looking up again. “Why? You said that pretty fast.”

“Well... we painted his room blue. So, I mean... logic, right? Mine’s red because my race car bed as a kid was red.”

She smirked. “Fair. That’s a fair hypothesis.”

I looked at the screen. The movie was already halfway in. Some guy in a perfectly tailored suit was talking on two phones at once.

“Wanna watch the movie?” I asked. “Thirty bucks says the initial fiancé’s a rich guy who’s too busy for the female lead.”

“As long as it’s with you,” she said, resting her cheek against my shoulder again. “Sure.”

I wrapped my arm around her. It all felt so… warm.

Daria shifted, uncomfortable.

I looked at her to see what was wrong, but she was focused on the movie.

The movie ended in the usual soft-focus blur—kisses, confessions, everyone conveniently happy. Daria stretched, yawning, and glanced at the clock.

“Oh. It’s already six o’clock,” she said with mock disappointment. “I’m guessing it’s bedtime for you.”

“Yep,” I said, standing with a groan. “Big breakfast planned. Extravagant, within our means.”

“Leftover pizza?” she teased.

“Nope. I bought the expensive bacon. We’re celebrating thirty-seven weeks.”

She blinked. “It’s thirty-six weeks.”

I laughed. “Got my weeks messed up. I realized when you told dad earlier.”

She lightly smacked my arm, half-smiling. “James, you can’t be forgetting that kind of thing.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I said. “Guess I’ll have to carry you to bed as penance.”

“Oh, so now we’re romantic,” she said, grinning.

“Just making up for lost time.”

I scooped her into a princess carry, slow and steady.

“You know you’re heavy,” I muttered as I shifted my grip.

She narrowed her eyes, amused. “James, if you want this to be your only child, keep talking.”

“Honestly, between my mouth and my jobs, we’re probably maxed out anyway.”

She laughed—real and bright. “With time, James. With time.”

I started up the stairs. The thing was in the hallway. Its limbs were still. Tentacles curled tight against the ceiling beams, pulling slightly farther away. I didn’t look at it long.

I carried Daria past without speaking. The monster didn’t move.

I laid her gently on the bed. She giggled as I pulled the covers over her and kissed her forehead.

“Love you, James,” she mumbled, already sinking into the pillows.

“Love you too,” I said, settling down beside her.

Her warmth met mine in the quiet.

She shifted a little, one arm draped across my chest. The house was still—no pipes creaked, no cars passed, no distant sirens. Just the faint hum of the fridge downstairs and her breathing, deepening by the second.

The room felt... soft. Like it was holding its breath.

I pulled her close.

And drifted off.

I was in the field again.

The marigolds shimmered under starlight— but the grass was gone. Only dirt now. Dry, cracked, and dark as ash.

The stars overhead burned brighter than I remembered. Sharper. Hungrier. And the sky— darker somehow, though it was full of light.

I turned to face the moon— but the moon was gone.

In its place hung the shattered corpse of a planet, fractured like broken glass, the pieces frozen mid-collapse.

A sudden weight pressed into my arms. I looked down.

It was a baby. But not.

Tentacles curled from its skull—short, underdeveloped things, limp across my forearms like damp seaweed. Its skin was gray, veined with faint pulses of sickly violet. Rotted in places, soft in others. Still warm.

Its arms reached for me, weak but eager. Its legs kicked gently, like it was happy.

There was no malice in it. Only motion. Only need.

The air was cool and clean. Almost peaceful. The thing shivered.

Then came the sound—a thin, high-pitched squeal, shrill and slurred. I flinched.

But didn’t let go.

It made the sound again—closer to a giggle now. Then: “Dada.”

Distorted—garbage-slick and wrong. But unmistakable.

 It had no face, no mouth, no breath—only writhing tentacles where lips should be. Still, it spoke.

“Dada.”

And again. Softer. Pleased. Happy.

Something inside me trembled. Not fear. Something else.

Warmth?

For a second—only a second—I swore I heard Daria’s laugh buried in its voice. Warped. Twisted. Like a cassette tape melting in the sun.

 This was mine?

I was holding my baby? The thought came fast, uninvited. Part of me screamed. This thing—this impossibility—it was mine.

Then came the scream.

From behind me. Inhuman. Enraged.

The wind rose. Cold. Furious.

I curled the baby tighter in my arms, shielding it with my body.

Then— a wet touch around my ankle. A tendril. Slippery. Hungry. Rising.

Before I could move, it yanked me down.

I woke with a start. Labored breath. The feeling of something wet.

The clock read 3:12 a.m.

I sat up fast and turned to Daria.

She was hunched over, gripping her stomach, her face pale and tight. “James,” she whispered. “I think I’m in labor.”

She winced, one hand bracing against the mattress, the other reaching for me. “It started a while ago,” she said, her voice strained. “Ten minutes apart. Then seven. Now five.”

Her fingers dug into my arm as another wave hit. She hissed through her teeth. “It’s not stopping, James.”

I looked down. The sheet beneath her was damp—just enough to darken the fabric. “I think my water broke,” she murmured. Her eyes didn’t leave mine.

“Okay. Let’s get your stuff. Can you walk?” She nodded.

I dressed fast, yanking my phone off the charger and leaving the cord behind. I helped her out of bed, steadying her with one arm around her waist.

The night air was cold as I guided her to the car.

I helped her into the front seat, reclined it slightly, and pulled the seatbelt across her lap. Her breath hitched again as she closed her eyes through another contraction.

“You’re doing great,” I said, not sure if it was true.

I climbed in, jammed the keys into the ignition. The car dinged at me like it didn’t know what was happening.

I should’ve called ahead.

But I didn’t.

I just drove.

The streets were empty.

I pulled into the small circle in front of the ER entrance. No valet. No one outside. Just the buzz of a flickering overhead light.

I threw the car into park and hopped out, rushing around to open her door. Daria’s eyes were half-closed, her hands gripping the seatbelt like a rope. Her breathing had gone shallow and rhythmic, like she was counting something only she could hear.

“Can you walk?” I asked, already unbuckling her.

She nodded, jaw clenched. “Let’s go.”

I helped her out, one arm around her back. She leaned into me hard—half her weight on my shoulder—and we shuffled through the automatic glass doors.

Inside, the air was too bright. Too clean. A front desk sat under blue LED lights, empty except for a lone nurse typing something into a terminal.

She looked up.

“Hi, she’s—my wife’s in labor,” I stammered. “Thirty-six weeks. Water broke.”

The nurse stood instantly. “Let’s get you into triage.”

She hit a button. Another set of doors hissed open. A second nurse appeared, pushing a wheelchair.

Daria tried to wave it off. “I’m okay,” she said, weakly.

But she sat.

The nurse wheeled her fast down a long, silent hallway. I kept pace beside them, phone clutched in my hand, heart knocking against my ribs like it wanted out.

We turned through a side corridor and into a narrow exam room. Low bed. Machines. Plastic curtain pulled halfway across the tile floor. A blood pressure cuff hung limp from the wall.

“Hospital gown’s on the chair. Change as much as you can. I’ll be back to check dilation,” the nurse said.

She left without fanfare. Like this was just another Tuesday night.

I helped Daria out of her coat. Her nightgown stuck to her skin where the fluid had soaked through. She didn’t say much—just moved slow, steady, like her whole body was trying to stay calm for the baby.

She eased onto the bed. I sat beside her.

“You’re doing good,” I said, softly.

She looked over at me, eyes heavy. “It hurts a little. But I can take it.”

The nurse came back. She slipped on gloves, asked Daria to breathe deep, and checked her.

“Five centimeters,” she said, almost pleased. “You’re in active labor. Everything’s looking good. We’ll admit you now.”

She smiled at Daria. “Baby’s ready.”

Daria tried to smile back. It didn’t quite land. But it was close.

We moved into a private delivery room fifteen minutes later.

Dimmer lights. A window showing the dark parking lot outside. One monitor beeped softly in the corner, tracking the heartbeat of something still inside her. IV tubes coiled gently from the stand beside the bed. The air smelled faintly like antiseptic and lavender-scented soap.

I sat in the chair next to her. Held her hand.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said, eyes up at the ceiling.

“I know,” I whispered. “But you’ve got this.”

She looked over at me, then down at her belly. Her fingers moved slowly across the bump like she was already trying to say goodbye without knowing it.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” she said.

Her voice was soft. Whole.

Time blurred.

The nurse checked her again—eight centimeters.

Another contraction hit hard, and Daria clenched my hand so tightly I thought she might crush bone. Her breath came out in quick, shaking bursts.

“I want it over,” she whispered. “I just want him here.”

“You’re almost there,” I said. “You’re doing amazing.”

The nurse gave a quiet nod. “You’re doing great, Daria. Next one, we’ll start pushing.”

They adjusted the bed. Another nurse came in. The room shifted subtly—monitors, wires, gloves snapping on. Everything became sharper. Brighter.

Daria cried out—just once—as the next contraction hit. I wiped her forehead. Her fingers curled into the blanket.

“Okay, push with this next one,” the nurse said gently. “Deep breath. Push.”

She did.

Hard.

I watched her face twist—pain, focus, everything at once. Her free hand gripped the bed rail, knuckles white.

And then—

She stopped.

She blinked.

Her eyes widened like something inside her had come unfastened.

Her lips parted, breath hitching.

“James,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong.”

I stood.

Before I could speak, her whole body jerked.

For a second, everything stilled. She looked at me like she didn’t know who I was. Like she was slipping.

One of the machines spiked—then dropped.

The nurse's smile vanished. “Daria?”

Daria gasped, like the air had been yanked from her lungs.

Blood—too much—began spreading beneath her. The IV line thrashed as her arm went limp.

A strange sound came from her throat—wet, broken, like she was trying to speak underwater.

Then—

Alarms.

Everything blurred. One nurse hit the call button. Another shouted into the hallway. The OB team poured in like a flood.

A doctor was suddenly at her side. Orders flew fast.

“Vitals crashing—get the crash cart!” “Push epi!” “We need to get the baby out—now!” “Possible AFE! Go!”

I was still holding her hand when they pried it from mine.

“Sir—you need to step out now.”

“No—I’m not—” I started, but they were already moving.

Someone gripped my shoulders and turned me toward the door.

“She’s in the best hands,” a voice said—maybe the nurse from before. “We’ll get you when we can.”

The last thing I saw was her face.

Still. Pale.

Eyes half-lidded.

Then the door slammed shut.

I stood alone in the hallway.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A nurse ran past, pushing a cart. Far off, a vending machine hummed.

I wandered back into the waiting room.

Everything was motionless—except the clock. It ticked, loud and steady. One minute became ten. Ten became thirty. Thirty blurred into an hour. Then two.

Then the door opened.

An older nurse stepped inside. Her voice was tired. “Are you James Carter?”

I nodded.

“We need you in one of the consultation rooms.”

I stood. My knees wobbled beneath me.

The nurse held the door open.

I followed.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I clenched them into fists, but it didn’t help.

“Is… is she okay?” I asked. My voice cracked.

“We need to be in a private area,” she said gently.

We stepped into a small room. Cold, neutral walls. A single cheap chair sat waiting for me.

.

“We’re very sorry,” she began, her voice soft but professional. Detached. “Your wife, Daria, experienced a rare complication. Amniotic Fluid Embolism. We did all we could… but we lost both.”

I felt something inside me throb. Not pain. Not yet. Just... a pulse.

I nodded.

She hesitated. “Would you like to speak with someone?”

“No.”

“Would you… would you like to see them?”

A long pause.

“Yes.”

She led me through a side hallway. Into the bereavement room.

The scent of antiseptic hung in the air. Soft. Almost sweet.

I stepped inside.

Daria lay on the bed. Still. Her hair brushed over her shoulder, neatly combed. Her lips closed, no smudge of sleep. Her arms straight at her sides—not folded awkwardly under her like usual. Her skin pale, too even. Her eyes closed.

She didn’t look like she was asleep.

And next to her, in a small bassinet, was James Jr.

His skin was soft pink. His head bald. His face scrunched, the way babies do when they’re new. But he didn’t move. No twitch, no stir, no tiny hiccup. No breath.

I stepped forward.

I looked down.

And I picked him up.

He was cold.

I sat beside Daria. Dragged the stiff hospital chair across the tile until it touched the bed. I reached out and took her hand in mine.

It was cold, too.

“Look, Daria,” I whispered, my throat raw. “We did good. We… we did good.”

My voice broke.

I sat there.

The room was quiet, except for the hum of the hospital’s vents and the slow rasp of my own breathing.

Eventually, a different nurse came in holding a folder. She sat beside me, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Mr. Carter,” she said softly. “I’m sorry for your loss. But we need a few more things from you.”

She opened the folder. “These are the release forms for Daria and your baby. You can take your time. We’ll need the name of a funeral home before we can transfer them.”

“South Central,” I said.

She nodded. “We’re required to offer a memory packet—prints, a lock of hair. You don’t have to take it, but...”

I nodded again.

“And… would you like to request an autopsy?”

“Yes.”

She pointed at a page in the folder. “There are resources here, sir. People you can talk to if you need help. You’re welcome to stay a bit longer, or we can—”

“Thank you,” I said. “But I’m going home.”

I stood.

I placed Junior gently back into his bassinet. I looked at Daria one last time—memorized the lines of her face, the stillness in her shoulders, the hush in her chest.

Then I walked out.

The hospital lights brightened as I passed, The daytime lights flickering on.

The front doors opened.

The sky had begun to pale. A soft blue tint on the horizon. The streets were alive with early traffic—people going to work. Coffee cups. Breakfast wrappers. Headlights.

I climbed into the car. It was still parked where we left it, the passenger seat empty now.

I drove home.

The front door was still wide open.

I stepped inside and shut it behind me. The house was quiet. The folder thudded onto the kitchen table. A heavy, final sound.

Nothing moved.

The air felt... wrong. Like it was waiting…

I climbed the stairs.

Each one creaked under my weight.

I turned at the top, rounded the banister, and walked into the nursery.

The sky-blue walls. The cartoon clouds. The stars I’d stuck to the ceiling.

The little mobile turned lazily above the crib, catching the early sunlight. The light spilled across the room in soft beams.

And in the windowsill, set in a small clay pot, a single marigold bloomed.

Its petals glowed gold in the morning light.

I sank to the floor.

My knees hit the carpet. My body folded in on itself. I didn’t sob—not at first. Just breathed.

Then the first tear fell.

Then the second.

Then everything broke open.

A low, rattling noise slipped from my throat—half moan, half gasp. I curled tighter, hands over my head, arms wrapped around my ribs like I was trying to hold myself in.

I wept. Deep, wracking sobs that tore from my lungs and spilled into the quiet room.

I thought of her hand in mine. Cold.

I thought of our son. Still.

I thought of the stars on the ceiling and the clouds we painted badly, and how proud she was when she looked at them.

“Oh God,” I whispered. “Why…”

My tears soaked the carpet. My breath shook. And the marigold bloomed, untouched.