Dark of the Moon

©1997 Sharen Nehoda

Margie watched from the bay window while burley workmen unloaded the moving van next door. The amber glow of the street light glistened off their bare arms in the steamy July night air. The light off, comfortable darkness concealed her as she sipped her iced mint tea. It was refreshingly cool, and the thought of offering them some crossed her mind. The men struggled with a large, ornate etagere, carried it down the ramp and into the house.

"What are you doing?"

The cold brew slopped onto her bare leg and made her gasp. "Geez, Tim! You scared the heck out of me."

Tall and gangly, Tim grinned at her from the hall. His asthma had taken its toll on his health, but her heart melted anyway. After five years of marriage, and to her never-ending delight, her love for the man still gave her butterflies.

"You spying on the new neighbors already?" He stepped next to her and leaned against the wall.

"I’m not spying." The movers grappled with a sofa upholstered in an awful floral print. "They’re moving in so late, I didn’t want them to think I’m the neighborhood snoop."

"Aren’t you?"

His mischievous grin was just visible in the darkened room, then he flicked on the light.

"Tim!" She jumped up and snapped it off. It was hard not to laugh. "You’re such a pain."

"I’m going to bed." He drew her close. "The real action is upstairs."

She shivered when he waggled his eyebrows and ran his finger over her lips. A glance over his shoulder and out the window showed nothing of further interest, so she followed him up to the bedroom.

***

Soft, fluffy, vague, a scene unfolded lazily. Then the opening of a dark tunnel appeared ahead. Margie ran to it, chased by something she couldn’t... no, didn’t want to see. The walls closed in, dim and mossy, as she fled and searched for refuge from the terror that pursued her. It wasn’t the slow, quicksand feel of her legs that scared her, or that something chased her through the shadowy labyrinth. It was the sound.

Something gasped and panted just behind, so near to her neck it made her skin crawl. The clamor of a dozen giant crustaceans, a clicking, scraping scuttle, accompanied it. The muscles of her back tightened, and she arched away from the racket filled with the promise of teeth.

Her heart pounded wildly as her feet sank into the mire. The labored breathing became louder, more eager, the scuttling faster.

She jerked awake. The panting continued to boom around her, urgent and angry. Eyes wide, she blinked against the darkness, her own breath gulping spasms as she clutched at the blanket. The seconds spiraled out into a long, frightening ribbon until the awful disturbance finally faded away. Its memory remained a ghost noise in her ears. Still trembling, she oriented herself, bedroom, night stand, digital clock, Tim, home.

Calmer, she touched Tim’s shoulder and lightly pressed her palm against his back. A soft, fuzzy buzzing issued from the area of his pillow. There was no telltale asthmatic wheeze. The urgent rasps hadn’t come from him. So where? She listened for something outside but only heard crickets and wind rustled leaves. What could it have been?

She watched the dark outline of her husband’s back for a long time. A nightmare? The half-remembered sound had become vague, slumber confused. Yes, only a bad dream. Sleep came some time after she pulled the blanket over her shoulder.

***

"Tim, it was really weird." The coffee made her grimace. Distracted, she’d put in too much sugar.

"Maybe you should see a doctor. I’ve never heard anything like that. Hearing your nightmare?" He scooped up her hand and kissed it. "Maybe your pregnant."

She laughed, gazing into his clear, green eyes. "You wish." The idea dispelled her worry and made her heart skip.

***

Dr. Evans flipped through her chart and smiled. "Pregnant women often have unusual things happen to them. Hormones are the reason, Mrs. Gray. By two months all sorts of changes occur, emotions and perceptions included."

She swung her feet back and forth over the edge of the exam table. Always irregular, and after four years of trying, pregnancy was a complete surprise. Elation bubbled up and she ran her hand over tummy. There was no evidence if it yet. "It’s true, then. I’m really pregnant. Funny how my husband knew first."

"Not so," Dr. Evans replied. "Husbands often know before their wives."

"And the nightmare?"

"Not to worry. Just a manifestation of anxiety and hormones." He patted her hand and left the room.

Oh, yes, she’d been anxious for a long time. The dream dismissed as maternity mania, she drove home, eager to tell Tim.

***

Margie watched a girl of maybe seven, and a pudgy boy around four, kiss, then wave at their father before he drove off to work. Her new neighbors seemed like a typical
mid-western family. The mother, tall and slender, had dark auburn hair, striking against her pale skin. The father, thin like his wife, had shaggy brown hair shot with strands of copper. They were a handsome couple except for being so tired looking. Their move must have been exhausting.

Later, a plate of cookies in hand, she went next door. It had been a week since they moved in, enough time to get settled. She hoped to get to know the woman, maybe they’d become friends. Fingers crossed, she knocked on the door.

Taken aback by the drawn face and dark circled eyes of her neighbor, she cleared her throat and lifted the plate, "Welcoming Committee." She hoped she hadn’t intruded on her nap.

"How nice," the woman said and glanced at the offering. "I’m Mrs. Lawrence. Would you like to come in for a minute?"

"I’d love too, if I’m not imposing. My name’s Margie, I live next door."

With a weak smile, her neighbor took the cookies and went inside. Margie followed, stepped over a rolled up rug near the door, skirted a dozen boxes scattered about the living room, and made it to the dining room without tripping over anything. Completely unpacked, its neatness contrasted the clutter of the rest of the house. Mrs. Lawrence motioned for her to take a seat.

"Let me put these in the kitchen," she said, and disappeared through the doorway.

The chubby boy stood at the end of the table. "I like cookies."

His eyes glowed a fiery orange, and a wild grin covered his face. Startled, she flinched. The boy continued to smile, and she realized that over her shoulder, the morning sun reflected into the room and off the boy’s face. Relieved the phenomenon had a rational explanation, she attempted to smile, but it felt fake as she took in the strange child. The bright tinge gone, he still grinned at her idiotically, and she wondered about his intelligence.

The girl peeked over the back of the chair across from her and smiled shyly, her expression endearing. Curious, Margie studied them closely. They both had pale skin, auburn hair, and eyes the color of burnt coal like their mother. But, the boy had a darkness about him that wasn’t in the other child. She noticed he was also the only plump, rested-looking member of the family. His sister, slender verging on scrawny, had innocent, long-lashed eyes, rimmed with dark circles.

Uneasiness crept through her under the boy’s continued gaze. She touched her stomach and hoped her baby had blond hair and brown eyes like hers, with a healthy glow to its complexion.

"There now. Children, you may get a cookie," their mother said.

The picture of weariness, she leaned against a chair with a sigh. An expression of concern crossed her face when the boy raced by. A crazed look in his eyes, he dashed into the kitchen, arms thrown wide. The little girl followed a good distance behind, timid and slow. It struck her as odd that the child would be as exhausted as her mother.

Mrs. Lawrence shrugged. "The exuberance of youth."

Margie’s smile felt like a grimace.

"Most of the neighbors have yet to welcome us. It was very nice of you to stop by."

Disappointed her new acquaintance seemed too fatigued to chat, she took the queue to leave and walked to the door. "They will, I’m sure. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Lawrence. I’ll see you again soon." She still held onto the hope of making a friend.

"Thank you for the cookies." She smiled wanly and closed the door.

Margie stared at the smooth wood panel, the muscles in her legs tight. She wanted to run. As Mrs. Lawrence closed it, her stocky son raced up behind. Maybe it was a trick of the light again. She looked up at the sun, it radiated directly on her face. One hand over her mouth, she backed away from the door. Had his eyes changed from dark gray to fiery orange? It seemed as if they had glowed hungrily at her. That was impossible, wasn’t it?

***

A soft, cottony, peaceful place changed to the dark labyrinth that looked all too familiar. In terror, her feet pounded on a strange, springy ground. As she fled through the twisting tunnel she realized someone ran along side her. Too frightened to turn and identify who it was, Margie raced the person through the dim, mossy corridors.

Whoever it was sounded as alarmed as Margie at their presence in the maze. By the tone and quality of the whimpered cries, she knew it was a woman.

From behind, an unseen abomination roared and howled insanely. This terrified her even more because she expected it. Somehow, she knew it would pursue her.

She stumbled and, heart pounding, scrambled to regain her footing. The hair on the nape of her neck prickled when the demented screeching intensified and the ear-splitting racket drew closer. The sounds from the woman became louder and mingled with her own panicked cries.

Shrill howls reverberated through the maze. A grating sizzle scoured the walls, mixed with the bone-jarring noise, and she cringed away. The ground became mushy, her legs bogged in the quagmire and she struggled to escape from the monstrous noise-beast descending upon her.

Sharp scraping surrounded her and echoed off the walls. Too near, the thunderous roar battered her in pounding waves. A woman’s scream came from beside her.

With a jerk, she awoke and held back her own terrified shriek. The howl and the woman’s cries blasted around her. Drawn out in a long, sustained soul-shredding cacophony, the tumult went on and on.

She tried to muffle the noise with her pillow, her own ragged breaths loud in her ears. Always a deep sleeper, Tim snored by her side, unaware of the panic-filled screams and guttural roar that echoed around him. The digital clock proclaimed the hour of two a.m.

She tried to burrow deeper into the covers to smother the tormenting chaos that filled the room. The woman’s screeching grew to a hoarse crescendo then stopped abruptly. The roar ebbed away, the sound of victory. She closed her eyes. Tears rolling from their corners, she prayed.

***

"Honey," Tim said. "Please don’t cry. Nightmares can’t hurt you, they’re just scary."

"I know." She sniffed, then blew into her tissue. "But it didn’t just scare me, it terrified me. It was so real. And the sounds didn’t stop after I woke up... not until it wanted to be finished." She brushed a tear from her cheek. "Do you believe me?"

"Of course I do." He kissed her hand. "Do you want to see Dr. Evans again?"

"No. When I saw him last month, he said it was just hormones. He probably couldn’t help me now, either."

"Can I?"

"I don’t know how."

He stood and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, let’s take a walk. Maybe it’ll help you feel better. The morning is beautiful, and I don’t have to be at work for hours."

Tim was right. As they strolled, she admired the late summer blossoms that lined the flowerbeds. The light morning air whispered through the leaves. She knew the day would grow sultry, but now it felt deliciously pleasant. Some of her tension slipped away on the morning breeze, but not enough to quell the turmoil inside. Who was the woman? What had happened to her? Why was she plagued with such horrid nightmares?

When they reached the end of the block, she saw Donna, the neighborhood chatterbox, step out onto her porch and wave. Her flaming red hair, held back with a bright green scarf, clashed with her pink bathrobe. Oh, great, the woman probably held the record for non-stop gossiping. She glanced over her shoulder, too late to get away now.

"Mornin’," Donna said. "You hear about poor Mrs. Keller?"

"Hear what?" A sinking sensation clutched her.

"Died in her sleep last night. The paramedics were out real early this morning." Donna scowled and put her hands on her hips. "Woke me up. Can’t say as I was sleeping well anyway, all that racket and commotion all night. Sounded like dogs howling or something, and the screeching, goodness sake. I swear, people don’t have any common sense. Making so much noise before the sun’s up is just plain rude. Anyway, I guess around two a.m., her husband said she woke up screaming, then just expired. Must have been her heart. The poor dear."

Margie glanced up at Tim, who frowned at Donna, then hugged his arm. "How terrible," she managed to say. He started to walk again, and her feet seemed to plod slowly, as if through the wet cement of her nightmare.

"Mind you," Donna shouted at her back, "I heard her scream, myself. Horrible thing, it was..."

Tim hurried her along. "Come on," he urged, "you don’t need to hear this."

The colors of the morning were vivid, reds, yellows, and whites. Late summer colors. Margie saw the pallet in front of her, but the scream, the howl, and the triumph kept replaying over and over in her mind. Had the woman been Mrs. Keller? A shudder swept through her, and she gripped Tim’s arm tighter.

When he opened the door, he said, "You want me to take the day off?"

"No." She poured some iced tea. "It’s okay. I’ll be fine," she lied, and turned her back so he wouldn’t see her hand tremble.

***

Tim’s frightened face loomed in front of her. She reached out to take his hand, but only got thin air. He ran past her into the maze of dark, vine covered tunnels.

She chased after him, shouting. Stop!

He wheezed, and the asthma slowed him down, but she still couldn’t catch him. She stretched to touch his shoulder and the sound of what he ran from reached her.

A ululating wail rose and fell, resounding with the tortures of Hell. It hungered and demanded nourishment. The lust in it sent a wrack of shudders through her and she ran faster.

Fear swept over her in a black surge that engulfed her, and she fought to keep her mind from drowning in it. She thought of Tim, and realized his wheeze had become alarmingly loud. She caught up and grabbed his hand. Eyes pleading, his mouth opened and closed like a fish. The nerve-wrenching wails grew behind her and reverberated through the tunnel, assaulting her with voracious pleas.

She closed her dream eyes and willed herself awake. Surrounded by the clamor of her dream, strained wheezes issued from the bed beside her. Still asleep, Tim gasped and struggled on his back. Gripped by fear, she dashed to the bathroom to get his inhaler. The wail shrieked in anger when she pulled him into a sitting position. He felt limp in her arms and she forced the inhaler between his teeth. A quick pump propelled the medication into his throat.

"Please, God," she prayed. He could die if he didn’t breathe soon. She glanced at the phone, nine-one-one next.

A deeper gasp. He thrashed then grabbed her hand and depressed it again, inhaling strenuously. Tense seconds ticked by while the creature continued to wail and screech in fury. Relief flooded her when his asthma attack ended and his breathing sounded normal. He flicked on the bedside lamp, looking frantically around the room as the sound of the receding beast finally faded away.

"It’s real," he whispered.

His confirmation of what she already knew revealed how vulnerable she felt. "I know," she whispered.

Afraid to go back to sleep, she spent the rest of the night in his arms, tormented by thoughts that she’d almost lost him, its keening still sharp in her memory. As dawn’s light dispelled the darkness, she got up to make coffee.

***

"What do you think it was?" Tim stirred in a third spoonful of sugar. "What caused it?"

"I wish I knew." Margie watched his hand tremble as he mixed. "The only thing that’s changed recently is the Lawrences moved in."

"You’re pregnant, too."

"Yeah. But I don’t think pregnancy causes auditory hallucinations in people."

"Do you think it was a hallucination?"

The remembered sounds assaulted her, and she shuddered. "No. Not any more than I think it’s a nightmare."

The cup clattered on the saucer when he put it down, and he said softly, "You don’t hear nightmares after you wake up."

No, you don’t. She gazed up at the picture of a colorful sunset above the month of August. Today’s September first, better remember to change that. Her due date months off, she hoped whatever was happening would be long over by then.

The calendar, fashioned after the old Farmer’s Almanac, listed times for planting and harvesting, seasons, and phases of the moon. She noticed the new moon had occurred on August thirtieth, the night before. She flipped the page up to July. The new moon had been on the twenty-ninth, the night the Lawrence family moved in. What was it about the moon? Could it be important?

"Tim, have you ever heard any stories about the dark of the moon?" He screwed up his face comically and she almost laughed.

"What are you talking about? Werewolves?"

"No, silly. That’s the full moon. Wait." She went to the bookcase, then ran her finger over the volumes until she found the one she was looking for. "Native American Spirits and Legends. I did an article for the newspaper last year on dream catchers and found a strange reference about their origin."

She thumbed through the pages. "Here, listen to this, The lost tribe of the Mandan. In 1692, Sir Reginald Vantory undertook an expedition to the northern territories. Measles had ravaged a village of Mandan Indians near the Missouri River. When the expeditionary forces arrived, there were only three individuals left alive. Two died within days, the third, a boy of about ten named Two Crows, survived."

"What does this have to do with nightmares?"

"Let me finish," she said. "The boy accompanied Vantory on the expedition, acting as a guide, and grew into a fine young man. At the age of sixteen he was sent to England to be educated, and it was there he learned to write. In recounting his early life, he described many tribal beliefs that had been passed from story teller to story teller."

She scanned down the page. "Here, this is the one I was trying to remember. Two Crows warned of the Dark of the Moon when, for one or two nights, a soul chaser that fed on fear came disguised in dreams. The victim’s soul was chased through a labyrinth, terrified with sounds of beasts and spirits. Sometimes the victims would be so frightened they would die."

Tim frowned and rubbed a hand across his chest. The sinking sensation returned when she saw him gaze out the window toward the Keller’s home.

"The tribe recognized it by the fearful noises that echoed through the village on the blackest nights. They devised a way of catching the soul chaser, a net made from the woven hair of its victim. It was placed in a circle of willow and the victim slept with it."

"Sounds like a dream catcher to me. Aren’t they supposed to catch nightmares?"

"As we believe now, yes. Only for the Mandan, it didn’t catch nightmares, it snared the soul chaser. Once caught, they buried the trapped entity deep in the woods, so it couldn’t return."

Tim peeked over her shoulder at the book. "Were there any other tribes that believed in these things?"

"Hmmm, let me look." She flipped to the index. "Yes, something here on the Hidatsa, another northern plains tribe." She thumbed to the page. "Listen to this, the dream shrieker, as the Hidatsa called it, possessed a person, then used their body to hide in until the moon was dark when it escaped to terrorize its victims. Those who survived repeated visitations grew gaunt and exhausted." She paused when she read the next sentence, "Hmmm...It could possess anyone, but preferred children."

"But how would they know who it was?"

"Good question. You know, the Lawrence’s might be victims." She told him about her strange visit. "I think they may have brought the soul chaser with them."

"You mean the boy? That’s ridiculous!"

He rolled his eyes then took a loud, slurping sip from his cup. She knew he was trying to make light of situation, but she couldn’t let him dissuade her. This had to be what was happening. There were no other explanations, logical or otherwise.

"There’s something peculiar about him. He’s so fat compared to the rest of the family. And, I told you about his eyes. If it feeds on fear, maybe it gets fat just like people when they eat well, and it’s reflected in the human it inhabits."

"Maybe... Anything else in the book?"

"The Hidatsa believed the only way to catch a dream shrieker was to weave the victim’s hair into a net, which they took into the world of dreams and used to capture the beast before it attacked them." Goose flesh rose on her arms. She carefully placed the book in the empty space.

Tim seemed distressed, and her heart ached for him. It seemed there was only one thing to do. "I guess we have to make a dream catcher."

"Are you telling me we have to go after this thing?"

"Looks that way."

"What about your hair? My hair?"

She considered the long ponytail that hung over her shoulder in a golden wave, then shrugged. "I’ll cut it off."

He goggled at her for a moment, then looked at the floor. "I love you, Margie, and I don’t want to lose you. If you truly believe this will work, then do what you have to." He touched her hair. "It’ll always grow back."

She touched his face then kissed his lips tenderly. "I love you, too." Tousling his bangs, she asked, "And what about yours?"

"I guess we’ll have to weave a few strands of mine into the braids. I’ll probably be able to make about a dozen thin plaits from yours, and if I pluck some of mine and weave it into each one, that should fulfill the requirement, don’t you think?"

"I hope so," she said and turned toward the kitchen.

Tim followed, and watched as she opened the junk drawer and removed a large pair of scissors. With a deep breath, she reached up and quickly hacked the ponytail from her head. When she handed the long mass of flaxen tresses to him, he held them as if they weighed a ton, sadness creased his face.

Funny thing, she didn’t feel sad. It was almost as if she had acknowledged her pending motherhood by cutting off her hair. All her life she’d had long hair, but now it seemed right for it to be short.

"Start braiding, sweetheart," she said, "I’m going to the beauty parlor." With a forced a smile, she walked to the door. The task ahead loomed large, and terrifying.

***

Hair styled into a short, layered bob, she stopped at a craft store and bought a book on macramé. A pattern for a dream catcher was inside. After briefly scanning what would be needed, she
cut a willow switch from a tree near the park.

When she returned, Tim had braided twelve long, thin ropes from her severed mane. By lashing the ends of the slim cane together, he fashioned a circle. She helped Tim tie each golden strand to it. Although the directions seemed simple, they had a couple of false starts, but after some practice they were able to weave them into a net, completing the make-shift dream catcher.

"There won’t be another dark of the moon for a month, but I’m going to sleep with this every night, anyway."

She held the flaxen hoop tightly, and he put his arms around her. She snuggled close as a cold shiver ran through her. It occurred to her that she had no idea of how to use it to catch the soul chaser.

***

She walked a sandy beach, the light breeze cool on her skin. A large conch shell, pinkish-gold, a swirled turban with a rosy, salmon mouth was in her hand. Its wheat-colored spiral flashed brightly in the sunlight.

The calm ocean reflected diamond sparkles of light, and only the soft rumble of the waves intruded as she wandered through the surreal seascape. The sand felt warm on her bare feet, and she looked down. Two pairs of feet strolled the sand. It was Tim.

Is this the time? Where’s the labyrinth? She asked in her dream voice.

I don’t know. Maybe you have to catch it here.

But I don’t have the dream catcher. I only have this. She showed him the conch shell.

Maybe that’s what the dream catcher becomes when you’re here, he said and examined the shell. The outside is the same color as your hair.

He opened his mouth to say more then snapped it shut. She’d heard it too. A vague, unidentifiable change from the soft rumbling of the waves drifted toward her. It grew slowly in intensity until she was sure it was the soul chaser. A howl drifted eerily across the sand.

It’s found us, she whispered, and stood very still, her pulse quickening. She’d taken it for granted the dream catcher would still be a net when she had to trap the beast. This shell had her completely stymied. I don’t know how to use it.

Tim wrung his hands and looked ahead of them. What do you do with conch shells?

She ran her hand over her face. It was hard to concentrate with the wailing cry getting closer. If you hold them to your ear, they sound like the sea.

Maybe it captures the sound. Tim glanced over his shoulder toward the approaching disturbance.

Yes, but how?

The chaotic racket drew nearer. Her legs bolted into action of their own accord, and she grabbed his hand as she ran by. Heart hammering, she fled, Tim by her side. The sand sprayed up around her as they headed down the side of the dune. The sharp snapping and gnashing of millions of tiny teeth carried over the top. Thank God I’m not in the labyrinth, she thought, and started up the other side.

Labored breaths issued from Tim and he slowed. The loose sand pulled at her legs, and she turned around, bracing against what she might see. On the far side of the dune a bluish-black blur approached. A wild, anguished wail accompanied the howling cry. The snapping sounded like whip cracks.

Run! Tim screamed and tore his hand from her grasp. He charged ahead of her and scurried up the dune, gasping and flinging sand as he clambered toward the top.

She followed and struggled to keep her wits. What else do you do with conch shells? What? A glance back showed the blur closing in. A whirling storm of teeth and obsidian barbs swirled wildly across the sand. If it caught them it would flay them alive. She remembered the woman’s scream and shuddered as she bolted up the soft grainy surface.

At the top of the dune, Tim lay panting, unable to go on, and she dropped by his side. With one last look at the spinning tempest blasting thunderous, body shaking roars, she closed her eyes. Conch shells, she thought, trying to ignore the racing of her pulse. Think, think! Sandy beaches, palm tree. Natives. Hawaii... That’s it!

She lifted the golden spiral to her lips. A puff into the end only made a pathetic bleat. No, that’s not the way. She choked back her fear and took a deep breath. Then, lips pursed tightly, she blew hard into the conch. A clear, trumpeted note materialized and hung in the air as a sparkling, cloud. It slowly settled between her and the riotous insanity that rushed them. The conch shell dropped on the sand, she dared another look at the monster.

A black whirlwind spiked with orange lightening, electric blue teeth and splintery blades swirled across the sand in a spiral, gabbling its impatience. So near that grains flew up, stinging her skin, the soul chaser gnashed its way forward, shrieking in lunatic frenzy.

The sparkling note drifted lazily above the conch shell. A golden haze spread outward, creating a barrier between them and the dreadful, soul-ripping cacophony that gouged and sliced up the beach.

The clamoring madness swirled up off the dune and directly at them. She screamed and threw her arms around Tim’s neck. It slammed into the golden cloud with a piercing squawk, and was enveloped in a shimmering light that muffled and subdued its keening. The colorful haze drew itself down, into the conch shell, taking the soul chaser with it. Quaking with relief, she clung to her husband as vague cries issued from the shell. Then, when the last of the mist sealed the opening, all was quiet.

***

"How deep do you think we should bury it?"

She held the dream catcher in her hand and marveled at the swirling colors that chased around the web. Gold mingled with blue, stretched and contracted, as the translucent colors coated the web like a soap bubble. "I don’t know, but down far enough so nothing can dig it up."

A good distance into the forest, she’d picked the spot beneath a towering spruce. She watched as Tim stood in a hole that reached to his waist and dug just to the west of the tree.

For an instant, she saw the dream catcher turn a fiery orange, then felt a whirling sensation in her stomach. Brief panic filled her and she feared the soul chaser had escaped. But after a momentary uneasiness, she realized the baby must have moved and she inhaled a joyous breath.

"This is deep enough," he said, and took the dream catcher from her. He placed it at the bottom, climbed out, and began shoveling the dirt back into the hole. "Even a determined coyote wouldn’t be able to dig it up now."

All the way home she smiled, hands gently rested on her abdomen, waiting for the movement to come again.

***

Margie’s child turned and stretched within her womb, thumb in his mouth. Comforted by the subdued beat of his mother’s heart, a lullaby. He dozed. The sucking pacified him for now. Soon he’d have the chance to grow fat, nourished by tastier food.

These were the long days spent sleeping, waiting for his emergence into the outer world. How many times had he done this? Time was a funny thing, it slipped by like a dream.

Ah, dreams. He’d have to be careful now. The people of this age weren’t as easily frightened or deceived as those who had been content to live in the forest. It would be wise to forage far away from the haven this time, just to be safe.

He should have done that with the dark boy. That was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Being ripped from that shell was painful, and it angered him when he had to release a soul from his domination back to a normal life.

This body, though, would be his forever. The soul had not yet anchored here, and had been easy to chase away. A full lifetime awaited him and that was worth the agony of expulsion. These opportunities were rare.

Cozy warm fluid surrounded him, and he quelled his growing hunger by drawing harder on his thumb. Soon, he promised, and drifted off into sleep filled with dark labyrinths no human baby ever imagined.

Back to FMTM