Hush-A-Bye Baby

I stared off into the flickering lights and waved until the van disappeared into the misty road overshadowed by giant oaks. The daunting silence and solitude dawned on me the moment the door creaked shut. This environment is what sets Thistle Grove Cabin apart. Built almost 70 years prior by Liron’s great grandfather to conceal his black money and display his love for his wife, this cabin was constructed with the most delicate care for the intricacies and an undying affection for the love of his life. After he passed away, the cabin was inherited by his descendants and quickly became a monthly holiday spot desiring quiet weekend getaways for the entire extended family. When I got married to Liron six years ago, I was welcomed along to this cabin like I was one of their own. Despite its chilling unnerving atmosphere, I had grown to love the dense thicket illuminating various shades of green, the warm golden sun rays streaming through the ginormous trees, the chirping of birds and sparkling of fireflies; I had learned to adore the gloomy interiors and dull wood work, even the creaking floorboards (although at times like this, I wished it wouldn’t creak so much). It was as though I was in the middle of nowhere- but I mean, that is the whole point of the getaway anyways. Disconnecting from mankind.

I have visited this place numerous times but this was the first time I was completely alone. Every other time I was surrounded by the clamor and chaos of my in-laws and their children, one or the other always providing me company, therefore anyone barely complained about not having reception or strong Wifi. Every time the family visits the cabin they always plan a trip, whether that be to go canoeing or trekking or having a scavenger hunt, and this time was no different- there was a carnival in the town a bit far off and everyone had given in to the temptation of delicious food, adventurous rides and bustling turmoil. I was very excited to join them but had to stay back to finish an office work and submit it before the deadline as I was aiming to be a candidate for the incoming promotions and this would be a good year to get a raise. I am mostly a very punctual person but after Marzia was born, my life felt like it was always on the brink of messing up and insanity. After two miscarriages and almost giving up, we were blessed with Marzia and was overjoyed to spoil her every chance we got, even if it meant sacrificing our sleep. I loved her but being new to the whole concept of motherhood, I was struggling with work and taking care of her, forgetting very often when I had last gotten a blink of sleep. Therefore, I had taken this as an opportunity, sending the family off to the carnival and Liron being in charge of Marzia for once so that I could finish my work and get some rest before hell breaks loose again.

I tapped away on my phone as I closed all the windows and doors of the house before settling on the couch, snuggled within fuzzy blankets seeking coziness. I plugged in my ear pods and typed away, my eyes switching between the time and the slides displaying the latest promotion of our derma products. Almost more than an hour in, my temples started throbbing, my eyes tingling from all the screen time and lack of sleep and my head nodding off into an uncomfortable slumber. But this nap was short lived, quickly interrupted by the shrill shrieking of sirens that passed the cabin several times, entertaining some irritation within me. I glanced at the blurry taints of scarlet and blue lights, wondering which psycho decided it was a good day to run loose.

I attach the power point under the email from Fahmida, my boss, with screaming fonts as if her keyboard was stuck on Caps Lock which read, “CAROL, I NEED THE PRESENTATION SENT TO ME IMMEDIATELY! I WILL HAVE TO REVIEW IT AND BRAINSTORM WITH THE BOARD BEFORE WE DECIDE TO AIR IT. THNX -Fahmida.”

Rolling my eyes at how dramatic she was, I get up, stretching my aching limbs and walk out the front door leaving it ajar, holding up my laptop like Simba from Lion King after pressing send to get the reception. Anyone seeing this from afar would find it very comical but having to go out into the paralyzing darkness and buzzing crickets every time one wants to connect to humanity, is beyond frustrating. Feeling relief flood through me as I had finished my work way earlier than I anticipated, I decide to make myself a loaded turkey sandwich before heading to the welcoming embrace of the duvet. My phone beeps, the charge draining (like my energy) rapidly from yellow to red signaling very low battery, making me race up the endless stairs to get my charger. As I reach for my cupboard, a gust of frigid breeze slams onto me, spreading a kind of glacial feeling crawling up my spine. How was the window open? I look back, tilting my head to the right, trying to recall whether I had closed it or not. Had I forgotten to close the window? Maybe I had forgotten because I was on my phone. I tried to wash away the reluctance by giving myself a firm assurance that the tiresomeness had made me clumsy. I closed the window with shaky hands and headed down, a sort of eerie feeling churning at the pit of my stomach. I was organized and responsible. I have never made mistakes like this.

I chop some tomatoes and onions, assembling my sandwich with a generous amount of mayonnaise and turkey. Thinking about how the old me would have gagged at the sight of mayonnaise and the thought of fat, I smiled at how my marriage and maternity phase had reunited me with a healthy relationship with eating. The change of my body had scared me at first with my history of bulimia and borderline undiagnosed anorexia, but when one is surrounded by positive caring people it becomes easier to look at ones’ worth beyond what number is displayed on the weighing scale. Bodies are supposed to change, accommodate according to age and our needs- there is no need to look like an 18 year-old bikini model at all times. My thoughts had somewhat distracted me from the work at hand so I switched on the TV and kept on whatever was airing in the channel.

It was an alarming news about a psychologically unstable criminal who had gotten loose from an Asylum for the clinically insane. The news anchor exhibited a picture of a dark-haired woman with streaks of grey running down her scalp, a twisted lip and pale olive tinged complexion. But what set her apart was her eyes- a shade of murky graphite with a deep rooted manic lurking within the specks. The anchor then proceeded to ramble on about how the woman, Medea, had drowned her husband (who was suspected for infidelity) in the lake that rested on the center of her estate and choked one of her two children with her own two hands, the second being saved by a neighbor. The anchor pleaded everyone to be on watch, contact the authorities and to remain safe within the solace of their hearths. I switched the television off and heaved a sigh of disbelief- how could a mother do that to her child? How could someone be capable of such brutality? No matter how much she was hurting, no one but a monster was capable of such a grave sin, right?

I hear a crackle of static and the baby monitor camera flickers to life, making the gust of air I inhaled get lost somewhere along my chest. The baby monitor signals movement near the cradle. Baby Marzia was not home, the cradle was empty. How… My questions were answered even before I had the time to think it through. My first thought when I saw a woman with wild unruly frizzes of hair crouched over the cradle, her fingers grazing the toys hanging from the handle was that it was a supernatural vision, just like they show in horror movies. The thought of being home alone with a phantom or ghost or spirit or whatever the thing was, made my throat close up, unable to utter the remnants of a prayer. I could hear myself whimper as I slowly backed away, my back stumbling onto the pile of dishes on the sink making a pot clatter to the floor, the clamor reverberating throughout the house. The woman near the edge of the cradle looked up towards the door in Marzia’s room, her eyes widening with a demented smile playing across her chapped lips. I gasp, too loud for my own good, recognition dawning upon me. Her eyes- a shade of murky graphite. Medea.

The coincidence of the situation was inconceivable. But I was in a cabin in the middle of nowhere so I should have known better than to expect a day alone in the house. I reached out for the phone and shakily shuffled my feet towards the door, careful to not make a single sound. Just them the static deviated, the speaker relaying a moan like sound. At first, I couldn’t make out what the lunatic was purring but soon the words heaved gained more clarity and the slow melodious tone recited,

“Hush-a-bye baby on the tree top,

When the wind blows the cradle will rock;

When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,

Down tumbles baby, cradle and all.”

Repeatedly, as if like a chant. My blood runs cold as the gravity of the situation sinks in, my fingers trembling as it diales 911. The line connects when I edge towards the front door, desperate to get reception,

“911, what’s your emergency?”

When I speak, my voice sounds hoarse, tainted with a fear and ferociousness that I could not recognize as my own, “There’s an intruder in my house. The woman who ran away from the asylum. She’s looking directly at my baby monitor camera right now. I think she knows I am home. Alone.”

My fingers clasp around the butter knife smeared with mayonnaise, the edge digging onto my palm as I give the call taker the address and hear her assure me that several officers have been dispatched already. The line disconnects. The figure on the baby monitor hovers, a blur of white and grey. My breathe slows, the thudding of my heartbeat drowning out all the sound but my ears straining for the miniscule of sounds. I hear a creak.

The third door on the second floor always creaks when it opens. Marzia’s room.

It was creaking right now.