Sleep Well, Baby Boy

[Contains strong language]

Jamie Gray didn’t like surprises, and the mysterious box had come as a surprise, arriving in front of his car after work one night, one week before Christmas. It was marked with nothing but his name and address, and there was no return address in the top left corner.

He’d opened it and found two things. The first was a teddy bear, its left arm torn completely off and its head half-decapitated, exposing clouds of coarse fluff that jutted out like stringy wires; on its midsection were splatters of some dark substance he couldn’t identify.

The second was a letter with two sentences on it that simply read: The old house on Grace Avenue and Lentner Street. At your convenience.

Over the next few minutes, as he held the stuffed bear and letter in his hands, he became increasingly convinced that he was being watched. Someone had known where he lived and worked, and they were playing a prank—a sick, disturbing prank, at that. But there was more to it. This someone—whoever it was—not only knew his address, but they could be waiting for him at his house, perhaps holding his wife and infant son hostage.

Or maybe they’ve killed them already.

The idea swept through Jaime like a plague, and soon he was tearing out of the parking lot and down the highway in his ’01 Toyota, passing cars and honking his horn, feeling more panicked by the second.

When he arrived home, the outside of his house was dark and all the lights were off except for those illuminating the Christmas tree within. Jaime fumbled with his keys on the walkway up to the door, dropped them, cursed, fumbled with them again, until finally he jammed the key into place and let himself inside.

He flicked on the living room lamp, found the space empty. It brought him some temporary relief, but the creeping feeling that someone was nearby returned as he walked down the hallway to the bedrooms.

He went into Harlan’s room first and looked around. By light of a cozy lamp, Jaime saw his only son lying in a crib, tightly swaddled in a blanket. The infant’s eyes were closed, his tiny head draped in a thin layer of dark hair that resembled Jaime’s. Across the room, he spotted the family calico cat, Brink, her eyes watching every one of Jaime’s anxious movements.

In the bedroom across the hall, his wife Veronica was sleeping soundly and snoring, and a scan from his phone’s flashlight revealed that she was the only person in the room.

Jaime realized he’d been holding his breath the entire time and inhaled deeply. His family was okay. Oh, thank God they were okay.

Jaime went through the remaining rooms of the house, searching for signs of intrusion, but there were none. The doors were all locked, and no one but he and his family and the cat were inside.

The old house on Grace Avenue and Lentner Street. At your convenience.

The words from the letter echoed in his mind as if in a hollow cave. He couldn’t linger for long; he needed to go there, tonight.

Briefly, Jaime returned to Harlan’s room. The child was still sleeping, oblivious to his father’s fears. Brink the cat looked up at Jaime once more, her tail swishing left and right, agitated. She was the child’s lifelong guardian. In the crib, a brown fluffy teddy bear sat propped in the far left corner, its stitched black eyes staring at nothing and everything.

Jaime reached out a hand and placed it softly on Harlan’s head. His sleeve retreated up his forearm, revealing a tattoo of a black-and-white heart that covered an ugly birthmark. He leaned over the crib wall and planted a soft kiss on the baby’s head. The boy stirred slightly, his eyes crinkling. Then he adjusted himself, his tiny arms squirming beneath the blanket, and Harlan relaxed, falling back into a dream state.

Without giving it a second thought, Jaime went back out the front door, making sure to lock it behind him. He sat back in the car and started the engine. Then he reached for the box, removed its contents once more. Upon closer examination, he saw that the dark substance on the bear was crusty, as if it had been there for some time.

It’s blood, Jaime’s mind decided then. You know it’s blood.

He didn’t know that for sure, but the thought made his stomach queasy. Someone had taken great deliberation to destroy something that resembled the toy lying in Harlan’s crib, and then they’d intentionally sent it to him in the middle of the night to scare him.

“Well, mission accomplished, motherfucker,” Jaime whispered. “I’m scared.”

He picked up the letter and read it again. He had to read it three or four times before his mind registered that it was real—that this whole frightening evening was real.

The old house on Grace Avenue and Lentner Street.

He knew the place well. He’d grown up at the house on the intersection as a child. The sender, whoever it was, had known it—and that fact didn’t help the trepidation embedded in Jaime’s mind.

Jaime drove fast through the neighborhood, down the highway, and out of town at speeds that should have gotten him a ticket, but he was the only one on the road at this hour.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to the house at the intersection of Grace and Lentner. The house stood empty like a tomb, the surrounding houses as dark as Jaime’s thoughts. He parked beside the curb, went to his trunk, and extracted a tire iron. Whoever waited on the other side of that door might have a weapon of equal or worse caliber, and Jaime wished he had a gun.

He walked up the porch steps, the box balanced in one hand and the tire iron in the other. The front door of the house was ajar. From within, Jaime could see a small candle burning on the floor. Before his brain could stop him, he was inching the door slowly open.

All along the hallway, a series of candles lit the path ahead toward his old bedroom. Jaime suddenly realized he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. If he died here, his body could be left for days, and no one would have a clue.

He crept down the hall, unable to hear a sound except his faint footsteps on the carpet and the rapid beating of his heart. At the end of the hall, a lone candle lit a portion of his old bedroom. In it, a single bed rested in the center, its mattress filthy and stained. A man sat on the mattress, his back turned away from the room’s entrance.

“I’m glad you came.” The man’s voice echoed in the mostly-empty room. “I wasn’t sure you would. You arrived sooner than I could have expected.”

The man stood, turned around. His face was gaunt and old, his hair stringy, gray. A scraggly beard covered his jaw, and his clothes appeared worn, unwashed.

Jaime tossed the box onto the mattress. “You sent that?” Jaime asked. “Who the hell are you, and how do you know me?”

The old man gestured to the box. “Do you recognize it?” he asked. “The toy?”

Jaime bit his lip, making it bleed. He brandished the tire iron and said, “You know who I am, who my family is, where I live. You brought me here for a reason. If I don’t like that reason, I’ll beat the shit out of you with this.”

The old man ignored his threat. “Tell me the first thing that comes to mind. What do you recognize about the bear?”

Jaime’s throat felt suddenly parched, and he realized he hadn’t had any water in hours. “It looks like my son’s bear,” he said finally. “Or something similar.”

“Close,” said the old man. “It is your son’s bear.”

Jaime squinted at him, suddenly wanting to strangle the man. “Why would you send me a mangled toy? Is this funny to you? I swear to God, I’ll call the police right now and wait for them to haul your ass away.”

The old man rolled up the sleeve of his coat, revealing a tattoo across his forearm. “You have a tattoo just like this. Mine is worn with age, but it’s the same thing: a black-and-white heart—a reminder of your beautiful family. You got it a month after your son’s birth to cover up that hideous birthmark you despise so much.”

Jaime shook his head. His heart pattered, and he wanted to throw up. “I don’t know what kind of game this is, but I’m calling the police.”

Before Jaime could dig his phone from his pocket, the old man continued. “The letter. Doesn’t it look familiar to you? It’s your handwriting, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you. I’m calling the police.”

“The blood on the bear is from Brink, your cat,” the old man persisted. “Brink will be your son’s first kill among many others as he grows up. It will be his first test to see how much pain a living thing can endure before it dies.”

Jaime lunged across the room, shoved the old man against the wall. He planted the tire iron against the man’s throat, and the old man grimaced.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Jaime spat. “This bullshit ends now.”

“We’re the same, Jaime,” the old man whispered frantically, his voice strained from the pressure against his trachea. “I grew up here, just like you. I had a family, just like yours. Please… Please…”

Something in the old man’s pleading eyes caused Jaime to release him, however reluctantly. He listened as the man fell into spurts of coughing.

“None of this makes sense, I know,” said the old man between hacks. “I assure you, I take no pleasure in any of this. But I’m here to warn you. Please, listen to me. Harlan is not a normal child. Right now, he’s a beautiful baby boy. I envy you, seeing him that way. God, what I would give to be in your place. But there’s something wrong with him—something that will carry on into his adulthood. Something that will make him hurt a lot of people.”

“You’re full of shit,” Jaime yelled.

The man held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It doesn’t make sense right now, but…” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a tablet larger than the phone in Jaime’s pocket. “Take this. See for yourself. It will be impossible to believe right now, but where I come from, the boy is a danger. He’s hurt many people and killed nearly as many.”

Jaime looked down at the black square in his hands, felt its weight in his hands nearly matched that of the box that now sat on the mattress.

The old man gestured to the tablet insistently. “See for yourself.”

With narrowed eyes, Jaime backed into the doorway, ready to run out of the house at any moment. He turned on the screen, which lit up just enough for Jaime to see a series of images. He pressed his finger to one at random, and a news article appeared—one from Christmas Day, twenty-five years from today.

Jaime read and reread the date, puzzled. Then he read the name of the article: Christmas Day Killer Strikes Again, Kills Family of Four In Grisly Murders.

A curiosity overtook him, and Jaime backed out of the article without reading it, decided to click on another image. This one was dated December 25, 2048: Christmas Day Killer Bombs Times Square, Killing Thirty-One Before Disappearing.

Jaime backed out again, read another headline, then another. All of them were dated for Christmas Day, each year progressing further ahead, stopping at 2052. The final headline said: Christmas Day Killer Caught, Leaves Legacy Of Nearly One Hundred Murders In His Wake.

A picture of a young man accompanied the final article, his hair dark and plastered to his forehead, his beard as scraggly as that of the old man in the room with Jaime. The young man’s his eyes appeared vibrant and blue, yet also unsettling, vacant.

Beneath the photo was a name: HARLAN GRAY, 36.

Neither the old man nor Jaime had spoken a word for several minutes as Jaime browsed the articles. They seemed so real—yet, they couldn’t be.

“It’s all true,” said the old man, as if reading Jaime’s thoughts. “The bear in that box belonged to Harlan as a child. He held onto it his whole life, even into the days when he became a monster. He killed Brink, and it’s Brink’s blood you see on the bear. As Harlan grew, he would kill Veronica as well. In time, he would come after me. I’m asking you to believe the impossible in hopes of saving dozens of lives. I can’t imagine being in your shoes right now, and for that, I’m sorry. But you have no idea what it’s been like watching your only son transform into a murderer.”

Jaime looked up from the tablet, saw that the old man was in tears.

“You’re right,” Jaime said. “It’s impossible to believe. He’s just a baby, for God’s sake. And I’m supposed to believe… what? That you’re really me? That you came from the future to warn me about things that haven’t happened?”

“I know how it sounds,” said the old man, “but yes, that’s what I’m asking of you.”

Jaime shook his head. “But that’s not all you’re asking for, is it?”

The old man sighed heavily. “I’m asking you to make two sacrifices, Jaime. One is Harlan’s life. In doing so, you’ll also sacrifice your freedom, your reputation, and your own life. But you’ll stop him now before he has a chance to know anything different. Stop him now before he can hurt anyone.”

“You’re insane. You’re fucking insane.”

The old man gripped Jaime’s shoulders, his eyes wild and desperate. “You think I don’t know that? He’s my only boy! Our only boy! From where you’re standing, you can’t see any of this coming, but it’s true! If there’s anything I’ve spoken into the world that’s true, it’s this! You have to believe me!”

Jaime pushed the old man back, knocking him down. He threw the tablet against the wall. “I’m not killing my son, you fucking psycho. If I see you again, I’ll bash your goddamned skull in.”

“Wait! Wait!”

Jaime left, ignoring the old man’s cries as he got back in his car and drove home.

***

Jaime didn’t sleep that night. He sat on the couch, feeling a surreal sense that the previous twelve hours had all been a delusion. As night gave way to morning, Jaime watched Veronica get Harlan out of bed and breastfeed him in the recliner, the boy’s eyes glazed over as he suckled contentedly. Veronica gazed at him with adoration. “We have the most beautiful boy in the world,” she said. Then she looked at Jaime with the happiest smile he’d ever seen on her.

All the while, Jaime, sleep-deprived and nearly rabid with shock, glared at the child. He imagined what seemed impossible now—that his son would grow to become a mass murderer. The picture of Harlan at thirty-six, the crusty bear coated in blood… It all seemed surreal…

But you know it’s real. You have to know that, somewhere in your mind and heart.

The day morphed into night, and before long Veronica was tucking Harlan into bed once again. Jaime waited until Veronica was asleep before going into Harlan’s bedroom. He looked down at his only son, watching him sleep peacefully in his crib. Across the room, Brink looked up, her tail swishing back and forth—Harlan’s faithful guardian.

Jaime stared at the sleeping child. He thought of the old man at the house on Grace and Lentner. He thought of the tattoo on the man’s arm, the shared memories, the accuracy of those memories. He thought the old man was as crazy as he felt right now.

Jamie couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut, one which told him something he didn’t want to admit: That crazy son of a bitch is right, isn’t he?

After a long while, Jaime took a pillow from the closet. He held it above the child’s face, willing himself to push it down, to fulfill the old man’s wishes. It would only take a minute. If the old man was right, Jaime could stop the suffering before it started.

Or maybe he’s wrong, Jaime’s mind postulated. Maybe it was all a dream, and I’m losing my mind.

Jaime began to cry as the pillow hovered over his son’s head. This was his only son, the only thing he wanted to live for, now mere inches and moments away from death.

Abruptly, Jaime pulled himself back, dropping the pillow on the ground. He huddled on the floor, sobbing. Brink came over and rubbed her face against Jaime’s vibrating hands and knees.

When finally he stopped crying, Jaime stood over his son and put a hand on his head. Then he kissed the child with as much love as a father can give.

“Sleep well, baby boy,” he said. “May you live a long life—whatever that looks like.”

Jaime went to bed and got the best night’s sleep he’d had in a long time, knowing his son was safe.

And so was everyone else—for now.