Night, Forgotten

Original Edition - Chapter 18: Now

After dinner, Owen gets a fire going and Diana insists upon clearing the table and loading the dishwasher.

Owen spreads out some of his accounting work on the kitchen table and props his narrow reading glasses low on his nose. Starting about a week ago, I guess, he's been throwing himself into his work even when he's at home. I've never known him to be so committed to the efficient use of his evening time.

Owen's hair has grown almost completely grey above his ears. The light from the fire dances across the new lines on his face, casting shadows that make him look alternately beautiful and menacing.

A high-pitched whine drifts through the crackling fireplace from the parlor, where Thomas has been taking his evening nap. Owen glances up over the rim of his glasses and waits, alert, to determine if the whine is about to turn into a wail that requires attention.

We all strain to listen.

After a moment, I notice an opportunity to prove that I'm capable of something related to mothering. "Let me go check on Thomas," I offer, as if it's something I'm in the habit of doing.

Neither of them protests, and I excuse myself.

The front entryway is dark. Through the open French doors, Thomas's crib comes into view against the interior wall of the parlor. A quilt has been draped over its railing, obstructing my view of the baby.

For the first time, I notice that someone has attached a garish mobile to the far end of the crib's railing. Colorful, plush animals suspended from delicate wires hover over the crib, bobbing maniacally.

One of the creatures on the mobile catches my eye.

It's a faceless yellow bird, no larger than a child's fist. The way it hovers, impaled upon a golden rod, reminds me of my missing earring.

I reach up and roll my naked left earlobe between my thumb and forefinger.

I need to find that earring.

Standing in the doorway, I listen intently, waiting to hear if Thomas will cry again.

He doesn't.

Shadows cast by the flickering flames lap threateningly up the wall. The front window reflects a distorted version of the room, one swirling with shadows cast by the little creatures that spin and dip, suspended from Thomas's mobile.

The room is quiet except for the roar of the fire. One of the logs sizzles and breaks apart.

Then, from behind the quilt comes the sound of a low, guttural chuckle.

I take a step into the parlor. The floorboard groans beneath my weight. The fire hisses and snaps, but the room is otherwise still.

There it is, again. The rasp of a man's bitter laughter. Coming from my baby's crib.

The little yellow bird bobs frantically on its wire. The flames seem to have engulfed the room now and I choke on the swelling heat. But I force myself to approach the crib, grip the railing, and peer behind it.

There is the baby, limbs outstretched. He's sleeping soundly.

We're alone.

I stare down into the crib to make sure I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing. After a moment, I let out the air I've been holding in my lungs.

It's just Thomas in there, tightly wrapped in a muslin swaddle, sleeping peacefully. When he whined earlier, causing Owen to look up from his work, it must have been in reaction to a dream. But from the look on his face now, that's already long forgotten.

Except for the gentle rise and fall of his belly, the baby does not move. He certainly does not laugh.

My eyes dart around the parlor to be sure there's no one hiding in here. Of course, If someone broke into our home, Diana, Owen, and I would have heard it from the kitchen.

Unless whoever it was had gotten in through the back door, when Diana and Owen were still in the front entryway. When I returned home after following the Dolans, the door had been left ajar. Had someone just let themself into the house?

They could have snuck upstairs to hide while we ate dinner.

They could still be in here.

I glance around the parlor once more, even peeking behind the red rocking chair to make sure no one is crouching back there.

But if someone were hiding upstairs, they couldn't also be hiding somewhere in this room and chuckling from inside Thomas's crib, all at the same time. I must have imagined that laughter.

Of course I imagined it. Watching the baby's motionless face, I start to feel ridiculous. It's not like an adult person could even fit inside a crib. What did I expect to see when I looked down, anyway? The baby, laughing in that horrible way? How could such a threatening voice have come from such a tiny body? It's not possible.

I need to start getting more sleep.

But I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. Because the laughter wasn't completely unfamiliar. I'm not sure from where, but I know I recognized the man's voice.