"The baby is dead."
The words echoed in her ears, relentless and sharp, like a siren on repeat.
Her?
Her baby?
Her baby was dead?
The child she had nurtured in her womb for nine months—the baby she was about to bring into the world through a scheduled cesarean section—was gone?
How was that possible?
she has been so careful...
It was lies...
All lies she could feel her baby's kick...
This doctor was a liar, she thought.
"What…what are you saying?" Her voice trembled as she clung to the edge of the examination table.
The doctor's face remained calm, devoid of emotion. "Mrs. Rider, the cesarean section was scheduled for today, but during the pre-surgical scan, we found that the neonate no longer has a heartbeat."
She stared at him, unblinking, as if trying to decipher his words. "Doctor, I can feel my baby kicking in my belly right now. What do you mean there's no heartbeat?"
The doctor straightened his posture, his tone firm yet clinical. "I understand this is difficult, but what you're feeling are uterine spasms. If we proceed with surgery, it would only be to remove the baby's remains to prevent infection. Keeping the baby in your womb poses a significant risk to your health, potentially leading to sepsis, the loss of your uterus, or even death."
She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "Dead remains? The baby I carried for 36 weeks, the baby I prayed for every single day, is just…dead remains?" Her fists clenched against the fabric of her dress.
Pushing the consent form away, she stood, her resolve clear. "No. I won't sign. I don't want my child removed."
"Mrs. Rider, please reconsider—"
"No!" she snapped. "I decline the surgery."
The doctor turned to her husband. "Mr. Rider, perhaps you can help her understand. This decision…"
But her husband, who had sat silently throughout the exchange, now rose to his feet, gripping his chest as if the weight of the world rested there. "Talk to her?" he echoed, his voice cracking. "This baby cannot die. I'm turning sixty this year. She's forty-five. We can't lose this child. We simply can't."
Taking his wife's hand, he led her out of the room, the doctor's protests trailing behind them.
Weather Hills was a quiet, secluded town of about five hundred people, where everyone knew everyone. In the stifling silence of their truck, they sat deep in thought, the hum of the engine their only companion.
"What do we do?" he whispered at last.
"Do you believe them?" she asked, turning to face him.
"Do you believe that our child is dead?" Her gaze bore into his, demanding an answer he couldn't refuse.
He hesitated, swallowing hard, but he wouldn't dare doubt her. They had tried for so many years. Now, they would stop at nothing.
He placed his hand gently on her belly, a faint smile breaking through his worry. "Our baby is alive."
Her lips quivered as she nodded. "Let's go see Melody."
His face paled. "Melody? You've left the old ways…"
"I did," she admitted. "I tried so hard to leave them, to love you, to live a normal life, to forget my family's heritage. But I was a fool to think I could. Not when my child's life is at stake."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white. "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes." Her voice was resolute. "Are you with me, honey?"
He hesitated, then nodded, unable to deny her desperation. "Always."
Their house was unassuming: a small living room with two armchairs and a table, a wooden dining table with four chairs, a modest kitchen with cabinets, a sink, and cupboards.
Everything appeared normal, yet she knew what lay beneath.
She made her way to the room she had kept locked for fifteen years. Beneath the little house was a dark, hidden basement.
Torch in hand, she navigated through the shadows to a chest covered in a white cloth.
Carefully removing the cloth, she revealed an ancient wooden box, its surface polished by time.
She removed the key from her necklace, its weight familiar against her palm.
"Don't open it…we don't have to do this," her husband said from behind her.
"You're still scared of it?" she asked, her voice gentle. "It was a gift from my mother. She was a pure witch. It will bring no harm…it will ensure my safe delivery," she whispered.
Her eyes pleaded with him. "Please, let me pray. I can't do this without you."
He shifted nervously but nodded, his love for her outweighing his fear. "Go on."
With a deep breath, she unlocked the chest.
Inside was a reborn doll, its eerily lifelike appearance making him jump back.
He trembled as she carried it carefully, as though it were an actual child, and placed it in a silk-draped armchair. She arranged candles around the doll and scattered more across the room.
In a corner, wrapped in dried elephant grass, lay an old, worn leather book, its lock tarnished with age.
She picked it up and unlocked it with the same key. The moment the book opened, the candles lit themselves, and the pages flipped as if guided by an unseen force.
"Honey, I don't like this one bit," he said, his voice unsteady.
"I know you're scared, dearest, but remember what the doctor said. That's much scarier," she replied softly.
Together, they knelt, facing the reborn doll. She placed the book between them.
"No matter what happens, don't look back," she warned.
"What?"
"Swear to me that you won't look back," she insisted.
He hesitated, then nodded.
She began to chant, her voice low and rhythmic. "He who lives…he who dies…he who has…he who wants…grant thy hearts…eternal wants…"
The book spun, the lights flickered, and the candles flared.
The room fell into pin-drop silence.
Then a voice, soft and childlike, broke the stillness.
"I'm right behind you…"
His breath hitched.
"I'm right behind you…"
His heart raced.
"I'm right behind you…Daddy."
His eyes snapped open.
And he turned to look.