Changeling Child
By A. R. Montague
I'm standing over a crib with iron shears in my hand. The thing in the crib is not my child. I don't think it's even human. I remember my son. My little boy. Tommy… little Tommy. They think I'm crazy. That I just have postpartum depression, or stress, or exhaustion, but it's not any of those things. It's not!
I remember the day he was born. I was so afraid and nervous then, and it hurt so bad. Then I heard him cry for the first time and it cut through it all like a knife. Nothing else mattered. My son was born. He was alive. He was healthy, and we were together as a family. I looked into his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, and I had never felt love like that before.
It was my fault that he was taken. I should have been awake. I should have had someone help me watch him. I should have done something. I don’t know what, but he was...no, is my son, and it was my responsibility to protect him. I had just been so tired. It was his father Johnny’s first day back to work since he was born and Tommy had been up most of the night before and it had been so hard to get him to sleep that day. I wonder…Did he know? Did he know he was being watched? Did he know he was in danger? Did he spend his last moments wondering why his mommy ignored him? Why she didn’t do anything? No, he’s alive. He has to be.
When he finally drifted off to sleep I passed out on the old cream-colored easy chair next to Tommy’s crib almost immediately. I don’t know how long I slept but I woke to this…inhuman wail. I had never heard anything like it. I shot out of the chair and went to grab Tommy up and rescue him from whatever was making that noise, but the noise was coming from the crib. I snatched the baby out of the crib, and when a quick diaper check didn’t show anything I put it to my breast. He was just a newborn, I told myself that maybe I was just underestimating his lungs? Then It latched on, hard. Biting at me and sucking as hard as it could. It felt like it was draining my life away. I tried to take it stoically. Maybe he was just hungry or had a nightmare? But something else was wrong. The smell! Tommy, had a new baby smell, like baby powder and bliss, but that smell was gone, instead there was something else. The child smelled like something wild, like fresh moss and old wood. I looked down, and the child looked up. I saw green eyes looking back at me. This wasn't Tommy.
My mouth opened to scream but nothing came out but a gasp . I tore the child away and even though I felt like tossing it against the ground I put it back in the crib. It could have been someone else’s child. Some madwoman that had switched them.
What it had taken from me so far seemed to calm it down enough though. It smacked it’s lips and seemed content enough. I took a closer look. Could I be wrong? No. The face looked identical, but everything else was off. The skin was paler, the hands looked different, and of course the eyes were all wrong. I ran around the house in a panic looking for Tommy or some sign of who took him. I nearly tore apart the house searching but nothing seemed out of place. Then I ran between every door and window. They were all closed tightly, and still locked. I opened the front door and ran outside, still in my bathrobe and slippers. There was nothing there. No sign of anyone or anything. Just my van, and the driveway. I made my way around the house trying to find some sign of...something, but again there was nothing there. Nothing but the old woods behind the house, stretching off into the horizon. I made my way back to the door and as I walked away a cold blast of wind slapped at my back and I swear I heard laughter carried on it.
My heart was pounding and when I finally crawled back indoors I barely recall dialing “911” and sobbing into the phone that someone had stolen my baby and there was a strange child in his place. I remember weeping and sirens and Johnny yelling and a grim-faced policeman talking down to me. I kept telling them it didn’t matter and my son was missing but Johnny told them he was sleeping in his crib. How could he not see that wasn’t Tommy? It was so obvious. I just couldn’t understand why my husband wouldn’t believe me. They tried to make me get into an ambulance, but I refused. If they weren’t going to help Tommy I had to. I had to do something! But by then more police had arrived and I wasn’t strong enough. There were too many. I tried to push past them but suddenly there were hands all over me, bruising me with grips hard as nails, and they strapped me down onto a gurney and forced me into the ambulance. I kept screaming, “Somebody find Tommy, somebody help him!” No one listened.
They took me into a mental health facility and they gave me drugs. Drugs to make me sleep. Drugs to make me quiet. Drugs to make calm. Drugs to stop the nightmares I kept having. Doctors and nurses kept talking to me. I told them my son was missing and in danger, but they kept telling me I was wrong. That the Thing at my house was my son. I tried to tell them the truth, but they just gave me more drugs or upped my dosage, and I was so out of it some days I didn’t know where I was and began to question how long I had been there.
A few times a day they sat a number of people in a circle and had group therapy. I wouldn’t talk for the first few sessions but one night, maybe because of the pills or because I just wanted to tell someone aside from the condescending doctors and nurses, I finally told my story. I talked about the Thing That Was Not Tommy, and the violent suckling, and the laughing wind. Even the mad men looked at me in disbelief, but then, from the other end of the circle, a voice spoke up. It was an old woman, hunched over in her wheelchair. I had never heard her speak before and I didn’t know her name, but I had seen her wheeled about by the orderlies often. Most days she just seemed to stare off at nothing, but what I said woke something in her mind.
She lifted a gnarled, liver-spotted hand and spoke, “It was the Sidhe, the Fey. They took him. You’ve a Changeling child in your home.” One of the orderlies got up and swiftly started pushing the old woman away from the group. I got up to follow but another orderly stopped me. Still she twisted herself around in her chair to face me, whipping her long, translucently pale hair about as she did. “My grandmother told me about them.” Another orderly had opened the door and as they were ushering her out of the room, I heard her say “You can save him! You have to be smart! Don’t h-” and then the orderly pulled the door closed behind her, it clicked shut and her voice was cut off.
I tried to find her after that, but they kept us on other sides of the facility. A nurse told me that any further interaction between us could cause the growth of some kind of shared psychosis. It was okay though. The old woman was right. I had heard of things like this in old fairy tales when I was a child. I knew what I had to do.
First, I started playing along. I told the doctors and nurses they were right. That the Thing in the house had to be Tommy. They forced fewer pills on me and after a while Johnny even visited. I missed him so much. I couldn’t blame him for not believing me. Some things only a mother can see. He hugged me and I hugged him back and I promised in my heart, in my mind, and in my soul that I would make everything right again.
Still he seemed so...withdrawn. I had never seen him like this before. He just seemed tired. Not just physically, but mentally. He told me how things were at home. The Thing That Was Not Tommy was doing well. I made a big show of being happy about that. Turning into an actor was the only way I could get out of here. Johnny said his mother was helping out at home while I had been away and she was going to be staying while I “recovered.” I cringed when I heard that. She never liked me and being committed certainly wouldn't help with that. She was probably already trying to poison Johnny’s mind against me. Having that old hag there would make whatever I’d have to do harder, but I’d be able to find some way around her.
I told him I loved him and I missed; then he paused, and said, "Me too." Had his mother already starting to work on him? Did he not want to be married to a "crazy" person? That little pause gave birth to a million horrifying questions. I tried to tell myself that it was because he had always been shy when talking about "feelings" in public, but I didn't know if I could believe it.
I told him I would work hard to get better and come home, and that at least made him smile. By then it was already time for him leave. I couldn't believe the visitation hour had already passed.
It took some more acting but it wasn’t too hard to get out. They were already overcrowded and hurried to get me processed through the system now that they thought I was doing better. They gave me a prescription list a mile long that I had no intention of filling and made me an appointment with a psychiatrist that I had no intention of going to. Getting Tommy back was all that mattered. If I failed at that, what point would there be in living?
The reception I got at home was...mixed. Johnny looked relieved to have me back. Then his mother stepped into the room. She was as tall as he was but stick thin. She smiled and fussed over me, but of course had to add that, "Motherhood can be a terrible strain and some people just aren't strong enough to handle it." I tried to stay nice but even Johnny scowled a bit at that.
The Thing That Was Not Tommy started wailing when I tried to pick it up and only stopped when Johnny's mother scooped him out of the crib. "Don't worry hon," She cooed at the Thing, "You'll get used to this stranger soon enough, don't worry though, you'll always be grandma's boy." The Thing must know I know it's identity. I had to get to work.
I started to research Changelings as soon as I had a moment to myself. There was so much information out there. Ridiculous things like cooking in eggshells, and a hundred different ways of tricking them into leaving. Some even recommended just treating the Thing well and that the fey may return the child on it's own. No, this thing deserved worse. Punishment. Retribution. Some of the myths said differently though. Stab it with knives or burn them in an oven and they would flee and return the child. That sounded more like it.
That first night I crept up the stairs to the attic. Cold Iron. That's what all those old myths said. The fey couldn't bear it's touch, but what exactly was "cold Iron" Would the stainless steel knives in the kitchen count? I wasn't sure, but old antique iron should work well enough.
I quietly slid out an old dusty cardboard box and opened a little trunk that was hidden behind it. The trunk had belonged to my great-grandmother and contained a few old keepsakes from her. There was a sewing kit, some scrapbooks, and an old blanket she had crocheted, but at the very bottom there were some of her old gardening tools. I reached down and pulled out a pair of old iron shears.
I always thought they were wicked things that didn't seem to match my sweet old great-grandmother. Even now they looked older and odder than any of her other tools. The handle was shaped like a "V" of thin metal and at either end of the "V" there was a blade shaped like a right triangle, wide towards the center of the "V" and tapering to a sharp point. When you pressed the thin bits of metal together it formed a thin 'U" and the blades came together with a *shing* sound and cut apart whatever was in between them. Now I had a weapon against the fey.
I wish could have acted then, but I'd have to be alone first, I had to hurt the Thing enough that it or it's mother would bring back my Tommy, but Johnny and his mother would never let that happen. I had to bide my time.
Over the next couple of weeks things with Johnny got better. He seemed happier and more affectionate, but it still felt like there was some chasm between us that was barely starting to close. I would have made more of an effort to fix things but I was just so emotionally exhausted by the effort I made to try and earn the Thing's trust. That would be the first step in finding some time alone with it. After a while it would even let me give it a bottle. I did refuse to nurse it myself though. When Johnny's mother questioned that I told her I was on medication that could cause problems with breastfeeding. She gave me a dirty look, but the subject died there.
I started to drop hints to Johnny that his mother was making me feel uncomfortable and her constant passive-aggressive comments to me seemed like they were getting on his nerves as well. Finally, after three weeks he had a talk with her. I was in another room feeding the Thing, but I managed to catch the words, "crazy bitch" and "divorce her" a few times. However, the next day she started packing. She left the following night when Johnny got home from work, but not before she let him now that her home would always be open to him and Tommy.
I spent most of that night tossing and turning and planning for the following day when Johnny was at work. I had to make my move then. I couldn't let Tommy be missing any longer. He could be alone and hurt and scared, and it was finally time to act!
A storm was picking up as Johnny left for work that day. Dark clouds rolled in as I watched him pull the car out of the driveway. I waited forty-five minutes after he was gone. I guessed that by then wouldn't be coming back to check on me. I turned the oven on as high as it would go and Then I went and got the shears.
Now I'm standing over the crib with the shears in hand. The thing is asleep. It's just a child. Does it deserve what I'm about to do? "Tommy should be in that crib right now," I thought angrily. I brandish the shears and closed them. *Shing* the Thing jerks awake and lets out a howling, terrified cry. Cold Iron. I bring the shears closer. "Give me back my son!" I shriek. The crying intensified. I touch the sharp end of the shears to the Things arm. It jerks back as if stung.
"Give Tommy back!"
I grab the Thing's forearm and *shing* cut deep into the meat above the elbow. It lets out one long wail and the wind howls outside. Blood pools in the crib. I look around. What now? Is that enough? Do I cut more? Or...the oven?
I take a deep breath, and I pick up the Thing. This is for Tommy. Revenge for Tommy. Justice for Tommy. It flails and thrashes so hard I nearly drop it. The screams it makes reverberate through the hallway as I carry it to the kitchen. My hands are growing slick with it's blood and tears. This is for Tommy. This is for Tommy. This is for Tommy. Another great gust of wind crashes into the house, and I can hear the windows vibrate with the force of it.
I set it on the kitchen floor and open the oven door. The room warms with the heat of it. The Thing tries to crawl away, smearing blood from the wound on it's arm, but I catch it by the heel. I shout, "Bring my son back!" Then grab it with my other hand as well and hurl it into the oven as quickly as I can, Slamming the door closed behind it and holding it shut.
The screams before were nothing compared to what came from the oven then, but they soon were broken up by sickening coughs. I feel pressure on the oven door but I hold it tight. The wind rages outside. The whole house feels like it's about to be uprooted. Somewhere in the house, a window shatters. "Bring Tommy back!" I cry over and over, like a mantra. Finally the coughs and screams weaken and then stop altogether. The wind starts to subside.
I open the oven door partway to peer in and I smell burnt hair and flesh as acrid smoke rises up from the oven...Just then, a hammer of wind smashes open the kitchen door to the outside and tosses me to the ground. In the wind I hear rage and grief and hatred. Just for a moment the wind seems to force the smoke from the oven back inside and the oven door flies open the rest of the way. The wind retreats and foul smoke pours out from the oven. Everything is eerily still. I look inside. There is an infant's corpse there. Staring back out at me with dead, beautiful blue eyes.
"Tommy?"
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