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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