Lost Little Lamb
By
Max Tackett
The comforting scent, one only a mother could possibly fathom. The scent of peace, love, victory, and contentment. Swaddled and laid on her chest, her son Samuel, now only minutes old, slowly drifted to sleep. The unimaginable pain was long forgotten—there was only Samuel. Gently, she stroked his delicate, silklike cheeks. She smiled, joining her son in the most tranquil slumber........... It would be the last time either of them slept again.
“Sarah.” The voice seemed to echo off the inside of her skull, distant yet invasive, trying to rouse her from the soothing dream. "Sarah.” Louder this time.
Sarah awoke to the sound of footsteps--clump, clomp, clump, clomp. As her eyes began to unglue themselves, she saw three nurses in the delivery room, each pushing a cart. Two of them busied themselves preparing the warming bed, their movements mechanical and unnervingly synchronized. The third nurse slowly approached Sarah’s bedside.
With each step, the nurse seemed to change. Her scrubs, once a cheerful blue adorned with yellow ducks, began to shift and darken, morphing into a red nun's habit. Her high, arched eyebrows accentuated the crazed look in her eyes, which never seemed to blink.
She leaned closer, her face now mere inches from Sarah’s. Her breath carried the fetid stench of rotting flesh and formaldehyde, making Sarah’s stomach churn. The nurse’s eyes, lidless and unyielding, locked onto hers.
“Do you regret what your womb once bore?” The words dripped from her lips like venom.
Sarah’s body betrayed her. Her eyes rolled involuntarily—side to side, up and down—the lingering effects of the epidural leaving her powerless. This isn’t real. This can’t be real, she thought. She jammed her eyes shut, squeezing them so tightly that radiant colors began to swirl in the darkness, a kaleidoscope of electric blues and golds dancing in her mind.
The voice came again. Softer this time. Familiar.
“Sweetheart, are you okay? How do you feel? Are you sore?”
Opening her eyes, relief and confusion swelled within Sarah. The nurse, who only moments ago had resembled a living nightmare, now appeared as a tender guardian. Her voice was gentle, her eyes filled with unexpected warmth. But something was wrong. Samuel was gone.
“Where’s my baby?” Sarah’s voice trembled as she tried to push herself upright. Her arms felt like lead, her body still numbed by the epidural.
The nurse tilted her head, her expression unchanged. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s in good hands. We’ve taken him to the NICU for observation.”
“Observation? Why? He was fine! Bring him back to me.”
The nurse patted Sarah’s hand, the gesture patronizing. “Just routine, sweetheart. Rest now. You’ll see him soon enough.”
The words felt hollow, rehearsed. Sarah’s heart raced, her instincts screaming that something was terribly wrong.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes—it was hard to tell. The delivery room grew quieter, emptier. The faint beeping of machines hummed in the background, a monotonous reminder of her isolation.
“Sarah.”
The voice returned, slithering into her mind.
She turned her head to see the door creak open. The nurse stood there again, but this time her red habit was fully formed, her hands clasping a black rosary. The beads dripped with a dark, viscous fluid, staining the floor as she approached.
“Do you regret what your womb once bore?”
Sarah screamed, but no sound came out. She thrashed against the bed, her body still trapped in its post-delivery haze.
The nurse leaned over her, whispering in a voice that sounded like a hundred others speaking in unison. “He belongs to us now.”
Sarah jolted awake, her breathing ragged. The room was empty again, but the fear lingered. She pressed the call button frantically, her thumb slamming into it until a different nurse appeared.
“Where’s my baby?” Sarah demanded, her voice shaking.
“He’s in the NICU, ma’am,” the nurse replied. Her tone was calm, but there was something unnerving in the way she avoided Sarah’s eyes.
“I want to see him.”
“I’ll check if it’s possible,” the nurse said, slipping out the door before Sarah could protest further.
The waiting was unbearable. Sarah stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying the moments before Samuel was taken. The hallucinations, the voice--was it all in my head?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wheels. Two nurses entered, pushing an empty warming bed.
“Where is he?” Sarah’s voice cracked as she sat up.
The nurses exchanged a glance, their faces expressionless.
“He’s gone.”
The words didn’t come from the nurses. They came from the shadows gathering in the corners of the room.
Sarah blinked hard, her vision blurring. The nurses were transforming before her eyes, their faces elongating, their hands twisting into clawed shapes. One pulled down her surgical mask, revealing a gaping maw lined with rows of jagged teeth.
“He’s ours now.”
Sarah ripped the IV from her arm, stumbling out of bed. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but adrenaline pushed her forward. She had to find him. She had to get to the NICU.
The hallways stretched endlessly, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Doors lined the walls, each marked with a single letter. She reached one that read N.
Pushing it open, she found herself in a cavernous room. Rows of warming beds were lined up, each occupied by a baby. But something was wrong. The babies were silent, their stillness unnatural.
In the center of the room stood a figure cloaked in black and crimson. A hood obscured their face, but their voice was unmistakable.
“Do you regret what your womb once bore?”
Sarah staggered back, her hand clutching the doorframe. “Give him back to me!” she screamed.
The figure extended a hand, and one of the warming beds slid forward as if pulled by an invisible force. Samuel lay inside, swaddled tightly. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“He belongs to the Order now.”
“No!” Sarah lunged forward, but the figure raised their hand again, and she was thrown backward, slamming into the wall.
The room began to spin, the shadows growing thicker. The babies in the warming beds began to cry, their wails merging into a single, deafening roar.
When Sarah woke again, she was back in her delivery room. The sunlight streaming through the window felt harsh, artificial. A nurse stood by her bed, her demeanor calm and professional.
“Sweetheart, you’ve had a rough night. Let’s get you settled.”
Sarah’s voice was a whisper. “Where’s my baby?”
The nurse smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “The NICU is taking good care of him. You’ll see him soon.”
But Sarah knew the truth. Samuel was gone.
Her tears came in silent waves as the nurse adjusted her blankets. The comforting scent of Samuel lingered faintly on her skin, a cruel reminder of what she had lost.
Somewhere, deep within the hospital, the Order of the NICU began their ritual. On the T.V an ad for the Neonatal Interception for Cult Use aired.
Born in 1992 in Orlando, Florida, Max spent his early childhood fascinated with all things weird and scary. His first experience with nightmares came from a Batman poster hanging up in his room when he was seven. Enlisting in the Marine Corps in 2011, Max continues to utilize his traumatic experiences for inspirations. His published works include, "The Lady in the Hole", and coming this New Years Eve, "The Cradle of Frau Perchta."
By
Max Tackett
The comforting scent, one only a mother could possibly fathom. The scent of peace, love, victory, and contentment. Swaddled and laid on her chest, her son Samuel, now only minutes old, slowly drifted to sleep. The unimaginable pain was long forgotten—there was only Samuel. Gently, she stroked his delicate, silklike cheeks. She smiled, joining her son in the most tranquil slumber........... It would be the last time either of them slept again.
“Sarah.” The voice seemed to echo off the inside of her skull, distant yet invasive, trying to rouse her from the soothing dream. "Sarah.” Louder this time.
Sarah awoke to the sound of footsteps--clump, clomp, clump, clomp. As her eyes began to unglue themselves, she saw three nurses in the delivery room, each pushing a cart. Two of them busied themselves preparing the warming bed, their movements mechanical and unnervingly synchronized. The third nurse slowly approached Sarah’s bedside.
With each step, the nurse seemed to change. Her scrubs, once a cheerful blue adorned with yellow ducks, began to shift and darken, morphing into a red nun's habit. Her high, arched eyebrows accentuated the crazed look in her eyes, which never seemed to blink.
She leaned closer, her face now mere inches from Sarah’s. Her breath carried the fetid stench of rotting flesh and formaldehyde, making Sarah’s stomach churn. The nurse’s eyes, lidless and unyielding, locked onto hers.
“Do you regret what your womb once bore?” The words dripped from her lips like venom.
Sarah’s body betrayed her. Her eyes rolled involuntarily—side to side, up and down—the lingering effects of the epidural leaving her powerless. This isn’t real. This can’t be real, she thought. She jammed her eyes shut, squeezing them so tightly that radiant colors began to swirl in the darkness, a kaleidoscope of electric blues and golds dancing in her mind.
The voice came again. Softer this time. Familiar.
“Sweetheart, are you okay? How do you feel? Are you sore?”
Opening her eyes, relief and confusion swelled within Sarah. The nurse, who only moments ago had resembled a living nightmare, now appeared as a tender guardian. Her voice was gentle, her eyes filled with unexpected warmth. But something was wrong. Samuel was gone.
“Where’s my baby?” Sarah’s voice trembled as she tried to push herself upright. Her arms felt like lead, her body still numbed by the epidural.
The nurse tilted her head, her expression unchanged. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s in good hands. We’ve taken him to the NICU for observation.”
“Observation? Why? He was fine! Bring him back to me.”
The nurse patted Sarah’s hand, the gesture patronizing. “Just routine, sweetheart. Rest now. You’ll see him soon enough.”
The words felt hollow, rehearsed. Sarah’s heart raced, her instincts screaming that something was terribly wrong.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes—it was hard to tell. The delivery room grew quieter, emptier. The faint beeping of machines hummed in the background, a monotonous reminder of her isolation.
“Sarah.”
The voice returned, slithering into her mind.
She turned her head to see the door creak open. The nurse stood there again, but this time her red habit was fully formed, her hands clasping a black rosary. The beads dripped with a dark, viscous fluid, staining the floor as she approached.
“Do you regret what your womb once bore?”
Sarah screamed, but no sound came out. She thrashed against the bed, her body still trapped in its post-delivery haze.
The nurse leaned over her, whispering in a voice that sounded like a hundred others speaking in unison. “He belongs to us now.”
Sarah jolted awake, her breathing ragged. The room was empty again, but the fear lingered. She pressed the call button frantically, her thumb slamming into it until a different nurse appeared.
“Where’s my baby?” Sarah demanded, her voice shaking.
“He’s in the NICU, ma’am,” the nurse replied. Her tone was calm, but there was something unnerving in the way she avoided Sarah’s eyes.
“I want to see him.”
“I’ll check if it’s possible,” the nurse said, slipping out the door before Sarah could protest further.
The waiting was unbearable. Sarah stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying the moments before Samuel was taken. The hallucinations, the voice--was it all in my head?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wheels. Two nurses entered, pushing an empty warming bed.
“Where is he?” Sarah’s voice cracked as she sat up.
The nurses exchanged a glance, their faces expressionless.
“He’s gone.”
The words didn’t come from the nurses. They came from the shadows gathering in the corners of the room.
Sarah blinked hard, her vision blurring. The nurses were transforming before her eyes, their faces elongating, their hands twisting into clawed shapes. One pulled down her surgical mask, revealing a gaping maw lined with rows of jagged teeth.
“He’s ours now.”
Sarah ripped the IV from her arm, stumbling out of bed. Her legs wobbled beneath her, but adrenaline pushed her forward. She had to find him. She had to get to the NICU.
The hallways stretched endlessly, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Doors lined the walls, each marked with a single letter. She reached one that read N.
Pushing it open, she found herself in a cavernous room. Rows of warming beds were lined up, each occupied by a baby. But something was wrong. The babies were silent, their stillness unnatural.
In the center of the room stood a figure cloaked in black and crimson. A hood obscured their face, but their voice was unmistakable.
“Do you regret what your womb once bore?”
Sarah staggered back, her hand clutching the doorframe. “Give him back to me!” she screamed.
The figure extended a hand, and one of the warming beds slid forward as if pulled by an invisible force. Samuel lay inside, swaddled tightly. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“He belongs to the Order now.”
“No!” Sarah lunged forward, but the figure raised their hand again, and she was thrown backward, slamming into the wall.
The room began to spin, the shadows growing thicker. The babies in the warming beds began to cry, their wails merging into a single, deafening roar.
When Sarah woke again, she was back in her delivery room. The sunlight streaming through the window felt harsh, artificial. A nurse stood by her bed, her demeanor calm and professional.
“Sweetheart, you’ve had a rough night. Let’s get you settled.”
Sarah’s voice was a whisper. “Where’s my baby?”
The nurse smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “The NICU is taking good care of him. You’ll see him soon.”
But Sarah knew the truth. Samuel was gone.
Her tears came in silent waves as the nurse adjusted her blankets. The comforting scent of Samuel lingered faintly on her skin, a cruel reminder of what she had lost.
Somewhere, deep within the hospital, the Order of the NICU began their ritual. On the T.V an ad for the Neonatal Interception for Cult Use aired.
Born in 1992 in Orlando, Florida, Max spent his early childhood fascinated with all things weird and scary. His first experience with nightmares came from a Batman poster hanging up in his room when he was seven. Enlisting in the Marine Corps in 2011, Max continues to utilize his traumatic experiences for inspirations. His published works include, "The Lady in the Hole", and coming this New Years Eve, "The Cradle of Frau Perchta."