My wife brought something home.

 This was far from the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. She’s brought home dogs, kittens, rabbits. An iguana. Once it was a rat she thought was a guinea pig because it was missing its tail. I was able to find homes for most of them, though we did end up keeping two of the dogs and three of the cats. And a miniature donkey, but that was my choice. I love that damn thing. I named him Dominic, and he likes to be held like a baby.

But this time she didn’t bring home an animal. She brought home a child.

“He was all curled up in a little ball,” she told me, her cheeks flushed while she rocked the child she’d wrapped in a quilt. “On the side of the road. He was freezing.”

“We need to call the cops. Social services? Child protective services?” I wasn’t sure who to call. I also wasn’t entirely sure that she’d really found this little boy like she said she had. She’s always wanted a child. But one of us wasn’t capable of producing one. We’d never had the tests to see who it was, because what did it matter? We don’t have the money for any fertility treatments, just like we can’t afford to adopt. Which is why I couldn’t blame my wife when she scooped up every animal she ran across that might need a little mothering.

This was different. This was a human child.

My wife is a good woman. A kind woman. But my heart sinks at the idea that she may have convinced herself she’d rescued this child, when she really just took him.

“I’ll call, I will. Let’s just get him warm and fed, and make sure he feels safe.” She continued to rock the bundle, more at ease cradling his little head against her shoulder than I’d ever seen her. Natural, like she’d finally found her footing on a rocking boat.

“Do you want to see him?”

I’d purposefully held off from looking at the child’s face. My wife wanted to be a mother, it was true. I also had always wanted to be a father. I was scared I’d get attached.

Have you ever had a little kid look at you? Like really look at you, in the eyes, and you could see they were an endless font of trust and innocence that you’d lay down your life for? I’ve had glimpses of it. From my nieces and nephews. Hell, even from little kids at the grocery store. They stared and stared at me, sometimes smiling, sometimes perplexed. And each time my hands itched to hold one, to have my own.

“Hank, come here. Hold him for a minute.”

“Aw Ramona, my hands are dirty. I just came in from outside.” I stepped back, directing my gaze out the window while my wife advanced toward me. Dominic was watching the house, his big furry brown ears pricked forward, on alert. Maybe he could hear us talking. Maybe he wanted a treat.

One of our cats was sitting on the fence beside Dominic, above the old historical site designation plaque, his narrowed feline eyes shooting daggers at me. Arranged in front of them were both of the dogs, gargantuan scarred mutts with blockheads and sleek fur. The normally goofy pair were perfectly still, their small round eyes focused on the house, looking right through the window to where I stood. They probably could smell the kid. It’s not like they’d know they were smelling a kid, just that it was something new, and they were curious. Maybe we’d go out in the morning, let the kid pet Dominic.

Maybe not the dogs. You never knew what’d trigger an old bait dog. And I didn’t like the way they were making eye contact with me right through the pane of glass. It felt like they were on edge.

My wife continued to move toward me, ignoring my protests.

“It’s not like the little guy is super clean. Just keep your hands on the quilt. I’m going to see what we have for him to eat.”

Before I knew it, she’d deposited the bundle in my arms. He was warm, but unmoving. Too still for a little kid. He wasn’t a dead weight though; I could feel the tension in his muscles.

Against my better judgement, I pulled the quilt back from his face. And stared.

His hair was deep brown with auburn highlights, like mine. “Like redwood bark,” my wife would say. This little boy had the sweetest round cheeks, long eyelashes, olive skin. Eyes so dark I couldn’t tell the pupil from the iris.

Tears had cleared the dirt in long ribbons down his face, and he pulled one small hand from the swaddling quilt and wiped his nose, inhaled with a wheeze. Was he sick? Or just snotty from crying?

“Hey little man.” I realized I was swaying softly, bouncing him in my arms. “You’ve had a rough time of it. Did you wander off from your house? Huh?”

I’m not great at guessing kids’ ages, but I’d say he was around four or five, judging by his full set of baby teeth. Old enough to be talking, right? I couldn’t feel a diaper through the quilt so either he’d taken his off or he was potty trained. I was hoping for the latter.

“Here, Hank, see if he’ll eat this.” My wife handed me a plastic cup with dry cereal. “I will make something else, too, but I thought we should get something in his stomach. I’m making hot cocoa, too.”

She was trying to hide her smile but my wife has never been good at concealing her emotions. Joy was beaming from her like a halo. My suspicions resurfaced, even though I couldn’t quite believe she’d take a little kid from his family. Not intentionally, at least.

I decided to believe her. She found this kid on the side of the road. Maybe he’d been abandoned, maybe he’d wandered away from home while no one was looking. Either way, he was a kid and he needed help. We could do that.

I took the plastic cup from my wife’s hand, supporting the kid with my other arm. “You hungry, little man?”

He stared at the cup, then at me. Those black eyes were so dark.

“It’s ok. It’s for you. And Ramona,” I pointed toward my wife with my chin, “is making you some more food. Hot chocolate too! Do you like hot chocolate?”

One tiny hand snaked back out of the quilt. He moved so slowly, watching my face as he reached for the plastic cup. In a flash his hand darted into the cup, grabbing a handful of cereal and stuffing it in his face.

We’d had dogs who acted like this. Who’d grab offered food as quickly as possible, often running afterward so that it couldn’t be taken from them. The vet called it ‘food insecurity’. It was a reaction to past abuse and starvation.

“Whoa, kiddo! Slow down. This is all for you, you don’t have to be scared. No one is going to take it away from you.”

I sat on our battered recliner (the one that won’t recline anymore) and perched the kid on my lap. Both of his arms were out of the quilt now. They were stick-thin, covered in dirt and scratches. Under it all I thought I saw scattered bruises, round and long, the kind fingers would make if someone had grabbed him. A haze of red threatened my peripheral vision. I couldn’t stand when people punched down, targeting the most vulnerable. For a moment I was glad my wife had taken this kid.

But no. She had found him on the side of the road. Maybe he was running from abuse. The least we could do for the little guy was make sure he was safe for one night before he got tossed into the system.

“Ramona?”

My wife popped her head around from the kitchen. “Is he eating?”

“Yeah, poor little guy was hungry. Do you want me to give him a bath while you’re cooking?”

“Aw Hank, that’d be great. I think we may have something he can wear in the hall closet.”

My wife used to collect little kid clothes. At first it was tiny onesies, all pastel colors and cute animals. “Just so we’re ready,” she’d tell me. “So we don’t have to buy a bunch when the baby comes.”

Then, when there was no baby, she started picking up slightly larger pieces. Like she was dressing our imaginary child, one that was growing each day. She couldn’t acknowledge that our dream of parenthood was gone.

“They are just so cute,” she’d sigh, folding them carefully before tucking them on a high shelf. “I’ll find someone to give them to. They were a great deal.”

She’d always say that. Act like they were on clearance, or she’d found them at a thrift store. I’m sure sometimes that was true, but other times I noticed we ate a lot of beans for a week or two after she came home with a ‘great deal’.

The last few years she had lost the urge, and there hadn’t been anything added to the collection. But all the older pieces were still there, washed and folded, carefully stored in labeled bins: “0-6 months,” “7-12 months,” 1-2 yrs,” etc., all the way up to clothes that could fit a small teenager.

The kid had finished his cup of cereal and turned his big black eyes to me.

“I bet you’re still hungry, little man. We’ll take care of that. For now, how ‘bout we clean you up? You’ll feel a lot better.”

When I stood he dropped the cup and clutched his arms around my neck, burying his head in my shoulder. It may be a little soft to admit it, but in that moment a rush of warmth washed through me from my head to my toes. No one was going to hurt this kid again. I’d kill anyone who tried.

“I know, I know.” I patted his back, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You’ve had a big day. But you’re safe now.”

He clutched me tighter, sniffling. I could feel his breath on my neck, how he shook inside the quilt. He was so tiny. Defenseless.

I thought it was his fingernails at first, digging into my neck. But then he bit down harder, nipping my skin.

“Whoa there!” I pulled him away from me, laughing to hide my surprise. “I get that you’re hungry, but I’m not for dinner! Ramona is making you something good, I promise.”

He stared up at me, one of his pearly tiny baby teeth worrying his lip. His black eyes welled with tears.

“Hey, don’t cry.” I patted him on his back, rocking him again. Since I’m not a fool I kept him away from my neck, perching him on my hip. “I’m not mad. I’m just surprised. But we don’t bite each other here. That’s not nice.”

“He bit you?” My wife appeared from the kitchen, her eyebrows knit together in concern. “Did he break the skin?”

“Nah, it was just a little nip.”

Turning her attention to the kid, my wife smiled. “Like Hank said, we don’t bite each other here. Do you have words? Can you use your words to tell us what you need? Or your name?”

The kid stared at her blankly.

“It’s ok, little man.” I bounced him one more time. “We’ll still feed you.”

My wife’s smile was a little thinner than it had been. Behind her, I could hear the sputtering of fat in her old iron skillet. “I’m reheating those pork chops from last night. I’ve got ketchup to go on them. All kids like ketchup, right?”

“You hear that?” I exaggerated my features, widening my eyes and smile. “Pork chops and ketchup! Yum.”

The kid looked at me, sniffed the air. His face paled under his olive skin.

I lowered my voice. “You don’t like pork chops?’

In the kitchen the skillet rattled on the stove. In my arms, the kid stiffened like a board. Something was scaring him. That old iron skillet that Ramona had inherited from her grandmother did have a particular scent when she was cooking, but most cast iron did.

“Tell you what,” I whispered, “you give it one bite and then if you don’t like it I’ll get you something else. Deal?”

The kid just stared at me.

I hoped he’d eat. It would break my wife’s heart if he didn’t.

From the kitchen, I heard her call. “Food’ll be ready when you’re out of the bath. And Hank?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Use the baby soap and shampoo. It should still be good; it’s on the same shelf as the clothes.”

“Will do.”

I’ve bathed a lot of dogs in my life. A few cats. Even a chicken once, and the smell of that experience will haunt me the rest of my days. But I’ve never bathed a kid.

Men in this world aren’t allowed to be trusted with kids. I’ve internalized that. Not that I’m a creeper or a pedo—the idea disgusts me—but I know that to most people out there, the idea of a grown man bathing a kid is a little suspicious.

Here’s the thing: just like when the cat got covered in motor oil, or the dogs had fleas, this kid needs a bath to feel better. Cleaner. More comfortable. And that’s what we’re going to do.

The kid wouldn’t let go of me as I collected clothes, a towel, the shampoo, and soap. When we stepped into the bathroom his entire body tensed, and I felt rage at whoever had hurt him flare up again.

“We’re just going to clean you up. Nothing to be scared of, little man. You’re going to feel so much better. How about you help me with the water? How warm do you like it?”

He still wouldn’t let go. I knelt down by the tub, turned on the tap with one hand while balancing him with the other.

“Here, give me your hand.”

I pried one of his hands loose, held it toward the water thundering from the tap. “Is this too hot? Too cold?”

The water splashed over his hand and his entire body stiffened, and warmth seeped through the quilt. His bladder had let go.

“Whoa, okay buddy. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

He wasn’t crying. He lay rigid in my arms, his eyes wide and staring. Water dripped off his hand, and the skin had turned fiery red.

Had it really been that hot? Had I burned the little guy? Shit!

“Oh little man, I’m sorry! Was that too hot for you?” Balancing him on one arm, I reached out to turn off the tap, but passed my hand under the splashing water first.

It was barely lukewarm.

My face creased in confusion. What had happened?

A grinding sound drew my attention back to the child in my arms. His mouth was working, teeth gnashing. His eyes rolled up in his head, the whites pearlescent and shining. We had an epileptic dog who did this right before he had a seizure so I felt prepared for what might come next.

I laid him down on the thick bathmat, figuring it was safer for him if he started seizing. He’d already wet himself so I didn’t have to worry about that, but I did roll him on his side, so he wouldn’t asphyxiate on froth. I steadied him with my hand on his bare, bony shoulder.

“Shhhhh, it’s ok. You’re alright. You’re safe. No one will hurt you here. Breathe. In,” I drew in a long breath as an example, “and out.” I noisily exhaled.

The kid didn’t react. His eyes were trembling in their sockets, still rolled back and white. His tiny teeth were grinding, and I swear I could hear squeaking like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Ramona!”

“What?”

“Get in here, something is wrong!”

“What?”

“Ramona!”

She must’ve heard the panic in my voice because I heard her running toward the bathroom. Our house is old and rickety, and her footsteps shook the floorboards.

“What’s going on, is he ok?”

I caught the door before she could fling it open and brain the poor kid.

“No, I think he’s having a seizure. Call 911.”

She paused. “We’ll get in trouble for keeping him.”

“Ramona!” I never yell at my wife, but I did that day. “Call them.”

Her eyes widened and she scurried away, leaving the door ajar. After a few moments I heard her say, “Yes, we need help. A child is having a seizure.”

The kid was still gnashing his teeth, but at least he’d started blinking. It was better than that vacant white stare.

Or at least it was, until his eyes rolled back down.

Where before the pupil and the iris were black, now his entire eye was black. Sclera too. Like ink had flooded under his lids, dyeing the jelly of his eyes.

I couldn’t help it. I scrambled back from his little body.

The quilt had fallen away and I could see that the redness from where his hand had touched the water was creeping upward, sending spikes of fiery color up his tiny arms. The bruises and dirt were fading under the redness, but whether they were simply being covered or if they were disappearing I couldn’t tell. I’ve seen blood poisoning before, watched it do the same thing. But it took days to advance like this. It certainly didn’t move so fast I could watch it spread in real time.

“What…” The kid’s voice was garbled, rough. Deeper than his little chest should’ve been able to hold.

“Is…”

I had pushed myself into the corner of the bathroom, the edge of the toilet cutting into my spine.

“In…”

He rolled over, tried to sit up. Fell backward.

“Your…”

When his head turned toward me, black streaks were bubbling from his tear ducts and running down his face. His eyes had widened, morphed into massive almond-shaped shadows. His baby teeth had elongated, sharpened.

“Water?”

He leaned to the side, vomited up the dry cereal. The mealy mass was tainted with black phlegm, thick as tar.

The quilt fell away when he rolled toward me, his little chest nearly concave, outlining ribs.

Too many ribs.

And hipbones that didn’t make sense; they jutted from his skin in terrifying knobs and bows, stretching skin that was fast becoming a network of snaking red lines.

The door pushed open, and my wife stuck her head in.

“They’ll be here in—oh my god!”

She leapt backward, dodging the weak swipe the boy aimed in her direction.

“What’s wrong with his eyes?”

“I don’t know!” I wanted to wrap this thing back up in the quilt, take him back to where she’d found him. Leave him on the side of the road.

I also didn’t want to get any closer to him.

“Did he hurt you, Hank?” My wife inspected me, her eyes assessing for damages.

“No, but I think he’d like to.”

In answer, the kid rolled toward me and clicked his teeth together. Wanting to finish what he’d started with that little nip on my neck earlier.

“Stay back, little man. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He garbled a rough laugh. Again, too deep. Too thick for that twisted chest to conjure. “Hurt…”

“Help is on the way.” My wife’s voice still had that touch of motherliness. The instinct to protect. Even as she kept her hand on the doorknob, ready to slam the heavy door into the kid’s head if he made a wrong move.

My wife is kind, not stupid.

“Bite…” The kid gnashed its teeth at me again, black tears still spilling down his cheeks. “Help?”

“You stop that right now. You can’t bite him.” My wife was fierce, strict. She protected what was hers. She would’ve made a great mother.

The kid’s face fell, and for a moment he looked like a scared little boy again. My heart flipped over in my chest.

I would’ve made a great father. I’m a softie. A foil to my wife. I’d be the one who always gave in to a child’s demands.

“Ramona, I think he needs… something. Or he’s going to die.”

“He doesn’t need to bite you.” She began to open the door. I stuck my foot out to stop her from advancing further. “Hank, don’t be stupid. Look at its eyes. This isn’t a child. Let it die.”

I ignored her. I didn’t have time to explain that keeping this thing alive until the paramedics arrived was protecting her. If they found what looked like a dead kid here, we’d both end up in prison.

I also knew she’d never understand that I couldn’t just watch a kid die in front of me. Even if he wasn’t human. Wasn’t mine.

“Little man,” I kept my voice gentle. The kid rolled toward me. “What do you need?”

His breathing was becoming more labored. The tendrils of red were moving up his neck now and I had a feeling that when they reached his eyes, he would be gone. If I was right, we didn’t have much time. He was tiny, and he needed help. Like I said, I’m a softie.

“Bite… Small…”

I shuddered. My wife pushed against the door, but I’m much bigger than she is. I was able to keep her out easily.

I heard sirens.

“Ok little man. Do you need meat or blood?” I felt ill. My stomach washed with acid, my eyes blurred. Alarm klaxons were sounding in my head. My wife was crying on the other side of the door.

“Hank, please!”

“I’m not dumb, Ramona. It’ll just be enough to keep him alive for a few more minutes. Then he can be the county’s problem.”

“They’re almost here, just wait!”

“Meat.” The kid’s voice still warbled, but sounded more solid. Hopeful.

I hate how in the movies the character will offer the wrong part of their body for sacrifice. Like how, when drawing blood for some rite, they will slice right across their palm. Who does that? So when I offered the kid my arm, I turned it, presenting him with the chunk of muscle on the outside of my forearm. No major arteries, no way to bleed out. It’ll hurt, but not be fatal.

His teeth had grown even longer, sharper. Monstrously huge in his mouth. I saw them too late, gleaming in the light before he bit down, tearing a hunk of my arm away.

I don’t think I screamed. I think I keened.

His saliva burned me, dripping into the open wound like acid. Before I could draw away he twisted my arm and sunk his teeth into my wrist.

“Hank!” My wife’s panic and my surprise at the kid’s attack allowed her to slam the bathroom door open, hitting the kid so hard he was flung away from my arm.

He crouched on all fours, blood dripping from his tiny baby fangs. His eyes were still black.

He was smiling.

Blood was pouring from my wrist, gushing in waves that synced with my heartbeat.

A pounding from outside. “Paramedics!”

My wife screamed for help.

The front door crashed open.

The kid sprang. I think he meant to make one final attack on me, hoping for a last few drops of blood before he was taken away.

I watched my wife kick out and connect solidly with his rippling ribcage. His slight body flew across the room, landing with a splash in the tub.

The kid thrashed and groaned, his skin red and blistering.

I had turned off the tap. But I hadn’t drained the water that had already collected. He tried to pull himself up from the water, but my wife stomped his little hand, sending him back into the tub.

Thankfully the paramedics didn’t see that bit, or we would’ve been in big trouble. As it was, the only reason we didn’t get charged with abuse—since the kid looked like he’d been boiled alive—was that the paramedic who pulled him out attested to the water being nearly cold. It was agreed that the kid must’ve had a reaction to something in our water.

It wouldn’t have been unheard of. We live out in the country where the town meets the forest, and we have well water, so of course anything can leech into it. Filters get out of most of the bad stuff, but occasionally we’ll turn on the tap and it’ll have an odd smell. Sometimes like sulfur. Sometimes like roses.

We only knew that we drew our water from a little well that used to be dedicated to St. Brigid because a demolition crew found that old historical site marker in the ruins of an old barn. They’d been finishing up the day the realtor showed us around, and that man didn’t miss a beat when he saw an opportunity to sweeten the deal on the property.

“I’ll bet this well has been blessed so many times that the water here is permanently holy,” the realtor had laughed at his own joke. Apparently he had been right on the money.

I lost a lot of blood, but I survived. We weren’t charged with anything, seeing as we’d had the child less than an hour and had planned on turning him over to the county in the morning.

We were told he survived, that the paramedics stabilized him, and no one mentioned weird black eyes or too-sharp teeth. I felt good about that. My wife did not. She was scared he’d come looking for us.

I don’t think he will. I think he’ll find someone else. He got what he wanted from us.

Sometimes late at night when I get up to go to the bathroom, while I’m washing my hands in water that has begun to tickle more than it should, the mirror tells me a story I don’t want to hear. One that includes black ink staining the whites of my eyes when they are still heavy with sleep.

But then I blink and it’s gone.

Editor’s Note

I picked this story because it made me feel everything the family was going through and their want to have a child. That, and the characters (and animals) just feel so homely that you can’t help but get sucked into the tale.

I spoke to the author which you can read here.