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  * * *

  "Mrs. Sherman," Mrs. Renker said, opening her door when Paige knocked. "You shouldn't be up and around."

  Paige knew that her complexion was wan, her eyes lost in sockets that managed to look hollow and puffy at the same time. She held herself in the fragile way of a convalescent, bent slightly forward over the stitches.

  "I just realized Dan forgot to drop off the rent." She held out a rumpled envelope.

  "Come in. Sit down. Let me get you something to drink. How's your little bundle of joy?"

  The baby was cradled in a quilted sling that looped over Paige's shoulder. She looked down at him, smiling despite her aches and exhaustion. All that could be seen of him was a red, furrowed little face topped by a fringe of blond hair. His head still had a misshapen look, the result of her long and difficult labor. He wore a blue and white striped onesie and booties. No hat. Dan's mother would have scolded her for the lapse, even though they'd only walked a few yards out of doors. She thought she glimpsed similar condemnation in Mrs. Renker's quick look.

  "Fussy. He was up most of the night." Paige sighed. "This motherhood thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I hope he's not keeping the neighbors awake."

  The landlady brought Paige a glass of iced tea, setting it precisely on a cork coaster. "Nobody's complained to me."

  The baby made a froggy-sounding belch and spit up a geyser of thick white goo. It rolled down his chin and dribbled onto the sofa.

  "Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" Paige gasped.

  Mrs. Renker rushed to the kitchen, returning with a roll of paper towels and a wet sponge. She knelt on the rug and wiped at the mess. "It's fine, it happens, nothing to worry about, I'll clean it right up. There, see, it's coming out. It won't leave a stain. I won't let it leave a stain."

  "Let me help you -"

  "No, no, that's all right. It's my job. I know how to tidy up a mess."

  Scooting to the other end of the sofa to get out of her way, Paige said, "I guess you must … I heard that you used to be a nurse at the mental hospital."

  "Yes, well, that was a long time ago."

  "He also said that this lot used to be the secret burial ground where they'd put the bodies of the inmates who didn't have anyone else. That's not really true, is it?"

  "Is that what he told you?" Mrs. Renker rocked back on her heels and scowled at the couch. "He shouldn't have told you that."

  The cushion had a spot on it, but Paige thought it was only water, not a real stain. It should dry with no discoloration. She hoped so. That scowl was terrible.

  "Is it true?" she asked again.

  "You should have seen what went on in that place. Back before all these fancy medications, back when they'd use ice water baths, shock treatment, straitjackets, lobotomies. The doctors would do experiments, you know. And the interns, they were monsters. Not like you see today, with their sensitivity training and cross-cultural workshops."

  Mrs. Renker tore off another paper towel and blotted at the couch. Paige used the edge of the carrier to swab a residue of spit-up from the baby's face.

  "Sounds inhumane," Paige said.

  "The female inmates had it the worst," Mrs. Renker said. "Especially the pretty ones. Oh, some of them made the most of it. They'd sell their favors for a dollar, or a few cigarettes."

  "And the nurses, the doctors, the staff knew about this and let it go on?"

  "Couldn't really stop it." She glanced at the baby, frowning fiercely at a dribble of spit on his onesie that Paige had missed. "They took their babies away, you know."

  An instinctive curl of the arm brought her son closer into Paige's embrace. "They what?"

  "Sometimes, the inmates turned up pregnant. The doctors would keep them in seclusion until they gave birth. They'd take the babies and sell them, though they called it adoption. Never told the new parents where the little bundles of joy came from, either, how do you like that? Never told them that the mothers were raving lunatics and the fathers little better."

  Paige stared at her, holding the baby close. He had, for a miracle, quit fussing and seemed to be as wary, as apprehensive, as she suddenly felt.

  Mrs. Renker straightened up, clutching the crumple of paper towels. The sickly smell of sour milk rose from them.

  "And think about those adoptive parents," she went on. "The ones who took those babies in, never knowing where they'd come from. Stranger children. Changelings. You might take one in, raise it as your own, and all the while, just biding its time, that insanity was waiting to strike."

  "I should go," Paige said. She felt very pale, near fainting. "It's time for the baby's nap."

  It was as if Mrs. Renker didn't hear. "But if a nurse dared to breathe a word of it, she could kiss her job good-bye. She had to keep her silence and watch as these ticking schizophrenic time bombs were delivered into unsuspecting arms. They'd grow, and sooner or later it would start. The voices. The delusions. The command hallucinations. They'd lash out at the very people who gave them a home. And what could we say?"

  "Mrs. Renker -"

  "Nothing. Not a thing. Couldn't warn them, oh, no."

  Paige stood up. She was unsteady on her feet, bumping into the table. The untouched glass of iced tea tumbled from its coaster and spilled. Recoiling from that, her shoulder struck a shelf and sent half a dozen blown glass swans tinkling to shards on the floor.

  Mrs. Renker flinched as she regarded the spilled tea, the broken glass, but her gaze returned to fix on Paige. "I knew I had to do something. My sister-in-law wanted a child so much. So very, very much."

  "Thank you for the tea." Backing toward the door, unmindful now of the tugging pain of her stitches, Paige groped behind her for the knob.

  It wouldn't turn. Was it locked? Why was it locked?

  "They were so sad when the baby they had been promised went missing before it could be given to them." Mrs. Renker's smile was sweet, sorrowful. "But it was for the best. Really for the best."

  Paige tried the other direction. The knob turned. But the door opened inward. Toward her. She'd have to move closer to the landlady in order to open it far enough to escape.

  "You know, it's funny," Mrs. Renker mused. She was staring down at her hands, which were chapped and dry. "Something like that never quite goes away, does it? I hoped that by living here, right on the very spot, it would help. But it doesn't. I can still feel it. The mud, the blood, the rain. It never comes clean."

  "Please …" Paige said.

  "Trust me, dear. I know what I'm doing. It's for the best. You have to believe that. It's all for the best."

  * * *

  First day back on the job, but he'd gotten through it. Dan Sherman had been dreading the hassle he might get from the others for taking maternity leave. The guys had teased the living heck out of one co-worker who'd announced his intention to quit and become a stay-at-home dad.

  He would never admit it to Paige, but there was something really satisfying about coming home from a hard day at the office, coming home to the wife and kid …

  Musing on these thoughts, shameful as they were to a modern 21st-century guy, he opened the door.

  He stopped short with his jaw hanging open.

  The house was a mess of boxes, clothes, newspaper-wrapped dishes, and disarranged furniture. Paige was in the middle of it all, her expression frazzled and hectic, her chin smudged with newsprint.

  "We're moving," she said as he stood stunned. "Right now. I won't stay here another day."

  "Paige … honey …" He fumbled for words. As he cast desperately around for something that made sense, his gaze fell on the bassinet. "Paige … where's the baby?"

  "She said … she said it was for the best."

  ###

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  About the Author

  Christine Morgan divid
es her writing time among many genres, from horror to historical, from superheroes to smut, anything in between and combinations thereof. She's a wife, a mom, a future crazy-cat-lady and a longtime gamer, who enjoys British television, cheesy action/disaster movies, cooking and crafts.

  Her stories have appeared in several publications, including: The Book of All Flesh, The Book of Final Flesh, The Best of All Flesh, History is Dead, The World is Dead, Strange Stories of Sand and Sea, Fear of the Unknown, Hell Hath No Fury, Dreaded Pall, Path of the Bold, Cthulhu Sex Magazine and its best-of volume Horror Between the Sheets, Closet Desire IV, and Leather, Lace and Lust.

  She's also a contributor to The Horror Fiction Review, a former member of the HWA, a regular at local conventions, and an ambitious self-publisher (six fantasy novels, four horror novels, six children's fantasy books, and two roleplaying supplements). Her work has appeared in Pyramid Magazine, GURPS Villains, been nominated for Origins Awards, and given Honorable Mention in two volumes of Year's Best Fantasy and Horror.