She was bleeding.
And it was all his fault.
Panic gripped him as he lifted her frail body from the living room armchair, rushing out into the relentless storm. Rain poured down in torrents, the darkness broken only by flashes of lightning streaking across the night sky.
She was weak.
She had lost so much blood. The hospital was an hour away, and in this storm, he feared she wouldn't make it.
In her trembling hands, she still clutched the reborn doll and a large leather book, holding them as if her life depended on it. "Save my child… please save my child," she whispered over and over, her voice faint yet desperate. "My child can't die… my child is alive…"
He laid her on the back seat of his truck, soaking wet, her face pale and feverish. Her shivering intensified, and her body burned with fever.
"Save my child… please… save my child," she repeated, her words blending into something unnatural—like three voices speaking as one.
He was shaking. His hands trembled on the steering wheel as he started the engine. The headlights illuminated the endless maize fields as he sped toward the only midwife he knew, just five minutes away.
"Save my baby… my child cannot die…" Her voice echoed through the truck, a haunting chant that sent chills down his spine.
His heart pounded in his chest. Panic threatened to consume him, and his bladder tightened painfully until he thought he'd explode.
As soon as the small farmhouse came into view, he slammed the brakes. Leaping out of the truck, he relieved himself quickly before sprinting to the door. He pounded on it with desperation, his soaked fists hammering against the wood.
After the fourth knock, a very old woman opened the door, her face tired and annoyed, as though she had been in a deep sleep.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I need your help! My wife—she needs you!" he pleaded, his voice trembling.
The old woman squinted at him, her eyes narrowing. "Show me," she said curtly.
By the time they reached the truck, his wife was gripping the seatbelt with both hands, her screams piercing through the storm.
"She's in labor," the old woman said, rolling up her sleeves.
As the neonate's head appeared, he noticed something odd—it wasn't flesh-colored. It was black, though he assumed it was just wet hair in the darkness of the storm.
Then, before his eyes, his wife's body lifted unnaturally, almost hovering. Like a spider, the creature crawled out from between her legs. Its face was black and white, its body twisted and deformed. The head lolled backward, the umbilical cord coiled tightly around its neck.
The old woman fled to her house, returning moments later with scissors. She snipped the cord and wrapped the newborn in a clean cloth.
The baby didn't cry.
She pinched it, tickled it, shook it gently—but it remained silent.
The man stood in shock, paralyzed as the rain soaked them both. His wife had fallen silent.
"Mary?" he called, his voice cracking as he touched her blood-soaked dress. "Mary? Our baby is here. It's a girl… the girl you always wanted. It's Lacy, isn't that the name you picked?"
He cradled the baby in his arms, its small form unnervingly still.
"Mary? Mary, talk to me… please."
The old woman's voice cut through the rain, sharp and unyielding. "She's dead," she said.
He turned to her, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"They're both dead," the midwife said again, her voice flat and cold.
His world stopped, and everything was muffled.
"Dead?" He laughed, the sound hollow and shaky. "My wife's not dead, for God's sake. Everything is fine. She's just tired…"
He turned to her, holding her hand. "See? Her eyes are open," he said, his voice faltering as her lifeless gaze stared back. Her hand was cold—unnaturally cold.
"It's just the rain," he muttered, almost to himself. "It's really cold right now, that's all…"
The old woman placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice firm yet sorrowful. "She's gone, Mike."
Her words hit him like a blow. He shook his head violently, his voice rising. "No! No! That's not true!"
Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his wife's hand tighter, his whole body trembling. "I'm nothing without her! I cannot live without her!"
His voice broke into a sob, and the storm outside seemed to echo his despair.
"Come back…" he cried, his voice breaking with raw agony. "Come back to me! I'm holding our baby right here, and I need you. I can't do this alone—please!"
His sobs racked his body, but grief turned to rage as his eyes fell on the reborn doll. He snatched it up with trembling hands, glaring at it as if it held the answers.
"She believed in you!" he roared, his voice echoing through the storm. "You were supposed to save her! You were supposed to save my baby!"
The old midwife gasped, chills running through her as his fury filled the air like static.
"But you didn't save her!" he screamed. "You killed her… you killed them both!" His knees buckled, and he collapsed, clutching the doll tightly.
"Do something!" he cried out, his voice cracking. "She believed in you—do something!"
The old woman's face turned pale, her voice trembling. "That doll… it's a demon," she said, her words thick with dread. "You're praying to a demon and cursing it in the same breath. Do you even know what you've done?"
Her voice rose in anger. "To gain something from a demon, you must give something. Your wife knew that!"
He froze, his blood running cold. "What… what are you talking about?"
"Demons cannot raise the dead!" the old woman snapped. "Your wife knew the consequences, and still, she chose this path—a life for a life!"
Her eyes rolled back, leaving only white orbs as her body began to levitate.
Mike stumbled back, clutching the baby closer to his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Your wife chose to die for the dead," the old woman said, her voice deepening unnaturally. A low, guttural chuckle escaped her lips as lightning cracked across the sky. The rain pounded harder, drowning out the sound of his panicked breathing.
"What is dead… is already dead."