I’m a dad! I never pictured myself as a dad-type, but I gotta tell you, when this ten pound two ounces boy (yeah, his mom is a superhero for pushing him out) curled up on my chest for the first time, well it’s enough to make me want to teach everyone within earshot how to change a tire.
We named our son Herman. I know, it doesn’t sound like a name you’d give a baby, but he’s named in honor of his late grandfather - my wife’s father passed away when she was just a kid.
In order for you to understand how truly creepy what I saw on the baby monitor was, I first have to tell you that I love my wife. Like running through the rain at the end of the movie love. The amount of time I spent on the bathroom floor with her during her pregnancy should be proof enough. We spent hours there, alternating between holding her hair back, and wiping drool and vomit off of her mouth. It was surprisingly romantic.
About the baby monitor, you should know that I was in a sleep deprived haze. Between breastfeeding, my wife’s nausea, and Herman’s day-night confusion - did you know that was a thing? I always assumed babies just knew when the sun was out it was time to be awake, but I guess that’s something you have to learn! - we had not had a good night’s sleep in almost a year. To make matters worse, our perfect son, who had slept like a champion in the hospital, decided he hated his bassinet. And swaddles. And sound machines. Anything that was supposed to make sleeping easier, he rejected. Bedtime became a battleground as Herman refused to sleep without us holding him. This evolved into an elaborate singing, bouncing, rocking routine that rivaled any Broadway production. He was lulled to sleep by movement, which worked to get him to nod off, but then came the daunting task of The Transfer, in which I had to get him from sleeping peacefully in my arms to dozing in the bassinet.
First I would slowly, imperceptibly shift his body in my arms to be horizontal to the floor. Squeezing my core, lowering my torso slowly down, bending ever so carefully, like a forklift driver moving through jello, I would lower him into his bassinet. And then, as if he’d heard a loud explosion, his eyes would pop open and he’d give me a big, gummy smile, like this elaborate routine was all too amusing for him. Mission failure.
We were barely getting a chance to close our eyes before Herman’s scream pierced through the night. My wife struggled with anxiety and depression before her pregnancy, but now everything was heightened. Our nerves were frayed. Our tempers short.
So, being the progressive husband I am, I decided to take the night shift. Most nights I would give up on the bassinet altogether, and Herman would sleep on my chest like a little woodland creature, squeaking and squirming in the wee hours of the night.
But one night, around 3AM, I actually did it. I got him to sleep in the bassinet. I was sitting in the rocking chair with his warm little body resting on mine, I found my eyes drooping. For those of you who do not know, a huge amount of babies get hurt because their parents fall asleep in chairs or on couches while holding them. And as much as I wanted to stay snuggled in his sweet embrace, I knew I was playing with fire. So, I decided to attempt a Transfer.
I start the shift in my arms, and he stirs a bit but finds his thumb. “Good job, buddy,” I whisper. I begin the lowering process, looking for a twitch or muscle contraction that’s a sure fire sign of a wake up and a game over. But it doesn’t come. He relaxed on his back in his bassinet, sound asleep. I put a hand on his chest to make sure he was still breathing.
Reassured, I slid under the covers, eager for as much shut eye as I can manage before Herman is up again. But sleep doesn’t come! I shift position, try deep breathing, and count sheep. Nothing works.
I decide to make myself a cup of something warm to calm down. Hot water, lemon, and honey always helps when I’m having trouble sleeping.
I take the monitor into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. I stare at the monitor, looking for the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of Herman’s belly. As I stare at the screen, I see movement in the background. Something shifts behind the mesh of the bassinet. The monitor feed isn’t the highest definition. I lean closer, my nose almost to the screen. I make out the outline of our fan rotating in the background. I pop into the bedroom and turn it off. I don’t remember turning it on.
A loud whistle erupts and I jump! I reach for Herman, who sleeps soundly, thank god. Then I turn to my wife, worrying that it woke her. But the room is still. Then, I remember the kettle. The water’s ready. I shake my head at myself and head to the kitchen. What a fool. So jumpy.
I pour hot water over the tea bag and turn to the cabinet to get the honey. But it’s not there. I turn back to the counter, and it’s on the counter next to my cup of tea. I did not put it there.
I’m watching the little black and white image, staring intently to make sure Herman is still breathing, when I see it… a pair of hands I don’t recognize reaching into the bassinet. They’re slender with long spindly fingers. I feel frozen to the spot, as if in a trance, watching someone - or something’s hands reach toward my son.
I scream, but no sound comes out. But my son - my brave son, he screams! His cries seem to scare the hands and they shrink back into the shadows. It shakes me from my trance. I jump up, knocking the monitor to the floor, and run to the bedroom. There’s no one there. I pick up Herman and calm him. I look all around for an intruder - in the closet, under the bed, behind the door. Nothing. I must have dozed off and dreamed it. I really need to get some sleep.
I manage to settle Herman back down again - a second miracle! - and go back to the kitchen to retrieve the baby monitor. I peer down at the screen and discover that my son is gone!I drop the cup of tea and the mug shatters as it hits the ground. Scalding hot water splashes onto my sock feet.
I run into the bedroom with a slight limp from my scalded foot and my heart in my throat. I scan the room. I don’t see Herman. But I hear him crying. He’s tired, confused about being awoken. I find him in the closet on the ground. My brow furrows - my wife’s postpartum anxiety must be acting up again. I make a mental note to mention it to the doctor.
As I change his diaper, I keep my guard up, glancing over my shoulder. Whose hands were those. Who moved the honey. Paranoia swirls in my head as the hour ticks later and later. I rock him back and forth, back and forth. Feeling emboldened by my earlier success, I attempt another Transfer.
I place him in his bassinet and climb into bed, fully expecting to be up in a few minutes, but I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember is someone shaking my shoulder gently. I wake up and turn to my side, eager to see my little boy swaddled in his bassinet. But he’s not there. I worry I fell asleep with Herman in the bed with me. I panic, ripping back the sheets, but the bed is empty. I’m alone in the bedroom. My wife and son aren’t there.
That’s when it hits me. What I still can’t quite bring myself to say. My wife passed away after giving birth to Herman. Her side of the bed is so cold now, so empty. But where is Herman?
“Herman!” I yell out, running frantically out of the room. I hear him giggling. I find him in the living room, playing happily on a play mat. He’s so sweet, smiling and giggling at no one. Or is he? I hold up my phone to take a picture, and there are her hands reaching into frame, reaching out to our son with those long, spindly fingers.