Bryce Hara-Crockford

Mira pulls up outside Astrid’s apartment building. A grimy old building from the seventies, riddled with contradictions: solid concrete, yet water damaged; water damaged yet coloured in a gasping, dry grey; grey yet flanked on either side by the festive purple of two blooming jacarandas; surrounded by such vibrant growth—such life—and yet…

Astrid thanks Mira for dropping her at home. Both women are dressed in scrubs. Though Astrid is not much younger than Mira, she has taken to her like a mother.

‘You look pale,’ notes Mira, in that frank manner that nurses find appropriate.

‘No assessment please,’ Astrid smiles, ‘I’m just a bit late.’

Mira glances at her coworker’s stomach, ‘How late are we talking?’

‘Just a tad.’

They hug, Mira unable to help patting her on the back. Astrid gets out and sends a ‘ta ta’ kiss as she walks away. Mira reminds herself she isn’t this young woman’s mother and drives off, puttering away into the distance. Astrid waves her goodbye at the entrance to her building. The car drags along with it the only other sense of life in the street; and for just a moment, there is a cold feeling of desertion. Not desertion from Mira but someone, or something, she’s always had until now… as though it had been hit by that car and died in the street without her knowing. She doesn’t realise it, but the crows certainly do. They are the watchers of darkness, ink-coloured pupils in the trees above. The jacarandas send their flowers down to comfort Astrid. She admires their gentle, lavender colour and enters her building without another thought. It is impossible for her to know that the trees weep for the tragedy to come.

***

David, one of Astrid’s neighbours, spots her in the hallway.

‘Good morning, Lyn,’ he says as he passes by.

She doesn’t bother correcting him anymore, though, to this day, she still gets miffed about the fact that he constantly mistakes her for their elderly neighbour. Though, she admits the overnight shifts leave her looking like an old bag of bones.

Entering the flat, she uses a nearby mirror to inspect her face for any signs of premature ageing, and stares into her light brown eyes doubting whether they have always been that colour.

All that’s left to eat is some leftover Chinese takeaway. It’ll do. At least that’s what she tells herself before running to the bathroom five minutes later and hurling in the toilet bowl. Whatever, it passes.

She stumbles to the sink and lets it run, splashing water on her face. She notices the sink is clogged—the water can’t drain. Her reflection hovers over the surface. There is a sound: a crow’s caw. Yes, that. And something else: a hush. It draws her closer to the pool of water. Closer until, caught in a trance, she sinks down into the water. Like the dramatic swing of a pendulum, her plunge becomes a lift out of a dream. She is awake in bed, with no water and no strange sounds. It was a dream just now, she tells herself.

The news broadcast plays on the TV while she cleans up around the house. According to a weather report, there is a lunar eclipse tonight. There is an unopened fortune cookie at the bottom of her takeaway box. The message inside warns her of an unwelcome surprise—she should have read that before eating. But she gets the sense it’s about something else, and she presses a hand to her stomach. Her feet tingle. Oh God, it might really be a baby.

A positive test follows shortly. A gasp, then curse words, and a call to her boyfriend, Francisco Fernando (Nando for short).

‘How’s it going babe?’ he asks in his innocence. She comes right out with it:

‘I’m pregnant.’

After waiting for Nando to stop laughing she reiterates the point.

‘And?’ he retorts.

‘What the hell do you mean? And I thought you should know.’

‘I’ll pay for the abortion, babe. Don’t worry.’

‘Are you sure?’ she says slowly, suddenly aware of her own ambivalence towards the baby. Nando makes some excellent points: for starters, ‘it’s a fucking baby’, neither of them are even 25 yet and Astrid’s just started at the hospital. Nando, himself, isn’t in the country. Sure, it’s great news. It’s just not the right time.

‘Remember Ben and Nikki?’ he mentions. ‘They thought they wanted a baby but, really, all they needed was a dog… I can sense you’re mad at me right now.’

‘I just thought you were going to say something else.’

‘If it’s not yes or no, then what?’

‘I don’t know! This is the first time it hasn’t felt completely obvious.’

Nando tries his best to reassure Astrid, somehow segueing into an anecdote about Angkor Wat and the dangers of tuk tuks. But she loses track of his voice, instead caught once more by the sound—the hush—tugging at her whole body. She blinks and her perspective is shifted from a standing view of the window to a seated view of the TV from her couch. Another blink and she’s back to her original position by the window.

A dizzy spell forces her to cut Nando off and end the call. She promises to talk again soon and spends a moment staring at the couch, unsure of what is happening to her. She struggles to shake the strange feeling. The opened fortune cookie on the table reminds her of a business card in her room: Madam Devereaux’s House of Fortune.

***

Astrid enters a tiny room wrapped in curtains. A place of dimmed edges. Madam Devereaux waits for her at a round table in the centre of the room. It is covered in an ornate, diamond-shaped tablecloth. She notices that Devereaux reminded her of her neighbour, Lyn, though it would be impossible to explain how. Though Devereaux and Lyn would be similar in age, there is certainly no-one who bears the same dazzlingly blue eyes as Devereaux. She takes a seat opposite the fortune teller and starts talking about her dream with the sink, wanting so desperately to make sense of it all, but the old lady halts Astrid with a hand and redirects her attention to a money tray. Astrid drops a twenty and keeps talking.

Devereaux listens intently until she is asked to speak. ‘June, 1998, was it?’ is her first question.

‘Oh, uh—no. December.’

‘So, you must be a twin then.’

‘Only child… I’m pregnant though, maybe that’s what this is about. Is that bad?’

‘How could a delicious little creature like that be a bad thing? But we must dig deeper.’

Devereaux produces a crystal ball from under the table and places it on a mount in between them, appearing to possess a dim glow of its own. They discuss the strange dreams, her blinking moment, and her dizziness. Then the fortune teller invites Astrid to touch the crystal ball. Devereaux stares into it, slowly forming an image; encouraging her to focus—on what exactly, Astrid isn’t sure.

‘Shh, darl’, I can hear it,’ Devereaux mutters, trailing off into gibberish that seems to come from a place low in her chest. They take shape in her mouth, and Astrid intuits that Devereaux is, in fact, speaking a language of some kind. And more and more the hazy glow from the crystal ball makes way in her mind’s eye, as if Devereaux’s garble is making sense on a subconscious level, allowing Astrid to truly see into that crystal ball. And as the glow dissipates completely, a stunning full moon is revealed to her… that is, until a crow’s caw transforms that moon into a pupil. Devereaux hears the hush, ‘Arubas. It’s Arubas. darl’, look at me.’

But Astrid can’t hear her, captured by the pupil’s unblinking gaze, with fingers clinging so tightly to the crystal ball they gain a redness that stains the light around them in the same malevolent hue.

An astral hand attempts to rip itself apart from Astrid’s before sinking back into her body. Then, an astral body pulls away from her torso, failing again to break free completely.

‘Get away from her!’ Devereaux yells, bursting out of her chair and sweeping the crystal ball off the table, locking the spirit back within the young woman’s body with a force that sends her to the ground.

She helps the young woman up as she regains consciousness, handing her an innocuous piece of paper from behind her robes. ‘Go home, darl’. There’s a demon inside you, got it?’

‘No, I don’t get it! The baby?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, you have a baby and a demon inside you. Not your physical form—no doubt it’d like to get inside, and it knows how.’ Devereaux picks up the crystal ball, covering it with her shawl. ‘It will use a point of heavenly convergence—this eclipse—to merge your souls together and spit you out the other end with someone else’s body. A used body. And I know what you must be thinking. This is all gobbledygook. Why me? Well, I’ll tell you why. You’re young, you’re stupid, and you’re completely on your own with a baby inside you, that’s why. Sorry, darl’, I’m not trying to be harsh, but you’ve just got to know. But if you still think I’m crazy then just humour me tonight. hang that piece of paper up against your door and stain it with a drop of your blood—to keep you safe. The demon can only come in if you are the one to let it in. Do it; if not for yourself, for the baby.’

‘… I don’t know if I even want a baby.’

‘That’s not true. You’re not scared of having a baby, you’re scared it’s just a dream.’

***

As instructed, she pricks her finger with a pin and lets a drop of blood paint Devereaux’s paper. The stain reveals two words written in a language she can’t read, but when the hush returns to whisper in her ear, Astrid knows they are two names—one known and one unknown. Once pinned to the door, an immense weight lifts, for just a moment. That cold feeling of desertion she first felt in the street. She can’t remember the last time it had felt this empty, yet, there is a baby inside her now. Her exhaustion forces her to the ground.

She can hear noises in the hallway. Footsteps. Jangling keys—just David coming home from work. Then, another door opens—Lyn’s door.

‘Evening, Astrid,’ says that oaf David. Lyn just laughs, flattered, and leaves down the stairs in the gingerly manner of a woman her age trying her best not to fall. Astrid still can’t believe she’s being compared to that old lady.

She notices the envelope beside her, slipped under the door. It is dusty, as if left there without being noticed for a long while. Inside is a baby card. Unsigned. Written, ‘Congratulations!’

She wonders.

There is a call from Mira, her nurse coworker. The timing is unnerving. She lets the call ring out. Call 321 to listen to the voice message. She doesn’t dare.

***

The eclipse has begun. Astrid, still sitting against the front door, stares at it through the kitchen window. She has a typed message to Nando, about wanting to keep the baby. She wants to send it. She will send it. She does—

But it shuts off, along with the lights. Moonlight streaks into the dark, and her body is hit with a familiar jolt. Something’s coming.

She forces her frightened self up and crosses to the kitchen, picking up the biggest knife she has, then digs through the shelves for a torch.

Ready by the door, knife brandished.

The doorknob rattles, causing Devereaux’s paper to glow. The lock holds… The lock holds… She blinks, and her vision shifts to the opposite side of the door in the hallway. Another blink, and she’s back inside her flat. Her hands reaching up and tearing down the paper before she can stop herself. The monster made her do it.

Astrid braces the door, panicking. She blinks without realising, and she’s on the other side again. The door lock clicks open, and when she’s back inside the flat she sees that it was her hand that opened it. The door swings open, revealing the blackest void.

Lifting her torch, she finds Lyn approaching. Still the façade of her elderly neighbour, but far paler and pupils unfeeling. Her hands and feet are talons.

Astrid swings her knife and backs away. The torch flickers, then dies, and so too the moonlight begins to fade behind the eclipse.

The door slams shut, giving them privacy. Astrid screams for help but no one—not even neighbour David—can hear.

The eclipse has entered its middle phase, and there is a tinge of red in what light remains. Sensing the time has come, Lyn lunges forward, talons reaching for Astrid’s forehead and weapon. With a wild fury, Astrid swings the knife, hacking off one of Lyn’s talons. A demonic cry rings out, but Lyn pursues, grasping Astrid’s face, forcing her still with dark energy. Wings appear from her back, enveloping the young woman. But she continues to fight, sensing death is far too close. Even against the dark energy that subdues her mind, she wills the knife into Lyn’s stomach before losing the last of any feeling in her hand. She lets go of the knife. Her vision blurs.

‘You’re only hurting yourself,’ Lyn caws.

‘Arubas!’ Devereaux yells.

Lyn stiffens, turning her head slowly to meet her old nemesis.

Devereaux speaks in the demonic tongue, ‘Your true name is mine. I order you to leave that body and this place.’

Lyn, or rather Arubas, grits its bloodied teeth and leaps at Devereaux, kicking up a gust of fury with its wings. But Devereaux declares, ‘Go!’

In that split second, Arubas’ face, or rather Lyn’s, truly resembles Astrids; save for the black pupils. And for a split second longer it had Devereaux’s face, before the creature falls to the floor, and with it the crows retreat from the jacaranda trees.

Devereaux looks outside; the eclipse has reached its exit phase. She rushes to a barely conscious Astrid.

‘I spoke its name, Astrid. It’s gone now. You’re safe.’

‘Why did you—why did you come?’

‘Shh, don’t worry,’ Devereaux hushes, ‘just rest. Sleep…’

And so, she falls into a dream.

***

Astrid sits up on the couch. It’s a sunny day outside and there are no signs of the strange happenings in her dream. Everything seems normal.

That is, until she notices the baby card on the table—now signed: Madam Devereaux.

She notices her strange robes… and wrinkled hands, touching her withered face.

She rushes to the bathroom mirror. Before her is Devereaux’s face, but gone are her sparkling blue eyes. They are Astrid’s light brown. She grabs her stomach and screams, realising the baby is gone.

---

Bryce is an aspiring writer living in Brisbane. He comes from a scriptwriting background but recently started writing stories in a more traditional format. Bryce is drawn to writing with symbolism and prefers not to worry about realism, stemming from his love of new-wave cinema styles. His goal is to write meaningful stories while avoiding an air of preachiness. Other than writing, he is currently studying psychology and would like to pursue a career in creative therapies.

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