We’re on week three. I was losing my mind before week one was over. Neonatal intensive care unit. The NICU. It’s where they send babies who aren’t quite ready to go home for one reason or another. Birthing complications, abnormalities, premature births (they call them the “preemies”), or whatever. It’s not a place anyone wants to go to, but damn will you be glad it’s there. I don’t know if I can take much more after what I found. But it’s for my daughter, right? To make sure she has the healthiest possible start to her life. That’s what a good responsible parent does. That’s why we’re still here.

We’ll call my daughter Sue, and my wife Zara. Sue should have been fine. No pregnancy complications, Apgar (that’s a little test they do right after birth to check the newborn’s health) score of 9 out of ten, she didn’t seem to have too much trouble latching onto mom to nurse, and she had two parents eager to take her home and get their new lives started. She seemed like a perfectly healthy, and screamy, newborn girl.

But the nurses at our first hospital were concerned about her rapid breathing. They had us wait to go home until they ran some tests. For three days, we sat there in a mix of horrible dread, and the sort of excitement/fear only new parents can feel, while they monitored her. Then, on the day we were supposed to go home, the tests found “high levels of acid” in her, so they assumed she had something called “neonatal metabolic acidosis” which I think means she’s producing more acids and gasses than her body can get rid of, leading to rapid breathing, which then made feeding difficult. They couldn’t find a cause or confirmation of anything, so they shipped us off to the NICU.

At first they put her on oxygen. That actually helped with the breathing. Her acid levels went down with her breathing purer O2, and after a few days we could take her off those tubes and she could breathe fine. Her acidosis had resolved itself. “So we can leave now, right?” We wondered.

“We’ve noticed she isn’t eating as much as she should.” They told us. “It could be connected to her previous condition and we’d like to keep monitoring her.” Three more days of waiting and sleeping on an awful hospital cot ensued. After that, NICU doctors still weren’t comfortable discharging us until her feedings balanced out, but meanwhile, they kept finding more things to be worried about. “We want to run this test to make sure her eating troubles aren’t neurological. We’ll run that test in three days.” Three days later we’re told “the test came back great! But now we want to run another test to make sure she’s not aspirating. The soonest we can do that is in another three days.”

On, and on, and on. We slept in the hospital for the first week (in a room we weren’t allowed to eat in). In the second week, we were put up by a charity organization, so we had beds and hot meals again. We still spent most of our time in the NICU with our baby. My spouse saw a lactation consultant the whole time, because she wasn’t producing enough to feed our girl by herself, and I watched that grow into self loathing in her mind. I could see it in her face, every time Shae screamed in frustration while she was nursing. Pumping kept both of us awake even when we were in the quiet of the charity house. So stress built up for both of us.

Just to add to that, my vacation time is running out, because American healthcare is fucking garbage and there’s no parental leave for my job. So that’s weighing on us. Our cats at home are being fed by strangers (to them), and we’re constantly exhausted. But here we have access to donor milk, so we know our girl is getting all the food she needs. The doctors know what they’re doing. I trust them. I think their system is ruled by politics, which is needlessly stressing us out, but I have to believe the experts know best. The nurses have all been amazing and supportive. They’re happy to watch the baby while we get some actual sleep.

It can be hard to maintain a positive attitude though. It gets more and more frustrating. The hospital has these strict schedules it wants us to keep. Feedings, and pumping sessions every three hours, and she has to finish a certain amount. First it was 45 ml. Then it was 60. Then 70. And Sue was always perfectly happy to pass out and go to sleep long before her bottle was empty. But she was nursing too. So maybe she was getting all she needed from mom after all? But maybe not. It’s best to stay with the doctors so they can make extra sure. Or is it? I have no fucking clue. The problem is she’s tired when she eats, right? So my wife and I wondered why we didn’t feed her first, and have the nurse run their tests after. That way she’s not upset about being poked and prodded for a few minutes when we feed her. She’d have more energy. Some nurses were happy to oblige. And you know what? Sue did eat more. Not all the nurses wanted to change it up though. They insisted it was Hospital policy that they do things the way they do, because it allows them to chart and monitor her growth and her vitals. “Well why can’t we change up the schedule? Sometimes she’s hungry, and starts screaming an hour before feeding and wears herself out by feeding time?” Once again, hospital policy in the NICU. Are we doing what’s best? I wish I knew.

I’m frustrated with the hospital, I’m angry for my wife, who hates that she’s not producing enough for our daughter, I hate my job for pressuring me to return, I hate this country for discouraging all of us from fighting for paternity leave and childcare benefits, I hate Donald Trump and the Republican Party for those and a variety of other reasons (Fox News, a channel popular with American Conservatives (and consequently full of bullshit talk shows) ends up on the communal tv a lot), and I’m getting really tired of listening to my daughter scream at me.

But now, I’m scared.

I found this journal. It’s one of those “newborn” journals with fun little things to write so you can document the birthing process and your child’s growth. I assumed it belonged to whoever was stuck in this NICU room before we were.

I found it lodged behind the couch. It looks old, but the date on it is only from a year ago. Zara needed a break. She was staying with her parents for a day, to catch up on sleep as much as possible. So I was alone when I found the thing. I’d just gotten done feeding Sue a bottle (and pouring most of it down the NG tube). She screamed for another ten minutes, but miraculously, this time, she fell asleep. If she stayed that way, I’d have maybe an hour to myself. Two if I was lucky. I was too damn tired to game, or websurf or anything, but I was too wired to sleep. So I sat on the cot, and by some random chance, I noticed the sound. Just a little thump. I investigated and I found the journal.

It was a dirty little pink thing, with “The Story of You” printed on the front in flowery gold ribbon-like letters. I knew it wasn’t our birth journal. Zara had taken that with her. Curious, I opened it up. The usual stuff was there. Lots of places for the parents to fill in details and write anecdotes.

This is the journal of Bethany born April 9th, 2022

Mommy: Carla Daddy: Ford

Our note to you: We can’t believe it finally happened! We’ve finally met you! You’re more beautiful than we could have ever imagined! We have your room ready. We can’t wait to bring you home! Our lives begin anew! We love you Bethany!

That was the first page. There were places for photos, but those were all empty. I guess they never got the chance. I was kind of wistful and sad for a moment. After all, some family had left their book of memories behind. The best case scenario there, was that they dropped it and forgot about it. But this is the Neonatal intensive Care Unit. It’s more likely there was a tragedy. That seemed even more likely as I flipped through the pages. These parents had jotted down a lot. They were ready for this baby, and they were as excited as a couple can be about it. There was a whole page where I’m guessing her mom wrote a whole essay about how much she adored her new bundle of joy. We both felt that way a few weeks ago… But the point is, these people were stoked. Their baby was everything to them. No way in hell they would leave their book of memories behind if this had a happy ending.

I can’t say for sure what really happened to these people, but the journal told a strange and impossible tale.

About halfway through the journal, the writing in it changed. It wasn’t parents filling in sections anymore. They ignored the blank spaces and the writing, and wrote top to bottom, over top of the anecdotes and the little squares to put pictures. It was like they were keeping an actual journal. Here is what they wrote:

Something is wrong. Not with Bethany. We’ve been here for three weeks. Nothing is freaking wrong with our baby, but they still don’t feel comfortable letting us leave. The doctor said “we don’t want you to have to come back.” Who gives a shit? We’ll come back if something goes wrong! Let us go home and figure out our new lives! But no. More tests. More monitoring, and now? Something royally fucked up is going on. It took way too long for me to notice, but I’m tired. Hell, I’m exhausted. It was three o'clock in the morning when Carla left to have a soda in the lounge. She said she would be right back, as it would be time to nurse soon. One of our nurses dropped off a bottle of donor milk and stuck it in the warmer too. That was the last person I saw.

I had dozed off. I was startled awake by Beth’s crying. My phone was mysteriously dead. The clock on the wall said about an hour had gone by since my wife left. The whole floor was dark and mostly quiet. There were a few beeps of machinery, and whirs from vents and computers, of course, but I swear the building sounded empty. Just me, and my baby, who was screaming for food. I was really confused. The bottle was still sitting in the warmer. Had the nurses not come by to feed her? They’re supposed to. We insist on feeding whenever we’re here, but the nurses have to document her vitals and make sure she gets the necessary amount. And where the hell was Carla?

What could I do? We must have just had a really busy nurse. So I grabbed the bottle, and I fed little Bethany. She downed the whole bottle in less than five minutes. It was insane. She’s never eaten like that. Not in all her time alive. I was alarmed, but happy. Her eating was one of the things her doctor was worried about. I burped her and held her in my arms, preparing for the screaming and the battle of wills that came with trying to rock her to sleep. But the screaming never came. She lay there in my arms and just stared at me with those big blue eyes. I smiled and cooed at her, happy as a father can be, but she just kept staring. It was pretty creepy if I’m being honest. But she was fed, and calm. I changed her diaper, dressed her, swaddled her, and set her back in her bassinet. She stared at me the whole time.

With her taken care of, I decided to see where our nurse was, and find my wife. I kind of wanted to get away from Beth’s staring eyes too. So I walked out into the hall, and that’s where I started to freak out. The place was empty. No human beings. No nurse, no doctors, no janitors, no technicians, no other parents, and no other babies. Most of the lights were off, but there was definitely some machinery still working. Still. It was like I was suddenly in an abandoned hospital. Even worse? My card to get in and out doesn’t work. I’m stuck on this floor of the NICU. The lounge with the soda machine is right outside that door. I couldn’t see my wife in there, but I couldn’t see the whole room either.

I went from one room too the next, getting more and more panicked. Every bassinet was empty, every desk, every bathroom. There was nobody. There were signs of life, people’s clothes, an open book sitting on a table, some computers still running at their desks, but there was nobody. Had there been some sort of emergency that I missed? Had the nurses somehow forgotten about me? Had my wife not said anything? I gave myself whatever excuse I could think of. Some bizarre set of circumstances had trapped me and my baby on this floor. But it was temporary, and they’d all be back in time. What else could I do? I went back to our room, and sat with Bethany. She’s still staring at me like a little freak. I looked out our window to see if I could spot any signs of life, but it was pitch black. I couldn’t see anything. “There must be a power outage. Everything will be fine,” I told myself.

Well… it’s been three days. My wife never came back, no nurses ever arrived, and the sun never came up. I’m still stuck here waiting, but this isn’t natural. What could possibly keep the outside sky so black? Where the hell are we? And why won’t Bethany stop staring at me? She cries when she’s hungry. I had to break into one of the staff rooms and raid their fridge for a jug of donor milk, but it’s the only one, and it’s not going to last forever. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. My food is gone. I can steal stuff from the communal fridge for a while, but I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do to feed Beth. She can’t eat solids yet. Maybe there’s more donor milk somewhere. What the hell am I going to do? Where the fuck am I?

That was the first entry. I sympathized with that guy a lot. It sounded like he was in a very similar state of frustration as me before he got “lost.” I feel lost and trapped here too. But Christ. What the hell happened to him? It couldn’t be real, could it? It only gets weirder after that. Impossible even. I mean, just look at this next passage:

There’s something in here with us. It’s not human. I don’t think it has eyes. I saw it at the end of the hallway, crawling on the ceiling like an insect. It didn’t react to us at all. I had Bethany strapped to my chest, and at that moment, she decided to cry. Then the thing whipped a head toward me, and it freaking roared. No eyes, no mouth, just teeth, and a humanoid body. It dropped from the ceiling and came bounding towards us. I ran for the nearest room and barricaded us inside. I don’t know what to do. I need to feed Bethany. But what? Oh great. I cut myself.

Monsters in the NICU? This is someone’s project. It has to be. One of the interns fancies themself a writer. Still. I don’t know. I hear weird noises at night. I figured it was just stress and a lack of sleep. It sounded like someone yelled “breath” or something down the hall a few days ago. But maybe it was “Beth?”

The last few entries get… unhinged:

I killed the thing. I smashed it with a chair until it’s squealing stopped. I’m eating part of it now. No way to cook it, so what else can I do? At least I can get water from the sinks. Is it really water? It doesn’t look clear. I did find a way to feed Beth. It hurts, but if I can keep myself alive I should be able to keep us going. She couldn’t get enough. She crawled toward my cut and latched right on. I’ve never seen her eat like that. She needs to stop staring at me. She’s still a newborn baby, but she looks a lot less vulnerable and delicate to me. Still, she’s my daughter.

Yikes. Here’s a short entry:

More things. Not like the first. Not sure how many. I’m hiding. I can’t get to water. I need to feed Beth. I’m feeling weak. I gave her too much. I think she’s gotten bigger. Still won’t stop staring at me.

The only reason I’m not really freaking out is that it’s still daytime here. No black void outside my window. I’m pretty sure I saw a nurse a bit ago. I think I’m safe. The next entry is the last:

I gave her everything I had left. The things came and ate part of me. My legs, one of my arms, a bunch of my torso. I don’t know how I’m alive. There’s so much blood. But I don’t feel any pain. The monsters helped me write this. I’m not sure why. I thought about writing and they brought my journal and helped me move my hand. They talked to me too. No clue how. Only one of them has a mouth, and it definitely can’t do speech. They say a “beast” must be fed. They thanked me for my “contribution,” then they took Beth. I tried to protest, but they explained that it was best for her to remain. Then they left me here. I have one arm. I’m dying. I’m trying so hard to finish this writing alone, but I’m so weak. I did it for you Beth. I gave you the best start I could. I love you.

While I was transcribing that, a nurse arrived. I might have sighed out loud in relief. I asked them about previous families, but they said they couldn’t keep track. I don’t know if Carla, Bethany, and Ford were real or not. But I’m getting the fuck out of here. Whether the staff like it or not, I'm not letting anything happen to Sue.

Update:

We’re home. I yelled in ways I never thought I could. The doctors forced us to learn how to insert NG tubes into our daughters nose, and sent us off just to get rid of me. We’re safe. We’re out of that place. I don’t feel like I’m being sucked dry in there anymore. I haven’t forgotten what I found though. I looked into it. I found an obituary for a Bethany Shades, who died in the NICU last year. She had an unseen heart condition. Her mother, Carla, committed suicide days later. The father, Ford, disappeared. He’s on the missing persons list and everything.

I don’t know what’s real. Whether it’s true or not, something sinister roams those hospital halls. It’s not the nurses, or the doctors or even the screaming newborns. It’s something else. It feeds on the families there. It brings stress to them and employees alike. I’m just glad I got out when we did. And I wish Sue would quit staring straight at me. I know her eyes aren’t developed enough to even see me from there.