Echoes on the Baby Monitor

By Kayla Gaunt

It felt wrong for the sun to be shining on such a day as this. The movies always had rain, a dark time matched by a glum background. Life was not kind enough to grant Tristan that small mercy. With every lump of dirt shoveled onto the small grave, the father could feel a part of him wither away into nothingness. His logical voice called it a coincidence that he’d had to bury his family twice in the past few years, but something in him said it was karmic justice for his past. Not even his parents bothered to show up for their granddaughter’s funeral.

Her mother would have come, if she weren’t in the grave next to her. Aonani was so excited to be a mother, but childbirth had not been kind to her. She wanted to teach Persephone everything about her Hawaiin heritage; then life (or the absence of it) happened. The fact that both of them died so young was like a twisted knife to the gut. Now, all that Tristan was left with were two gravestones and memories of what could have been. He was truly and utterly alone.

In all honesty, he was surprised Aonani even gave him a chance at her heart. She had a kind, pure soul that loved openly and freely. Despite the things Tristan had done, the man he used to be, she fell in love with him. She never cared about his diagnosis. Everyone else had abandoned him the second the label “schizophrenic” was slapped on his forehead. Nobody cared that he was high-functioning; all they saw was his label.

The sight of a grave filled with fresh dirt was a jolt back to reality. His baby girl was gone, and he was reminiscing on how ag- grieved his past had been. Persephone was in a grave not even 4 years into life. Tristan had not cried for many years. He found it difficult to accurately express what he felt, yet he could feel tears slipping down his face. He was aware that he made a pitiful sight—a lone man standing before two graves.

The men who filled the grave gave a silent nod of respect before packing up and leaving. It was as if a fissure cracked open in his chest, emotions pouring out in a flood of unwanted feelings. Tristan felt his knees give way, and he collapsed to the dry grass, chest heaving. The hard dirt was grounding in a sense, and he tangled his fingers in a patch of grass, searching for an anchor in the tidal wave of uncharted territory.

Tristan knew he’d never be whole again. He was aware that his two-story house would forever be absent of love and laughter. It was that knowledge that dragged him to his feet, because maybe if he could hide from the sight of his family in a grave, maybe he could learn to live life alone.

***

The office Tristan worked at had granted him two weeks of bereavement leave, allowing him time to stew in his thoughts. After a week of being alone, his meals began to consist of cans of soup and plain pasta. As he sat on his bed, sipping at the lukewarm bowl of clam chowder, Tristan stared lamely out the window. The light of the moon cast an eerie glow upon his wooden floorboards. It was not quite yet a full moon, but it couldn’t be more than a day or two away.

The only sounds that could be heard were the groaning of pipes and creaking of wood. In such an old house, Tristan had become accustomed to the oddities of the place. Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of a dark shadow, fleeting in his vision but present nonetheless. Previously, Tristan had chalked it up to bad lighting, but in the recent week, he began seeing things normal minds could not explain. When he called his psychiatrist, she stressed the importance of taking his meds and divulged no more information.

Paranoia was creeping into his mind, snaking its oily hooks into Tristan’s subconscious. He despised when his brain betrayed him, denying the logical explanation and grasping onto fear. Small snippets of playful laughter echoed through the house when he went to use the bathroom. Bare feet slapped against the tile as Tristan washed out his dishes. He didn’t know how it began; he only knew that he wanted it to stop. Most hours of the day were silent; night was when the creaking and the laughter came out to play.

Tristan glanced over to the door, finally tearing his gaze away from the window. Out of the corner of his eye, a small figure ran through the hallway outside his room. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes darted back and forth. Clenching his fingers in the soft cotton of the comforter, Tristan forced himself to breathe in and out deeply. It wasn’t a panic attack, but it was nearing the edge. His therapist taught him breathing techniques to bring him back, but as the echo of small feet running up and down the halls filled his ears, fear began to spread throughout his body. The cold tendrils of terror reaching out and winding itself around legs and arms, leaving his fingertips numb from the chill.

The sound of static breached the silence, followed by childlike laughter. He locked onto the baby monitor at Aonani’s bedside table with wide eyes. Slowly, carefully, Tristan swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up on trembling feet. As he shuffled around the bed, the playful laughter began to rise in pitch and volume.

“No no no no no,” he murmured, “Please leave me alone. Please.”

The being heeded no mind to Tristan’s pleas, seemingly finding joy in the cries as the baby monitor began to emit a piercing shriek. Tristan clasped his shaking hands over his ears and dropped to his knees, curling into the fetal position. He had no indication of how long it shrieked, but by the time it cut off, blood was trickling down his ears.

There was no relief with the silence, only an impending sense of dread. He unfurled himself and pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The soft mattress sank from the weight, and Tristan lowered his head into his hands in defeat.

“Has my own child come to haunt me? Was I that terrible of a father that she would come to torture my remaining days?” Tristan cried into his palms.

The silence offered no response.