Static Whispers

The baby is due next week. A long-awaited bundle of joy after years of loss. You sit in the nursing chair, swinging back and forth, clutching your bump. Your trance is interrupted; the monitor crackles. Your eyes dart to the flashing green light across the dimly lit room. A surge of adrenaline steals your breath; the baby monitor wasn't plugged into the wall.

You immediately call your husband; he's on his way home. He reassures you that the device probably has backup batteries. Your shoulders soften. You approach the baby monitor. Incoherent murmurs echo beneath the static; your ears hunt for words. You scoff. This is why we should've bought the well-established brand.

You hear a woman scream through the monitor, "I can't do this anymore!" Her fear is drowned in the static. The distortion breaks, revealing the sound of a baby crying.

Your gut wrenches. The monitor goes silent. You wait for anything else that could explain what you just heard. Nothing.

"Babe, I'm home." Relief floods you as you hear your husband drop his keys in the dish by the front door. You lead him to the nursery so he can inspect the monitor. He's quite the handyman. You silently pray he's right, your fingers picking at your cuticles. "Huh... that's really strange..." Your husband places the monitor back on the white wooden dresser. "Doesn't take batteries..." He runs a hand across his mouth. "It must be picking up the frequency from another house in the area." His confident shrug eases the tension in your brows. You linger in the room; the scream and cries still echo in your mind.

A few nights later, you wake for a glass of water. Your ears prick up; brief crackling sounds come from the nursery. You shuffle down the hallway, heart in your throat. You call out to your husband; he's still snoring. Hurried footsteps and metallic clattering compete with distant voices breaking through the static; this doesn't sound like something you'd hear in another house down the street. The monitor falls silent again. You feel the baby squirm inside you. An overwhelming sense of nausea grips the pit of your stomach. Please, God... don't take this baby from me...

You head back to bed, replaying the sounds in your mind. You unplug your phone from the charger and sit at the edge of your bed. You search online for baby monitor interference, hoping for some reassurance. You scroll down and stumble upon a site titled, 'Creepy Baby Monitor Stories'. You hesitate, but you need to know: Is this something that happens to other people? You scan the page: 'A woman claims she unplugged her baby monitor after it began producing strange static, then later heard a woman singing a lullaby through it. She proceeded to remove the batteries, but the singing continued, so she checked the manufacturer's website only to find that model had been discontinued years earlier.' It was the same brand you own.

A hand suddenly grips your shoulder, tearing your attention from the screen. Your husband's eyes squint over your shoulder. "What're you doing, babe?"

You exhale. "Just trying to figure out what's going on with this damn baby monitor..." You continue to scroll.

"Come back to bed... You're probably just stressed about the birth; everything's gonna be fine." Your husband rolls over, dragging the sheets over his shoulders. Your upper lip curls into a bitter sneer. You wish, for once, he would stop using your pregnancy hormones to paint you as some paranoid overthinker; after all, you have good reason to be concerned.

The next day, you book in for a check-up with your midwife. You tell her everything that's been going on, including how nonchalant your husband is about it all. She listens with a vacant expression as she reaches for the Doppler. "That sounds quite frustrating and weird." She offers you her arm. "Alright, lie down, let's have a listen to baby."

Your body tightens as you lower yourself onto the examination bed, hitching up your dress. The cold goop splatters across your skin. You dissociate. Your eyes are glued to the fluorescent lights above. You listen for the rhythmic gallop of horses. The midwife scans from one side of your bump to the other. With each hollow second, your chest tightens. Your mind screams: I knew something was wrong...

Suddenly, the faint, racing sound of the baby's heartbeat grows louder and louder. The midwife smiles. "See, all is fine. Try not to stress so much; it's no good for you or bub." She hands you a wad of crumpled paper towel. You wipe yourself clean; your gaze drops to the floor. You know you should feel relieved that everything is fine, but the complacency of everyone around you fuels a hidden rage within.

That night, you have the same recurring dream you've had for weeks. You're wandering aimlessly in the desert; dead flowers droop towards the ground. The sun turns black, and you feel a burning stab in your lower abdomen. You look down and notice blood trickling down both legs, pooling at your feet. You try to scream, but the air is thin, and you're suffocating.

Your eyes jolt open as you heave in a deep breath. The monitor scratches static from the nursery. You storm towards it, slamming the door open. A piercing electronic tone cuts through the room, accompanied by deep breathing and a muffled voice: "No... Not yet!" A high-pitched screech fills the room. Then silence falls heavy.

As you rip the monitor off the dresser, a warm gush spills down your legs. The monitor slips from your grip. Your waters have broken. You cry out to your husband; he bursts into the room. You grab the hospital bag and head to the birthing suite. Once you arrive, you're closely monitored. The contractions grow stronger. You howl to your husband, "I can't do this anymore!" He squeezes your hand. "You've got this, baby. I believe in you." He smiles, the video camera in his other hand.

A few moments later, the monitors begin beeping rapidly and continuously. Doctors and nurses crowd the room. Fragments of conversation reach your ears: "Fetal distress, heart rate has dropped, no time." A wave of dread washes over you. Their voices are urgent: "Emergency C-section." You shoot a look at your husband; the staff wheels you briskly from the birthing suite. They steer you into the operating theatre, asking you to remain calm. A doctor wraps their ice-cold fingers around your arm. "Slight scratch." The cannula is inserted. You hear the staff trying to explain what's happening, but their words blur together. They place the oxygen mask over your face and administer the anaesthetic. "Deep breaths." Your cry is muffled: "No... Not yet!" You lose consciousness.

You slowly open your heavy eyes, your mouth dry. You try to move, but your legs are paralysed. You can't see your husband or baby. As you begin to hyperventilate, a nurse approaches.

You reach out. "Where's my baby?" The nurse pulls back the curtain. Near the nurses' station, your husband stands with his back to you. A wince escapes you. He turns around, holding your baby wrapped in a white fleece blanket. Your heart skips a beat.

He slowly pads over to you. "It's okay, babe. Our baby is here... happy and healthy." He tilts its little face towards you. Your eyes sting with gratitude.

A few weeks later, you sit in the nursing chair back home, holding your little one. You watch the birth video your husband captured. You're lying in the hospital bed. "I can't do this anymore!" The recording cuts. In the next scene, you watch yourself enter the surgical room. The last words you spoke: "No... Not yet!" The video cuts. You watch the doctor bring your baby out of the theatre. You hear your baby's cry. You notice all the familiar electronic tones and metallic clattering. Your gaze shifts to the baby monitor. The flashing green light seems less ominous. It hasn't had any interference since your baby arrived home. Your arms wrap tightly around your baby; your face softens as you study its tiny features. You gently rock back and forth as sunlight laces through the sheer curtains; your world is finally lighter.