Son

My son was born with health complications necessitating a longer-than-usual hospital stay. The ward was inhospitable, inconducive to sleep, and I was keen to return to my cosy bed and the loving arms of my husband. But when we were finally able to bring our son home, I found our apartment completely changed. The rooms were strangely shrunken and skewed, and it seemed to me that the dripping tap was louder, the mildew more offensive, the mice bolder than ever in their trespasses. The baby cried from morning to night.

My husband too appeared altered. Previously doting, even uxorious, he now refused to look me in the eye. Resentful of the attention I devoted to our newborn, he was confused and shaken by the demotion of our roles from lovers and newlyweds to the butlers of a tiny usurping tyrant. Before we married, my husband would tenderly stroke my hair and describe at great length how grateful he was to have found a gem like me. Now when he looked upon me—deflated, torn and untidily sewn up—his lips curved into a sneer of disgust. I could barely stand him.

When we were finally able to bring our son home, I found our apartment completely changed.

The night of his departure was the first time I walked the maze. As dusk consumed the apartment, the walls shivered and shook, shadows stretched, old doors opened onto new rooms, windows rearranged themselves and revealed impossible views. Suddenly, terrifyingly, the confines of the one-bedroom apartment expanded into a vast labyrinth—cavernous, boundless, eerily echoing every cry.

All night I wandered, lost and clutching my tearful son to my chest. I grew weary, then exhausted, barely able to hold my eyes open or place one foot in front of the other, but still new spaces opened up before us—a Regency-era parlour, a silent airport terminal, an abandoned artist’s garret, a colossal creaking ballroom. Then as the elongated hours unfolded into the early morning, the apartment gradually contracted around us, shifting and sliding back into place until we were transplanted back into our squalid living room, which appeared almost exactly as it had been the day before.

While these sudden renovations were unsettling, I decided to remain in the apartment. I couldn’t afford to move—the child support I had been promised was a pittance and my ageing parents were enfeebled and distant. Besides, caring for a baby absorbed every atom of my attention. I renamed him Sun, a cry for help directed at our closest star. We began as strangers to each other, but as the long, difficult months passed with us spending every minute together, I grew to know and love him. To hold his precious form and sniff the top of his sweet, softly furred head, to cuddle him to sleep and hold his dozing body while he napped, were the greatest happiness I have ever known.

But come sundown a strange trembling washed over me—the heart-shaking dread of the unknown ordeal about to play out across the night’s stage. Every evening the labyrinth birthed a multitude of new sons, as if forming an army of nocturnal offspring poised to welcome their baby brother to their shadowy world.

Ghostson arrived in the middle of the night. First I would notice a chill in the air, then see his icy fingers feeling feebly around the baby’s bed, and he would cling to the edge of the bassinet until daybreak, his curious eyes staring down at his brother for hours. He resembled his flesh-and-blood kin in almost every way, except that he cried silently and could not be picked up—my arms went through him like a bough through cold water, creating ripples in his discorporeal flesh. Despite his small size he had well-developed motor skills and could already crawl from room to room, through walls and furniture. He loved to hide in cupboards before tumbling out, shaking hysterically with inaudible laughter.

Reflectionson only appeared when I held Sun up to a mirror. He chased us from room to room, a blurry streak across every reflective surface and screen. How he fell about laughing to see his new brother’s dear little face, and what joy he took in playing games with him: peekaboo, hide-and-seek, mother may I.

Armchairson hid in plain sight, but he was devious. If one did not keep an eye on him, he would swallow Sun up in his many layers of cushions and pillows and throws, and I would have to follow the screams and squeals to recover Sun, and by the time I found him he was often terrified and inconsolable, his little face beet red and covered in angry streams of tears.

Codson was a fish. He flopped around on the floor, erratic but impotent, until I scooped him up in a bucket and filled it with water. Since he was unable to breathe unassisted, he was probably more of a danger to himself than anyone else. Still, this influx of new sons seemed suspicious, not to be trusted.

Come sundown a strange trembling washed over me—the heart-shaking dread of the unknown ordeal about to play out across the night’s stage.

Parents often repeat platitudes like little kids, little problems; big kids, bigger problems. But Sun was still tiny and this all-male entourage seemed like a big problem. I posited hundreds of combinations of search terms and questions to the internet:

baby four months old haunted by several ghosts

tenant’s rights my apartment is renovated overnight every night

spectre infestation assistance

six-month-old baby’s reflection is sentient what to do

None of the books or forums addressed any scenario resembling my own. I spent hours watching explainer videos on the malignant social influences that might manipulate a vulnerable young boy. Wasn’t Sun rather too young to fall in with such a gang, even if they were all reflections and apparitions and aquatic animals?

One night I slid open the door to the linen cupboard and out poured Dogbrother, panting and covered in mud and slick with blood, as if newly born from an earthy, fetid, terrible-smelling mother. He gambolled around the room loudly snapping his iron beartrap of a jaw open and shut. I defensively grasped Sun to my chest and turned his eyes away from the interloper, cupping my hands protectively around his head.

Go away, I commanded Dogbrother, inflating my voice with false courage. He’s just a baby. He isn’t yours to play with. He’s too small.

Dogbrother would not be dissuaded. Up and down he leapt, yellow eyes wide, ragged tail wagging wildly, his long tongue lolling out to lick the underside of Sun’s soft pink feet. Sun squealed with unrestrained joy and reached out his hands to him. I clutched Sun even tighter, pushing Dogbrother away with my foot. Incensed, Dogbrother threw himself at me, and latching onto my ankle, he growled and twisted and shook his head this way and that, as a beast breaks the back of his prey. I heard bones crunch and snap and I screamed in agony. Blood spurted from the wound and onto the floorboards, forming a slippery battleground between us. Inadvertently I loosened my grip on Sun, who hurled himself towards his new brother. Dogbrother caught him on his narrow muscular back, turned, and darted off at top speed. I slipped in the pooling puddle of blood and fell on my demolished ankle, howling in pain.

Sun, I cried, Sun, come back! Dog! Bring back my son!

From then on, Dogbrother ran around with Sun on his back from dusk to dawn, licking his face tenderly and yelping with joy. They insisted, and so I fed them both from my sore sagging breasts, like Romulus and Remus. How I bled from Sun’s shiny new teeth and Dogbrother’s filthy yellowed fangs! Nourished by my body, they grew wild and wolf-like, howling at the moon and scampering around the shifting labyrinth with abandon.

My broken ankle never healed properly, but rather set into a swollen club foot which made it impossible for me to walk without torment; I dragged it along behind me. Since I could not follow Sun, I was left to imagine what wild, malodorous adventures he must be embarking on each night with his siblings. Where did they go at night? Like the orbit of a small mysterious planet, he would push out further every night to the strange dens and burrows and hunting grounds frequented by Dogbrother, before circling back into my loving arms at daybreak.

As Sun grew in size and strength, meeting all his developmental milestones months early, I became increasingly exhausted. After son and dog drained me of milk I would fall unconscious and wake up lost in the labyrinth, stumbling around blindly for hours calling hoarsely for Sun to return. Then I would hear him and Dogbrother calling and yipping to each other from the outer edges of the maze, communicating clearly and joyfully in their colloquy of barks and growls.

How I bled from Sun’s shiny new teeth and Dogbrother’s filthy yellowed fangs!

I was unbearably jealous of their shared language, from which I was excluded. Every day I tried to impart simple words to Sun: Mummy. I am your Mummy. And every day he would stare blankly at me, before smiling and flashing his tiny white fangs and responding with a volley of happy barks. I worried constantly about his nocturnal adventures, running around with his brothers and speaking in Dog, but I reasoned that he seemed happy and healthy, steadily putting on weight, a rosy glow blossoming across his cheeks, a thin layer of fur growing on his soft little back. My darling Sun. I cuddled him all day, singing songs and playing silly games with him. Mummy’s here. Mummy loves you. Why don’t you stay with Mummy tonight?

But it was clear that for Sun, Mummy was just for the daytime. My cuddles were nice, but they couldn’t compare with the electric thrill of running with his brothers. It hurt to breastfeed, my chest was mauled and bruised, but I would never stop. The milk kept Sun returning to me through the night, proof that he still needed me.

The moon was high in the sky overhead as I lay crumpled on the floor, lost again in the labyrinth. With a colossal effort, as if dragging myself from a turbulent sea and pulling my prone body up onto the shore, I regained consciousness.

Several of Sun’s brothers were jostling about me like a phalanx of hungry soldiers, pushing at my breasts as milk squirted and pooled underneath me. There was slippery Octopusson, slithering and clambering all over me with his tentacles, pushing his hard chitinous beak towards my broken nipples while gently patting Sun on the head with one of his eight suckered arms. There was Robotson, industriously hoovering up the puddled milk around his brother’s feet and redistributing it via a system of straws to the smaller brothers, Lobsterson, Spiderson, Sandwichpressson and the smallest ones—Millipedeson, Aphidson, Amoebaetwins. Accountantson, a suited adult man in RM Williams boots, stood to the side, reviewing my dire financial situation and sipping milk from a coffee cup. Reflectionson did not partake of the meal, but observed his brothers from above, capering from wall to ceiling and back again, absorbing the scene before him. When it was Ghostson’s turn to feed, I could see the milk sliding down his throat as he gulped and swallowed, before pooling and bubbling in his transparent stomach.

And of course there was my dear beautiful Sun, chortling and gargling and roaring along with the rest of them, grabbing at one breast and drinking from it, squeezing with one small grasping paw and then offering it in his tiny palm to Dogbrother to lap up. He had taken to getting about completely nude, ripping off his onesie and nappy each evening as he set off on his rounds with Dogbrother. He was smothered in what looked like mud and strawberry jam, cheeks flushed like a very dirty, hungry cherub.

I stretched out my wasted arms for Sun, sniffed his soft neck and huffed his sweet baby smell, faint but still there under all the dirt and muck. He was still mine. I held him tight and kissed his precious grubby face until everything went dark.

Sun ran around on his hands and knees, and he was fast, easily keeping up with the pack. When he jumped up on his hind legs I was shocked by how tall he was and sensed I had shrunk in equal proportion to his rapid development. His body, once so soft and adorably chubby, had become strong, muscular, sinewy. And he was obstinate. If he refused to do something, there was no convincing him. I could hardly wrestle him into the bath anymore, and he would not abide clothing. Whenever I tried to dress him in warm layers or booties, he would kick me with his powerful legs and scream before bolting off on all fours.

If he refused to do something, there was no convincing him.

Were these brothers a positive influence? I didn’t think so, but it was hard to say; I have never been a boy. Perhaps Sun sought male role models—he almost never saw his father, and when he did, it felt staged, contractual. When I raised concerns re: Sun’s nocturnal activities to my parents over our long-distance calls, my mother dismissed them. Boys will be boys, she responded breezily. You don’t want him to be too clingy, do you?

Still he returned to cuddle me and nap in my arms during the day, but he no longer required his mother’s milk in the night. He rejected my healthy snacks of fruit, vegetable puree and wholegrain toast, gleefully shredding these offerings and strewing the morsels across the floor.

That was when I started to discover remains: the sheared off hind leg of a lamb, prosciutto slices slapped onto the walls of the labyrinth, pizza boxes and a shredded KFC Family Bucket. And then, fragments I could not identify but that looked worryingly familiar—a small hand with a friendship bracelet still attached. A chunk of dark hair. A discarded pair of white cotton underpants, so delicate that at first I thought it was a butterfly with wings outstretched.

The labyrinth was still and quiet, illuminated by a full moon overhead. I was seeking Sun, calling his name, but the maze led me around in pointless circles and my heart was heavy with despair and loneliness.

I turned a corner and my bare foot connected with something pliant and fleshy. I looked down: it was a body, a woman’s naked body. I jumped back and muffled a scream. After seeing that she did not move, I crouched down to inspect. I held my hand over her nose and mouth, she was still breathing, but faintly, and her pulse was weak and fast. Her dark scraggly hair had been yanked out in clumps. Her lopsided breasts were soft and shapeless, sagging down almost to her navel. Her face was not beautiful, and while she had probably never been much to look at, the wrinkles surrounding her eyes and downturned mouth, the frown lines carved deep into her brow and the dark circles under her eyes gave the impression she had suffered some torturous ordeal.

Then I heard them—the rumble of many brothers on the prowl, a high-pitched jittering whine and a deep constant moan. The procession of hunters moved through the maze as blood courses through a circulatory system, directed this way and that through the labyrinth’s machinations but inexorably homing in on their quarry. My heart was beating out of my chest and my foot throbbed with the old dull pain. The snapping jaws and pounding footsteps, the wet noses sniffing the air, were now just around the corner. And amid the throng I could hear the high-pitched yips and wails of my own dear sweet Sun.

I looked down at the woman’s body, so vulnerable, a pelt drained of life. What was I to do? They were coming. They were close. I leapt behind a rampart, clamping my sweaty hands over my mouth and nose. They were mere metres away. I squeezed my eyes shut.

The rumble of many brothers on the prowl, a high-pitched jittering whine and a deep constant moan.

I heard them circle and hiss and sniff the body, and she didn’t rouse. But when their teeth punctured her flesh an agonised guttural cry pierced the air, and my insides twisted so violently that I almost cried out myself in unison, as if we shared the same body and her pain was also mine. But quickly her throat and mouth were ripped apart by fangs and talons and hands and teeth, and her screams were snuffed out.

I was shaking and retching, and I knew I must try to escape, this might be my only chance. But first I had to see him.

There, amid the carnage, was Sun. I realised with a shock that he was now almost a man. He was muscular and tall, his hair long and unkempt. My own features reflected back at me in his handsome face.

Oh, Sun, I breathed, what’s become of you. Even here, like this, I longed to reach out to him, kiss him, wipe the filth and viscera from his face and hold him to my chest, just as I did in the minutes after his birth.

Sun looked up and our eyes met. His gaze was steady, unflinching.

He clasped the woman’s heart with his strong, bony hands and slurped the blood from its chambers.

Every morning at sunrise, Dogbrother would bound in bearing Sun on his back, and we were reunited. I would hold him in my arms, cooing and inspecting him all over and planting grateful kisses all over his face. But on this particular morning Sun did not return. I sat on the sofa, staring at the door, waiting. I tore apart his usual hiding places. I called his name over and over again.

The hours passed, the sun rose high in the sky, but my Sun did not appear.

As dusk approached, I felt the apartment creak, fold and transform around me into the labyrinth. Then I heard it—a low, menacing howl. A pause. Then another howl, higher pitched, as if in response. And then all at once, all the brothers crying out together, baying, growling, shaking the walls and very foundations and vibrating the air around me.

I sought him everywhere, and at every turn I was misdirected and sundered, dazzled and haunted. At times he felt very near and I felt my heart would burst and I almost cried with relief, but I searched and searched and did not find him, and soon I was weeping with frustration and exhaustion. And still I kept chasing voices in the dark and calling his name, Sun, Sun, please come back to me, Sun.