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Day in and day out, Eli Drake's routine was monotonous, made worse by the poor pay. Sometimes he felt like the most competent person in the office, often doing the work of five people for the same salary.
Eli wasn’t naturally bitter, but years of isolation had worn him down. His acquaintances never seemed to turn into real friendships, and he found maintaining relationships too draining. He convinced himself that life was easier without them, though the ache of loneliness often crept in during quiet moments when he let his guard down.
“Drake! Go down to the basement and scan the new materials!” Mr. Heyman’s voice cut through the quiet office, startling Eli out of his thoughts.
Eli exhaled deeply, trying to push away his irritation. Over the years, his once proud and upright posture had deteriorated. He’d caught glimpses of his reflection, his shoulders sagging, a slight hump forming, and his stomach softening. Chronic back pain was now a fact of life, and his evenings revolved around microwave dinners and YouTube video essays. Each day, he told himself he would exercise or make a fresh meal, but each evening ended the same.
“Drake, did you hear me?”
“Yes, sir! On it,” Eli replied, forcing himself up. He adjusted his rumpled shirt, grabbed his laptop and camera, and headed downstairs.
The museum was eerily quiet during winter break. Virginia’s snowfall had kept visitors away, and while the lack of people made his job easier, it also amplified the eerie stillness of the vast, old building.
The loading dock was the opposite of welcoming. Dark, cold, and unsettling, it didn’t just lack sound—it seemed to absorb it. It wasn’t just silent; it was void of noise, creating an atmosphere that unnerved him every time he visited. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, flickering in the corners, as though they, too, found the space intolerable.
After scanning his ID badge and opening the gate, Eli felt a chill seep into his bones. He played Erik Satie softly through an AirPod in his left ear, hoping to calm his nerves. He kept his right ear uncovered just in case. For what, exactly? He smirked and muttered under his breath, “Your mom.” But even his own joke fell flat against the oppressive silence.
Still, the unease lingered. The wires and systems in this part of the museum were ancient, likely dating back decades, and they had an uncanny way of malfunctioning. Lights flickered when they shouldn’t, and temperature controls never seemed to work properly. The air was damp and smelled faintly of mildew, adding to the discomfort.
Eli told himself to focus and walked over to the first artifact crate, a carefully sealed box.
As he lifted the crate, something shifted inside, causing a loud clatter. Eli winced as a golden, egg-shaped artifact tumbled out, splitting open along jagged, intricate patterns. He froze. The object looked impossibly old, its craftsmanship strange and unnerving. He’d cataloged numerous Fabergé eggs before, but this was unlike anything he’d seen. It felt almost… ethereal.
“Weird?” Eli muttered, brushing his hand against the cold metal surface. Nothing in the shipment’s documentation mentioned an artifact like this. The egg seemed to hum faintly when he touched it, though he chalked it up to his imagination.
Curiosity got the better of him. As he reached to examine it more closely, the sharp edges of the egg nicked his finger. He hissed in pain and pulled his hand back, watching a bead of blood well up and drip onto the artifact’s surface. For a moment, the egg seemed to absorb the droplet, its jagged patterns glowing faintly before returning to normal.
“Just what I need,” Eli grumbled. “Tetanus? Some ancient curse?” He hurried to a nearby first-aid kit and wrapped a napkin around his finger, muttering about his luck.
As he tended to the cut, a faint hum reached his ears. He froze, straining to hear it more clearly, but the sound vanished. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and oppressive. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he turned sharply, feeling as though someone was watching him. But the room was empty.
“It’s nothing,” he told himself, shaking his head. He carefully placed the artifact back in its case, though something about it seemed different now. The jagged edges seemed to shimmer faintly under the fluorescent lights, almost as if they were alive. Eli’s stomach churned, but he pushed the thought aside. “Get a grip, Drake.”
He finished scanning the remaining artifacts and returned upstairs, but the sense of unease lingered. His finger throbbed beneath the makeshift bandage, the dull pain a constant reminder of the strange encounter. He tried to shake it off, reminding himself it was just another long day at the museum.
When Eli got home, he tossed his jacket onto the couch and headed straight to the bathroom to inspect the wound. Unwrapping the napkin, he was startled to find the cut completely gone. Not scabbed over or healed—*gone.*
In its place, his skin was smooth, faintly tinged with gold under the light.
“What the hell?” Eli whispered, staring at his hand. His pulse quickened as he noticed something else: faint patterns, similar to the jagged designs on the egg, were etched across his palm. For a moment, they shimmered faintly before fading away. It felt as though the patterns were pulsing with an energy he couldn’t explain.
He stumbled back, gripping the edge of the sink for support. His mind raced. Was he hallucinating? Had the egg—no, that was ridiculous. Yet the evidence was there, clear as day on his palm. The more he stared at it, the more a strange warmth began to radiate from his hand, spreading up his arm.
For the first time in years, Eli felt a chill that wasn’t just from the cold. Something had changed. Something he didn’t understand. And whatever it was, it wasn’t finished with him yet.
As he turned off the bathroom light and headed to bed, he couldn’t shake the sensation that he wasn’t alone.
His stomach had been aching since lunch, and it only seemed to be getting worse. This was bad—worse than nitro coffee for breakfast and Chipotle for lunch kind of bad—and that was really saying something.
"Must be the IBS," he muttered, snorting at his own thoughts.
He drank a full glass of water and collapsed onto his bed.
Dark. Dark. Warm.
A warm breath brushed his face. It smelled like cheese—and his gardenias.
Wait. His gardenias?
He didn’t remember bringing them inside for winter yet, or eating cheese, for that matter.
A small huff. A giggle.
Something wet touched his face.
Shit.
He braced himself, hyping up as best he could, and then opened his eyes.
The biggest, blackest, shiniest eyes stared back at him.
A baby.
A baby with spiky hair was touching his cheek, looking at him with crinkled eyes. Expecting? No—waiting.
He felt the corner of his mouth tug upward despite himself. The baby smiled back, its toothless grin impossibly cute.
"This is a cute nightmare," he thought, his confusion growing. Why was he seeing a baby? He didn’t remember having a baby, and last he checked, babies didn’t just appear out of nowhere.
The baby wriggled closer, nestling against his chest, its small hands gripping his shirt. Eli sighed, giving in. He let the baby cuddle him, warmth spreading through his chest. Despite the bizarre situation, he found himself thinking, I’m really going to miss this little guy when I wake up tomorrow.
Morning came too soon. Eli’s alarm buzzed, jolting him awake. Groaning, he tried to roll to his side but froze. There was still weight on his chest.
He opened his eyes cautiously. The baby was still there, its spiky hair sticking out in all directions, its tiny fist clutching his shirt as it snored softly.
“Oh, come on,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes as if that would make the situation make more sense.
He picked up his phone, called in sick to work, and sat up carefully. In the daylight, the baby looked older—more like a one-year-old toddler than a newborn. Eli ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing.
What the hell was he supposed to do with a baby that seemed to just drop out of nowhere?
Unsure of his next move, he dialed the non-emergency line. After explaining the bizarre situation as calmly as he could, the operator asked him to hold. As he waited, the baby started to fuss, reaching for him and letting out tiny, impatient whines.
“What is it now?” Eli sighed. The baby smacked its lips and whimpered.
“Hungry, huh?” he guessed, grabbing his coat. He hung up before the operator could return and headed out to the nearest café.
The baby sat in a borrowed high chair, happily munching on a small muffin while Eli sipped his coffee and tried to figure out his next step. A woman at the neighboring table cooed at the baby.
“Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing?” she gushed, her voice dripping with affection.
The baby giggled, crumbs falling from its mouth as it waved at her.
Eli chuckled nervously. “Yeah, he’s, uh… something else.”
When the muffin was gone, Eli decided it was time to sort this out properly. He carried the baby to the nearest police station. As he walked inside, he couldn’t help but notice the strange looks people gave him.
He approached the help desk and explained everything to the clerk, from the baby’s sudden appearance to the strange way it seemed to cling to him.
The woman behind the desk frowned, looking at him like he’d grown a second head. “What baby?” she asked, glancing around.
Eli blinked. “The—” He looked down at his arms.
Nothing.
No baby.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The clerk’s suspicious stare deepened. “Sir, are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Eli said quickly, backing away. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
He rushed out of the station, his mind reeling. As soon as he was outside, the baby reappeared, tugging at his shirt with a grumpy expression.
“Of course you’re back now,” Eli muttered. People on the street were starting to stare, and the last thing he wanted was more attention. “Let’s go home before I end up in a padded cell.”
When he got home, he set the baby down on the couch and rubbed his temples. Before he could even begin to process what had happened, there was a loud knock at the door.
Eli opened it to find a man in black leather garb standing on his porch.
The man said something, firmly, in what context clues would suggest to be Japanese.
Eli stared, royally confused.
“What.”