A Mother's Intuition: A Short Story
A short horror story based on a personal experience with postpartum psychosis.
content warning: portrayal of postpartum psychosis
The drive home from the hospital was the most terrifying ride of my life. When it was just the two of us, my husband drove while I rode shotgun. That was before we protected a new life in the backseat. That new life was no longer safeguarded within the fortress of my body. I sat next to the infant car seat. My son’s eyelashes were unmoving as he slept. He was completely unaware of the world around him.
I was aware though.
Everything around me was real, despite the unusual dreamlike feeling. I couldn’t stop myself from commenting on my husband’s driving, reminding him of stop signs ahead and to pay attention to his speed as if he had never driven before. Beck, we’re okay. We’ll be home soon. His soft voice failed to comfort me as I remained on high alert of the dangers that surrounded us.
I didn’t trust anyone, but now that we are home and safe from the world, I can finally relax.
“I just don’t understand how he is real, Zac. How any of this is real. Feels like I am in a dream. I feel…” I can’t find the right words to explain how I am feeling. Euphoric. Terrified. Fulfilled. Uncomfortable. Secure. I’m drowning as I feel everything a person can possibly feel all at once. I take my eyes off the baby boy to catch at my husband smiling at me.
He leans closer to me and presses his lips against my forehead. “I know,” he whispers while he turns to gaze his loving eyes at the baby. “Kind of wild, isn’t it?”
I just nod and can’t help but smile. I have never loved Zac more than I do in this moment. I study him as if I have never seen him before. The grey eyes I once knew suddenly pop with a shade of green so similar to his favorite grapes. I notice the way his mustache curls along his upper lip and the way his beard hides his jaw. The starry night of freckles are evenly spread across his crooked nose. The man I married comes across as burly and intimidating to most people, but he appears so soft and vulnerable right now. “Being a dad looks good on you.”
“Well, being a dad is so exhausting already. Two nights on a broken hospital recliner was uncomfortable. Sleep would be nice right now.”
“We can head to bed, but I don’t think I can sleep. I’m not tired.” I say. Zac raises an eyebrow. It’s not a lie, but I understand that might be surprising since I haven’t slept more than a few hours since I last slept in my own bed. Only four days ago, I woke from the start of my contractions and my son took his first breath twelve hours later. Everything happened so fast.
We move into the bedroom. Zac falls into his side of the bed like a stone that was thrown into water. He settles into the sheets with a low sigh of comfort. I take my time getting ready to join him. After a quick diaper change, I place our son in the bassinet beside the bed before heading to the kitchen. I grab a cup from the cabinet, but it fumbles out of my hand as I am startled by a loud thud that travelled through the house. A newborn wail immediately follows.
My feet move faster than my mind, which jumps to the worst-case scenario. I rush back into the bedroom. The baby is peacefully asleep in the bassinet, but is it too peaceful? I can’t tell if he’s breathing. I put my hand on his chest. The shakiness of my hand disturbs him enough that his eyes fluttered for a moment but not enough to fully wake him. Movement is enough for me. He’s alive. The room is quiet, besides the sound of my own heartbeat and the heavy breathing Zac does in his sleep. A long inhale fills my lungs. I walk back to the kitchen. I pick up the cup I had dropped and fill it with water. I don’t know what just happened. My brain must be playing tricks on me from my lack of sleep. Everything is fine. The baby is already asleep. I should probably lie down.
I relax my head against my pillow. The bed has never felt softer. I pull the blanket over myself and turn my body to face the bassinet. Since I am terrified of the dark, we keep a nightlight in the room. I can see the baby through the mesh that lines the side of the bassinet.
He’s dead, a voice whispers in my ear. I sit up and place my hand on his chest, steadier this time. I feel the rhythmic movements of his heartbeat and breathing flow into my hand. The voice lied. He’s fine. He’s alive. I turn away from the bassinet and sink into bed, willing myself to close my eyes. I can’t sleep unless I am tired. I can’t just close my eyes and expect myself to drift into a dream. Though tonight, I will try.
An hour has passed, I am still awake. I keep my eyes shut, except to peek at the clock on Zac’s nightstand every so often. It’s no wonder I can’t sleep, my mind is awake. I am making mental lists of things to do when I get up. Music is playing in the background, but it’s only playing a few seconds of a song on repeat. A memory of a conversation I had three years ago arrives to remind me of how foolish I sounded when I stuttered on a word and terribly mispronounced it. I am puzzled on how I can remember something so insignificant from years ago, but I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast most days. I don’t remember the last time I ate now that I think about it. I should make something to eat. I open my eyes and look at the clock, again. Only three minutes have gone since I last checked. I give up on trying. My body rolls over to face the bassinet, but as soon as I look over, I freeze.
A woman is standing next to my son. Her head is tilted down with her gaze locked on him. She is not moving, just staring. I am petrified. I want to scream. I need Zac to wake up, but I can’t move. Fear has ahold of me, has me paralyzed. I freeze like this when I am in complete darkness, like when the power goes out at night. Though this is not darkness. A woman is in my home, staring at my son, and I am completely useless. Once upon a time, I was a protective fortress, but now I can’t even make a sound to signal an alarm. All I can do is watch and hope.
The woman is a statue. She might just be a goddess in a disguise of a crone. She wears only a long dress that looks like it may have once been the same color of her snow-white hair. Her porcelain skin is wrapped tightly around her body revealing the details of each bone that is exposed, especially her shoulders. They look like pointed spikes more than shoulders. My eyes follow the paths of black veins up to her neck. Her cheekbones are sharp as well and her eyes… Her eyes are talking to the baby, moving in rapid movements. Food, they say. Hungry. She is hungry.
I am fighting hard to move, to scream, to do anything to save my son. She must sense my growing fear as she slowly, yet confidently moves her hand above him and hovers it close to his chest. She’s removing his soul. I just know it! I can finally make a movement to slap Zac’s leg while keeping my eyes on the woman. I must have hit him hard enough. He quickly sits up and his raspy, sleepy voice spits out, “what’s going on? Why did you hit me?”
“Her.” That’s all I can say. Even though it sounds more like the exhale of a sigh than an actual word.
“What?”
I haven’t moved, I couldn’t. My eyes were focused. I just repeat myself, “her.”
“Did you say ‘her’? Who’s her?” His tone makes him seem annoyed.
I quickly glance to Zac for a moment and back towards the woman, but she is no longer there. My frozen body warms for movement. I jump up out of the bed and scoop my baby into my arms. I startled him enough to wake him this time.
He lets out a cry. He’s alive.
This story was written in February 2023 for a creative writing class I was taking at the time. It is a work of fiction, but I was inspired to write this from my own experiences with postpartum psychosis. If you or anyone else is having a mental health crisis, please reach out to your local mental health hotline.
United States Mental Health Resources
Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: 988
National Mental Health Hotline: 866-903-3787
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
National Maternal Mental Health Hotline: Call or text 1-833-852-6262