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A Brother’s Song
Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on the way, she did what she could do to help her 3-year-old son, Michael, prepare for a new sibling. They found out that the new baby was going to be a girl, and day after day, night after night, Michael would sing to his sister in Mommy’s tummy. Sometimes he told Mommy, “Sister’s singing back to me, Mommy”, but Mommy just smiled indulgently and told him, “Sweetie, sister’s just a fetus, she can’t sing yet.” But Michael knew better. He knew he’d heard his sister singing to him, strange songs of an earlier time before the great city of R’lyeh sank forever beneath the oceans, and Cthulhu sent strange dreams to bedevil the minds of puny men.
The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen. Then the labor pains came.
Every five minutes . . . every minute. But complications arose during delivery. Hours of labor. A C-Section was required. Finally, Michael’s little sister was born, but she was in serious condition. “Oh my God!” screamed the obstetrician in horror, as he pulled the wet, dripping infant from her helpless mother’s belly. Hurriedly the baby was bundled up in hospital linens by the appalled, sickened nurses and rushed to an ambulance.
With sirens howling in the night, the ambulance rushed the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit at St. Mary’s Hospital in Knoxville, Tennessee.
The days inched by. The little girl got worse. Specialists from all over the country were called to St. Mary’s, and went away again, baffled, frightened, and revolted by the child’s appearance. The head of the pediatric team told the parents, “We’ve never seen anything like this, anywhere on Earth. There is little hope. Be prepared for the worst. You may need to send for–a priest.”
Karen and her husband contacted a local cemetery about a burial plot. The had fixed up a special room in their home for the new baby. Now they began planning a funeral–and an exorcism. Michael kept begging his parents to let him see his sister, “I want to sing to her,” he insisted.
Week two in intensive care. It looked as if a funeral would come before the week was over. Michael kept nagging about singing to his sister, but siblings are never allowed in Neonatal Intensive Care.
Karen made up her mind. She would take Michael whether they liked it or not. If he didn’t see his sister now, he would never see her alive.
She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and marched him into the ICU. He looked like a walking laundry basket, but the head nurse recognized him as a child and bellowed in shock, “Get that kid out of here now! We don’t know whether it might be contagious!” The National Guardsmen stationed in the ICU tried to stop her, too, weapons at the ready.
But “mother love” rose up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered lady glared steel-eyed into the head nurse’s face, her lips a firm line. “He is not leaving until he sings to his sister, no matter what she looks like, or whether it’s contagious.”
Karen towed Michael to his sister’s bedside, right past the SWAT teams holding flamethrowers. He gazed at the tiny misshapen infant losing the battle to live. And he began to sing. In the pure-hearted voice of a 3-year-old, Michael sang:
“Eeon giiuslkkly ghtllthl Cthulhu lckklecp grwwwz—”
Instantly the baby girl responded. Her pulse rate became calm and steady, and the queer violet glow that was coming from her body began to strengthen.
“Gorrxkklcpoe dkkjc wwrddth cclcke cmmwldl—”
The ragged strained breathing became as smooth as a kitten’s purr.
“Mnen ycm Yuggoth poijid djckls—”
Michael’s little sister relaxed as rest, healing rest, seemed to sweep over her. Tears conquered the face of the bossy head nurse. The baby glowed. And glowed. And glowed.
“Wryglige nyetyo rwegr kdlsdkk Cthulhu—”
Suddenly, with a flash of blinding purple light, Michael was consumed in eerily glowing flames which seem to reach out greedily towards him from his sister’s tiny body. A few moments later, the flames had died down, and the gasping onlookers could see that the infant had grown at least a foot–and also a number of tentacles. As a matter of fact, both children now had long, slimy tentacles sprouting from their small chests. But brother and sister looked lovingly deep into each other’s eyes, and there were matching sparks of violet light in all six of them.
Funeral plans were scrapped. The next day, the very next day, the little girl was well enough to go home! Woman’s Day magazine called it “the miracle of a brother’s song.” The medical staff just called it a miracle.
Michael and his sister just called home.
And the next day, home answered.